Thunderstruck by Roxanne St. Claire Page A

Cyclones with strut suspension.” Billy worked silently for a few minutes, then said, “We could use some, though.”
    “Strut suspension?”
    “Change.”
    Mick considered that. “The second car is a big change,” he offered.
    “Yeah, a step in the right direction. But I’m not the only one who’s been getting calls from other teams. We’re out here in Greensboro and most of the action is in Mooresville. But, trust me, for enough money, people’d move.”
    “Loyalty to Thunder Racing isn’t enough to keep them here?”
    Billy just shook his head. “Loyalty don’t pay the bills.”
    Mick nodded and stole a glance at Shelby again, just at the very instant she did the same. He held her gaze until she finally looked away first.
    Score one for Soccer Boy.
    Smiling, he counted the rhythmic taps of her little boot on the concrete floor, the beat of her fingers drumming against her long, lean thigh. Something was working on Shelby Jackson this morning.
    “So what’s going on over there?” he asked Billy.
    The mechanic followed his gaze. “Oh, the dyno’s all whacked out.”
    The dyno again. “What exactly is a dyno?” No time like the present to start learning his next foreign language.
    “The engine dynamometer,” Billy explained. “That’s a machine used for resistance testing of an engine. It measures the engine’s power. How much horsepower and torque it can produce while it’s revved. Ours has been fritzy lately and we might need a new one.”
    “How’s it work?” Mick asked.
    Billy’s tutorial was right on the money, explaining just enough to arm Mick with some good intelligence. When he finished, Mick pushed himself off the stool.
    “Thanks, man,” Mick said. “I’m going to check that out.”
    The large metal machine was located in its own bay, with enough warnings posted in the area for Mick to approach cautiously. But at the moment no engine was being tested, and Shelby was on her hands and knees peering underneath a large metal tabletop.
    “The biggest issue is adjusting for temperature, and it’s gonna be warm down there in Florida,” Whit said. “A couple of degrees can change everything.”
    Shelby pulled herself out and stood, brushing her hands on her jeans. “How many engines have we tested?” she asked Whit.
    “Everything that’s built. But Pete’s gonna want to test a few more for the Kincaid car.”
    “What’s the problem?” Mick asked as he ambled over.
    Even half hidden by the brim of a cap, he could see Shelby’s eyes close in disgust. “A little more complicated than how much air is in your soccer ball,” she said, glancing at the machine. “It’s all about power and—”
    “Torque,” he finished. “We actually compute it all the time in soccer. Has to do with how much curve you can expect the ball to take across the field.”
    She inched back and looked at Whit, then back at him. “But we use computers, not feet.”
    “So what’s the problem?” he repeated, ignoring the dig.
    “The actuator isn’t feeding the right data into the system, so we’re not able to simulate the RPM or loads of a particular racetrack or account for track temperature.” She gave him a cocky smile. “You probably don’t know why that’s a problem, but it is—”
    “Because the ignition and carburetor settings that produced all eight hundred horses on a cool Carolina morning will be all different on a warm afternoon in Florida.”
    She acknowledged his correct answer with a shrug. “Yeah.”
    “And repeatability of tests is the key to getting the engine right.” It was his turn to smile.
    Whit slapped him on the arm. “Better be careful, Mick. You’ll be a gearhead before too long.”
    Mick just winked at Shelby and waited for the color to rise on her creamy cheeks. It took exactly as long as it took him to banana-kick a ball from midfield. And score.
    A young woman came into the bay and approached Shelby. “Your media interview is here.”
    “Tell him I’ll