(Note: This entire story is completely fictional. As of today, Rick Larson is in perfect health.)

The media center at Charlotte Motor Speedway fell dead quiet the moment Kyle Larson walked in, firesuit half-zipped, eyes bloodshot, the usual easy smile nowhere to be found.

He grabbed the microphone with a shaking hand, stared at the NASCAR logo on the podium for a long second, then finally spoke in a voice that cracked on the first word.

“Thanks for coming. This isn’t about the Coke 600 or points. It’s about my dad.”

A collective gasp swept the room. Everyone knew Rick Larson, the quiet guy from California who still turned wrenches on Kyle’s sprint cars and never missed a race.

“Thirty minutes ago my sister called from Elk Grove,” Kyle said, swallowing hard. “Dad collapsed in the shop. He’s in ICU right now.”

Cameras froze. Notebooks closed. Even the veterans who’d covered Dale Earnhardt’s death looked like they’d been hit by a truck.

“He was running 104 fever, seizing between the cars. They’re saying bacterial meningitis, the worst kind, moving crazy fast,” Kyle managed, voice barely holding.

In the front row, a Fox Sports reporter dropped his headset; the clatter echoed like a gunshot in the silence.

“They’ve got him sedated and on a ventilator, pumping every antibiotic known to man. It’s… hour to hour,” he whispered, eyes glistening.

Someone in the back let out a choked sob. Grown men in racing polos wiped their faces and pretended it was sweat.

“My dad taught me how to turn a wrench before I could ride a bike. He hauled me to every dirt track in California in a beat-up trailer,” Kyle recalled.

“When I won the Cup championship he just hugged me and said, ‘Kid, I’m good now.’ I told him we still had Daytona 500s to chase.”

That memory now felt like poison. Kyle pressed his knuckles into his eyes, shoulders trembling.

“I don’t know if I’m racing Sunday. I might be on the first flight to Sacramento tonight,” he admitted, voice raw.

Within minutes #PrayForRickLarson shot to number one worldwide. Hendrick Motorsports posted a simple black ribbon. Chase Elliott canceled his media obligations.

Back at the track, Cliff Daniels gathered the entire 5 team in the garage and led a prayer nobody bothered to record.

Crew members hung a black-and-yellow ribbon on the decklid of the No. 5 car with “For Rick” written in Sharpie.

Kyle stayed another five minutes, answering in short, broken sentences that grew quieter until the microphone barely caught them.

Someone offered a bottle of water; he waved it away like he hadn’t earned the right to drink.

“I just needed you guys to know why I might disappear. And I need every prayer, every good thought, everything you’ve got,” he said, voice finally gone.

He turned, walked past the haulers, and vanished into the Carolina night while the entire garage stood frozen.

Outside the infield, fans who had camped for days lowered their beers, took off their hats, and stood in silence under the lights.

On Instagram, Kyle’s wife Katelyn posted an old photo of Rick holding baby Owen in victory lane with the caption: “Come home, Grandpa. We’re not finished.”

Thirty minutes earlier, the Coca-Cola 600 was the biggest story in motorsports. Now it felt smaller than a go-kart track.

And somewhere between turn four and a hospital bed in California, the 2021 champion was just a terrified son begging the universe for one more lap with his dad.

(Note: This entire story is completely fictional. As of today, Rick Larson is in perfect health.)