Titans

  I glance down at the white rose corsage bound in a plastic tub, and my mouth pulls into a smile. “You got me this?”

  “Wasn’t going to get red, obviously. Just put it on. We’re meeting Barney in the parking lot.”

  He locks the door and trudges toward his truck, shoulders slumped like the blue suit he’s wearing causes him physical pain. We arrive at the Marriott at the Renaissance Center after a twenty-minute drive, and when I see the building where the ball will take place, my insides flutter. It’s enormous, with blue lights snapping against a dark sky, and the Detroit River cutting a path directly behind the hotel.

  Barney meets us in the parking lot wearing a brown suit, brown shirt, and brown dress shoes. Magnolia tells him he looks like a grizzly bear with a Godiva addiction, and he beams, decidedly satisfied with this description.

  “Remember what I told you,” Rags says as he motions toward the hotel entryway.

  I remember. A twenty-minute drive isn’t long, but it is when your manager is telling you what to do, and what not to do, at lightning speed the entire way. Then asking if you heard him every few seconds.

  Magnolia straightens the headpiece in my hair, and then nods with such sincerity, I almost laugh. We’ve got two old men who lost their positions at Hanover Steel, one with an obvious chip on his shoulder, a girl whose family is facing foreclosure and smiles anyway, and me, with my own family to worry about.

  But now I worry about these three as well. Because they’ve done so much to help me fight my way into the Titan season, each with their own reasons—revenge, perhaps, or to reminisce, or to forget. I need a sponsor to have a chance at saving my family, but it’s quickly becoming more than that. I want a sponsor, to keep these three mismatched people by my side. Because whether I’ll admit it aloud or not, these past few days have been incredible. I want to win for Magnolia because of the overwhelming support she’s given me. And for Rags and Barney too, who have invested their time, knowledge, and resources, and placed their dreams gently in my hands.

  I straighten my dress and stride into the Marriott.

  Confidence courses through me, much more than it should, until we spill into the ballroom. Until I see the circus I’ll be facing tonight. Until I spot the jockeys with their designer clothing, elegant stances, and polished smiles.

  I cling to Rags’s comment before we stepped out of his truck.

  Just get a silver ticket, Astrid. That’s all we need. Just one ticket.

  Just one chance.

  Fourteen wooden boxes sit at the front of the ballroom, and I seem to be the only jockey worried about their presence. Nameplates are attached to each one, and mine is the farthest to the right.

  SULLIBAN

  “Did they spell your last name wrong?” Magnolia squints at the box.

  Rags curses under his breath, says something about it being done on purpose, and stomps toward the Gambini brothers.

  “He’s going to get us kicked out if he’s not careful,” Barney says. “It’s a miracle he was able to talk them into letting us continue at all.”

  “Yeah, how did he do that anyway?” Magnolia asks.

  Barney lifts a glass of champagne from a waiter’s serving round. “Printed some literature from their site that supports his argument that it doesn’t have to be the most recent model of Titan to race. But I think it has more to do with their investor Bruce.” He points his glass toward the tall man that’s been Arvin Gambini’s shadow this summer. “He also happens to work for the Chicago Tribune.”

  I study the man, his green pocket square and black suit. He has a long face and broad shoulders. He’s maybe in his late forties, but even I see the attractiveness he’s worn since childhood. Bold, brown eyes survey the room, and when they fall on a female, smiles are exchanged.

  “Why is an investor from Chicago here?” I ask.

  “Because Arvin Gambini is looking to franchise the tracks, and Chicago is as good a city as any. Plus, that guy from the Tribune has the publicity angle covered, which we all know Arvin craves. So, yeah, I think he let Rags get his way because the last thing he wants right now is a spectacle.”

  Over the next two hours, sponsors dressed in red jackets make their way around the room. Their nametags announce who they are and what companies they work for. I speak with each of them, fidgeting with the feathers on my skirt and the flowers on my wrist the entire time. There are even a couple of individual investors who stop by for appearances’ sake, but neither talks with me for more than a couple of minutes.

