Okay, final chapter! Aw, I can't believe this is it! I LOVED writing this story, and posting it was even more fun, cause I get to hear from y'all!!!

Oh, and Budwench29, of COURSE you are part of the ff.net's NASCAR team!!! Please email me if you get a chance! I've been wanting to talk with you, but haven't been able to since you didn't post your addy.

Anyway, here's chapter seven...

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7: No Replacements

April 8, 1990

CLANG!

“Ow! Kenny!” Rusty Wallace jumped back and hopped around on his right foot, the one on which his brother DIDN’T just drop a wrench.

“I didn’t MEAN to!” Kenny protested, flinging his arms in the air like he were getting busted by the police. Rusty rubbed his injured foot and scowled.

“This is the LAST time I let you help me with my car!” Rusty muttered, leaning over his legs.

Kenny smirked, and shook his head. “No, my friend! You NEED me!”

Snorting, Rusty leaned against his workbench. He reached for an open Coke can. “Like blazes I do, boy! I need you like I need a tapeworm!”

A new laugh drew the brothers’ attention away from their bantering. They glanced past Rusty’s black #27 Miller Genuine Draft Grand Prix, which was up on jacks, to the smiling face beyond. The cross-armed figure sauntered toward the Wallaces.

“Heya, DW!” Kenny greeted with a grin. The smile, however, wilted within seconds. The younger Wallace brother furrowed his eyebrows. “Hey, um, how’s Mikey?”

“Oh, he’s just fine,” Darrell waved a hand. He blinked and added,” You know how that boy is! He’s made of rubber, just bounces right on back!”

Rust cocked his head to the side. “Now did HE tell you he’s fine, or is he REALLY okay?”

Darrell’s eyes widened. “He’s fine! Yesterday, he had a CAT scan down at the hospital, and that all came out negative…”

“Which is good?” Kenny raised a brow.

“Yeah, that means it’s good. I mean, he just looks a little funny, like prehistoric fellah. Got some swelling and a couple bruises here and there, but he’s good to go.” Darrell looked over his shoulder. “He should be down here any minute now…”

Darrell paced through the garage area, Rusty and Kenny in tow. After rounding a few cars up on jacks, a modest bevy came into view. Several Winston Cup drivers and crew members, and Busch Series people too, closed in around one fire-suited individual. Whose bright blue eyes caught with those of the approaching trio.

“Well hey guys!” he greeted them. Darrell, Rusty, and Kenny cut through the crowds, and took their places beside Dale Jarrett and Junior.

Darrell scanned his brother’s face. Vibrancy had returned to Michael’s temporarily dazed eyes. And around them and over them were smooth and unmarked. And no longer swollen. Nothing appeared to have remained from the accident the day before. Darrell smiled.

Kenny’s jaw dropped as he looked over Michael. Rusty’s eyes held the same astonishment as he exclaimed, “You’re RACING today?!”

Michael laughed as he glanced from one Wallace to the other. “Actually,” he chuckled, and slung an arm over Junior’s shoulder, “I was thinking of having Junior here take over for me. But then I realised that he’s only fifteen and doesn’t have his driver’s license.” Michael turned to the boy with a grimace. “Sorry, buddy,” he said, and gave the boy a thump on the back. Then lowered his arm. “Maybe next time.”

“I hope there ISN’T a next time!” Junior’s eyes widened. He swallowed hard. “I don’t want to race THAT badly!”

Michael smiled, and tousled the boy’s hair.

“You sure you feel up to driving?” Dale Jarrett interjected, furrowing his brow.

Michael turned to him, making eye contact. “I may be tender in spots, but that just means I’m REALLY ready to get cooking!”

DJ laughed. He slapped the younger man on the back. “Now you’re sounding like your brother!”

Beaming, Michael looked to Darrell. Who looked to his feet. “We’d better quit standing around. There’s a race to be run!” He clapped his hands together; drivers drifted away. Until it was just the two Waltrip brothers and Junior. The boy glanced at Michael.

“You know, I can’t be rooting for you today,” Junior informed him. “Not with my dad racing and all.”

“Aw, I know that!” Michael smirked. He straightened his #30 cap. “Hey, maybe you should go help your dad prepare his car!”

Junior’s eyes lit up, and he took off like a shot. Darrell and Michael smiled after him, chuckling when the boy ran smack into Dale Jarrett, at the guilty expression he gave the Winston Cup driver.

Michael’s laughter ran out of fuel, and sputtered to a sigh. “Well, DW,” he breathed. “We ought to be getting to our cars too.”

Darrell raised and lowered his head. His eyes darted across the garage area, to where his #17 Tide Chevy Lumina was on jacks. His pit crew was scrambling about, making adjustments. When he turned back to his brother, Darrell found Michael wandering off. He stared at the bright red strap on the back of the other’s cap. Pursed his lips. Furrowed his brow. His mouth hung open and formed words before sounds. “Hey, Michael?”

His brother continued to walk away, closer to his car and further from the other. Darrell licked his lips, then hollered, “Mikey!”

Michael halted. He pivoted on his heels and gazed back at his brother, wide blue eyes staring vaguely into Darrell’s.

“Um…,” Darrell looked to the ground, then returned his sights to the other. His brother. He cracked a smile and said, “Hey, you busy this week?”

“Not ALL week,” Michael replied. He shifted all his weight onto his left foot. “I’ve got a little sponsor leg work like Monday and Tuesday. Not much else going on.”

Darrell nodded. Fumes from somebody’s car were flying around, and he squinted through the dust. “You think, you think maybe we could hang around a bit, maybe go golfing or something?”

Michael raised an eyebrow.

“You DO like to golf, right?”

“Oh, I LOVE it!” Michael grinned. “Sure! I’d love to do something together! We’ll set up something! You just call me anytime, whenever you can this week. Okay?”

“Yeah!” Darrell shouted over the bzzz of a power drill. “Sounds great!”

The two smiled at one another.

Darrell waited until the power drill quieted before speaking. He pointed his index finger at Michael and said, “Hey! You be safe out there, today, little brother! You hear?”

“Loud and clear, DW!”

Wide eyed and stern, Darrell nodded. “Then I’ll see you at the finish line. You’ll see me already there when you drive through…”

“Whatever you say, Jaws! Whatever you say!”

*****

EPILOGUE: Three years later, in 1993, Michael Waltrip won the Busch Series race at Bristol, where he made the first ever backwards victory lap for Alan Kulwicki, a driver who had recently passed away. Michael then proposed to his wife Buffy in victory lane.

THE END

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A/N: Here is what Christy Gordon said about the epilogue – “The victory lap is now known as a “Polish Victory Lap” b/c Alan was Polish and that was his trademark victory lap…I believe Alan was the first to do the backwards lap and Mikey did it as respect to Alan after his death...so Mikey wasn’t the first…this is just off the top of my head…you might have researched it and found differently…this is just my thinking though.” What I read DID say that Mikey was the first to do a Polish Victory Lap, but my sources could be wrong. Figured I should add that.

A/N #2: Thanks to Christy also for informing me that Rusty Wallace most likely drove the #27 Miller Genuine Draft car back in 1990! Before she read this over for me, I had him driving the #2 car, like he is now. Christy was an AWESOME beta reader for this fic, and I thank her! And thanks to everybody who read my story too! Please review!

- dj