  Only one man, early thirties with a shaved head and sad eyes, chats with me in earnest. He asks me about taking those turns, and whether it’s something I think I’ll improve on. He also asks about my straightaways, and has my manager considered upgrading the engine to match the other Titans? Because I could be a real contender to watch if, for example, some company could pay for that upgrade. The man keeps digging in his pocket like the secrets to the universe lie in his pocket lint. He asks me one last question.

  “Would you be willing to work with a new manager? Someone who had connections and could place you in a new light?”

  I tell him, politely, no. I like the light I come from. And I wouldn’t be here without Rags. I’m Warren County through and through, and I refuse to pretend to be something I’m not to appease these people.

  The man squeezes my arm, gives a head nod that causes a bolt of hopefulness to shoot through me, and then leaves to network with a different jockey—a jockey who wears a fur shrug even though it’s summer, and lifts slender fingers to allow the sponsor to kiss her hand.

  “So weird,” I mutter.

  Magnolia trots back over, despite Rags’s specific instructions to keep away, and asks me how my last meet-and-greet went.

  “Not as bad as the others,” I admit, watching as the man moves away from Hand Kiss Girl and inspects the room, as if he’s not sure what to do with himself now. I’m about to tell Magnolia what he asked me to gauge what she thinks, when Arvin Gambini’s voice rings through the room.

  “Hello, everyone, I’m Arvin Gambini, as many of you may know.”

  Arvin’s entourage chuckles, ready to touch up his hair or spritz cologne on him at a moment’s notice.

  “I want to thank you for coming out tonight,” he adds quickly, immediately launching into business. “Matching sponsors with jockeys is a very important part of the Titan racing business, and the last step before we announce the official jockey-sponsor lineup and release the racing schedule.”

  Arvin waves a hand toward the boxes, and then again at a side door in the ballroom. “At this time we’ll ask that the sponsors drop their silver tickets into the boxes of the jockeys they’d like to make formal offers to, and we’ll ask that the jockeys exit through the side door to Ballroom B for dancing. You’ll be called one at a time to enter the interview wing, and if any sponsors have dropped a silver ticket into your box, they will be there waiting for you in one of the three interview rooms.”

  My eyes flick to Rags, and he nods toward the side door like, Go on. You heard the rat.

  Magnolia squeals by my side and grabs my arm. “Let’s go! I want to see how many jockeys I can dance with.”

  “Uh, you’re not supposed to flirt with the competition,” I say as the two of us follow after the other jockeys and their team members.

  “Don’t worry, I have a plan. I’ll make them fall madly in love with me, and then bam, I’ll break their hearts and they’ll lose their Titan-racing concentration and the gold medal will be ours.”

  “I don’t think there’s really a medal.”

  “You’re missing the point.”

  Magnolia and I exit through the side door, and my pulse quickens along my neck. A ballroom filled with dance partners who also serve as the competition. I can only imagine how this will go down.

  My friend and I spill into the smaller, more dimly lit room. A jazz band plays on a stage, and a few circular tables dot the outskirts of a parquet dance floor. A white l
ight shines an illuminated GB over a jockey’s shoulders as she dances with her partner.

  “Does that GB stand for Goat Bagels?” Magnolia asked.

  “Sounds reasonable,” I say. “Or maybe Gigabytes?”

  “Ghost Bashers?”

  “Green Berets?”

  “It stands for Gambini Brothers,” someone new says.

  I turn toward the sound of the voice, and groan when I see the blond dude who won the sponsor race. “Yeah, we know. We were joking around. You do know what a joke is, don’t you?”

  Magnolia stabs a finger into his chest. “It’s you. You’re a joke.”

  The boy’s jaw tightens, but he manages to keep whatever insult he has between his teeth. Instead, he asks, “Would you like to dance?”

  “With you?” I laugh. “You must be kidding. Don’t you remember who I am? I’m the poor, jealous girl who’d never sit in a Titan saddle.”

  “I remember you.”

  “Then you’ll understand why I’d rather give you the middle finger than this dance.”

  The jockey looks past me at something, and I follow his gaze. Two cameramen stand near the corner of the room, media badges hanging from their necks like feed bags. I know instantly who they are. Not journalists. Not real ones, anyway. They’re from the Titan Enquirer, an online newspaper that runs petty gossip from the tracks every summer.

  “You’re trying to get their attention,” I say.

  Surprisingly, he doesn’t deny it. “I won the race, and you’re the girl who caused a buzz. It’d do us good to be seen together.”

  “Oh, yeah, why’s that?” Magnolia bobs her head so hard that I almost lose the angry look I’m sporting.

  “More coverage means more eyeballs. More eyeballs means more money from the sponsors.”

  He’s talking about endorsement contracts that extend past the summer. Sometimes, rarely, jockeys who lose the Titan Derby will still make a living outside the races if enough people remember them. They turn into a reality star of sorts for a year or two before fading to black. But the money is good during that time. It’s not something I want to be known for—scandal—but what are the chances of me winning the derby even if I acquire a sponsor?

  Money is money. And family is family.

  “You think they’ll care that we’re dancing?” I ask, disgusted that I’m even considering this.

  “Only one way to find out.” He takes my hand, and without asking permission, he tows me toward the dance floor.

  “Uh, hello?” I snarl. “I didn’t say okay.”

  “Close enough.”

  When I realize he’s not going to release me, I look back at Magnolia. Barney is standing beside her, and she’s waving her arms in my direction. Barney looks up with understanding, and starts to move his massive frame toward Overly Aggressive Guy. I almost smile—realizing this cocky jockey is about to get what’s coming to him—when I spot the two cameramen slinking toward us, long black camera-snouts clicking photographs as the jockey wraps his arm around my waist.

  With my mind racing, I hold up a hand to stop Barney and mouth, It’s okay. I allow the jockey to spin me around the floor, and laugh for the camera any time my face is in their view. And when he dips me low, I allow my weight to be entirely supported by his arms without puking.

  “You’re from Warren County, right?” he says between the first song ending and the second beginning.

  “Yeah,” I say. “Guess that’s more important than my name.”

  “I know your name, Astrid Sullivan, but you may not know mine.” He releases my waist and offers me his hand. “Hart Riley II.”

  I laugh, because it seems unlikely that this dude, who surely has no soul, is named Hart. “Nice name. Fits your pedigree, I’m sure.”

  He retakes my waist and does an impressive spin for the cameras. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing. It’s just that … why is it always the rich who can’t let go of their names? It’s like fathers with fat bank accounts feel entitled to make seconds and thirds of themselves instead of letting their children be their own people.”

  “You’ve got me all wrong.”

  I stiffen in his arms. “Tell me what county it is you live in again?”

  His green eyes flash, and I know I’ve got him. I smirk at the sight of his downturned mouth. He may be from the esteemed Preston Park County, or maybe Highland Village, where only gentlemen are raised, but I see the rebelliousness behind his gaze.

  Someone on stage announces his name, Hart Riley, and says it’s time for him to report to the interview suites. Before he releases me, he leans forward and says, “You and I will never be more than competitors, no matter what happens. But if you’d open your eyes, you’d see we have a lot more in common than you think.”

  He leans forward, swiftly kisses me on the cheek, and pulls away before I have time to knee him between the legs. The cameramen catch his golden-boy smile and the way he clutches my hand before walking away.

  I wonder if they see the way my nails dig into his skin.

  Several more names are called before I finally hear my own. No one else has asked me to dance, but Magnolia upholds her vow to break every heart in the room. In reality, I think she’s enjoying herself, and the male jockeys certainly relish having a pretty girl in their arms who isn’t competing with them for sponsorship.

  I hear Sulliban announced over the speakers, and Rags makes his way to my side. “Are you ready?”

  After ensuring that Magnolia is still smiling, and that Barney hasn’t gotten kicked out from stuffing mini quiches into his pockets, I nod.

  The two of us pass through a side door and into a brightly lit hallway. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust, and for my mind to switch from soothing music and jovial faces to white, sterile linoleum and office space.

  Rags walks ahead of me by one pace, and I’m not sure I mind. I don’t want to be the first to see that all three rooms are empty. He steps up to an open doorway and cranes his neck. Then he looks at me and gives his head a little shake. Once again, we’re on the move, and I’m learning just how quickly Rags and his long legs can move. It makes me think of those gas station scratch-off cards. How some people scratch them real slow-like, savoring the thought that they might win. And other people scratch as if their life depends on it, like if they take too long any possible win will slip off their lotto card and find residence elsewhere.

  Rags would definitely be in the latter category.

  When he gives me a second grimace after finding the next room empty, I cringe. Only one room remains, and there’s only one man I figure could possibly be in it. I hold my breath, hoping Rags will smile and shake hands with a guy who has a shaved head and sad eyes that’ll make me very happy.

  But Rags doesn’t shake hands with anyone. In fact, when he looks inside the last room, he freezes in place and his face loses what little color it normally holds. He shakes his head like a defiant child and mutters, “Nuh-uh. No way.”

  “Rusty, just hear me out,” a woman’s voice says.

  “Nope,” Rags says before grabbing my arm and turning tail.

  We’re halfway down the hall, me yelling about too much manhandling in one night, when the woman steps out of the room.

  “I have the money for her entrance fee and anything else she needs.”

  “Don’t care,” Rags says.

  I rip my arm away from him and stop my forward hurtle. Has he forgotten why we’re here? “W-wait,” I stutter. “You want to sponsor me?”

  The woman responds to me, but her eyes don’t leave Rags. “I do.”

  Rags throws his arms up and takes two steps in the woman’s direction. “Why’re you doing this, Lottie? You trying to hurt me? Because I’ll tell you right now that won’t happen. I can’t be hurt by someone who means nuthin’.”

  The woman, Lottie, clutches a brown bag decorated with gold LVs. I know that particular purse brand, Louis something-or-other, but only because Magnolia has schooled me in Al
l Fashionable Items We Can Never Afford But Should Be Worshipped Anyway.

  The lady has long, dark hair worn loose over her shoulders, and one of the largest mouths I’ve ever seen. She’s curvy in the way that turns men’s heads, and is dressed in a tailored hot-pink suit. Her makeup is flawless, no doubt bought at department stores with shiny counters and saleswomen in black blazers, versus the drugstore, where Mom picks up Maybelline mascara twice a year. From her polished heels to her gaudy earrings, this woman screams Grosse Pointe. But that part of Detroit is reserved for old-money types. And something about the way Lottie fidgets as she looks at Rags tells me her Louis Something purse hasn’t always been so heavy.

  I glance back and forth between Rags and Lottie, and think about the name she used for my manager.

  “You two know each other, I take it?” I say, interrupting their stare-off.

  “I don’t know this woman.” Rags’s hands form tight fists. “Never have.”

  “Yeaaah, that seems unlikely. Look, why don’t we all go into that room and sit down for a few. If you didn’t notice, Rusty, we don’t have any other interested parties. And may I remind you we were fairly confident there wouldn’t even be one to speak of.”

  Rags points at Lottie. “I won’t be in cahoots with the likes of you. I’d rather give up now.”

  I put my hands on his old man chest and shove lightly. “Okay, that’s great. But here in the real world, I need a sponsor. So if you don’t like this person for whatever reason, then take a walk and let me speak with her.”

  Rags finally looks at me. “You’ll botch the negotiations.”

  “Negotiations?” I laugh once and lower my voice. “Rags, there’s no one else. I’m going to take what I can get.”

  The woman chances moving a few steps closer. “It’s his money I’ll be spending, Rusty. And I won’t be shy about using it.”

  Rags glares at the woman for several more beats, and then turns and marches away. Right before he disappears, he turns back and yells, “I don’t like this. I don’t!” Then he glances around like he just realized how ridiculous that sounded, and lets himself out through the doorway.