Dale Earnhardt Jr had faced heartbreak before. Life in racing had taught him that victories are fleeting, losses can be crushing, and good people sometimes leave too soon. But nothing prepared him for the message he received early that morning: Michael Annett was gone.

Thirty-nine years old. A teammate. A friend. A brother in every way that mattered.

Dale Jr stared at the notification on his phone for a long time, unable to breathe, unable to accept that the world had shifted beneath him in a single moment. Michael wasn’t supposed to be a headline. He wasn’t supposed to be a memory. He was supposed to be here — texting bad jokes late at night, showing up to JRM shop meetings with that grin that always made the room feel lighter, arguing passionately about setups and strategy, leaning over the hood of his car like it was a living thing that needed to be understood.

The silence in his house felt unreal.

Later that afternoon, JRM staff began gathering in small, quiet groups, whispering, embracing, trying to make sense of the impossible. Dale had walked into that building thousands of times, but today every step felt heavier. Every photo on the wall — especially the ones from 2019 and 2020, when Michael scored his biggest moments — now carried a sting.

When someone asked Dale if he was okay, he didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

He just kept hearing Michael’s voice.

And then, as reporters inevitably began calling, emails piling up, and statements being prepared, Dale realized there was one thing he needed to do before he said anything publicly: read Michael’s last message.

The message he hadn’t expected to be a goodbye.

He opened their conversation — years of texts, voice notes, racing chatter, memes, advice, frustrations, celebrations. A whole friendship immortalized in digital ink. And at the top, just a few days earlier, the final message from Michael.

Dale closed his eyes, remembering the night it arrived. He had been halfway through drafting a response, but life got busy, a sponsor call came in, and he planned to reply later.

Later never came.

Michael’s message read:

“Thanks for always believing in me, brother. If there’s a next life, I’d still want to race for JRM. You changed my life more than you know.”

The simplicity, the sincerity, the quiet weight of the words hit Dale like a punch to the chest. He sank into a chair, elbows on his knees, phone trembling in his hands.

“He knew…” Dale whispered.

He felt the tears before he felt the grief.

For years, Michael had carried himself with quiet humility — never the loudest voice in the garage, never the most demanding, always respectful, always grateful. He had a warmth that made people root for him without even realizing it. Dale remembered the time Michael walked into his office after the 2019 win in Daytona, not to celebrate, but to thank every single mechanic, every engineer, every intern who had touched the car.

“He made us a better shop,” Dale murmured. “A better team.”

Hours later, Dale was finally asked to make a statement. But instead of reading from the polished lines prepared for him, he chose honesty.

He stood in front of the small group of reporters, eyes still red, voice still unsteady.

“Michael wasn’t just a driver,” he began. “He wasn’t just a part of JRM from 2017 to 2021. He was one of the reasons this place became what it is today — a four-car operation built on trust, loyalty, and heart. And Michael brought all of that.”

He paused, swallowing hard.

“I hope the family doesn’t mind me sharing this, but… he sent me a message a few days ago. I didn’t know it would be the last one. I didn’t know he was saying more than he wrote.”

Dale pulled out his phone, staring at the final words once more as if trying to memorize them forever.

“He said, ‘Thank you for always believing in me, brother. If there’s a next life, I’d still want to race for JRM.’ I’ve read that message a hundred times today. And I still don’t know how to respond to it… because the truth is, I’m the one who should be thanking him.”

The room was silent.

Dale continued, voice cracking slightly.

“He was a friend. A teammate. A soldier. A good man who gave everything he had. And right now, all of us — me, Kelley, the whole JRM family — we’re hurting. But we’re also proud. Proud we got to stand beside him. Proud we got to share the road with him.”

He looked up, eyes filled with grief but also determination.

“I won’t forget him. None of us will.”

After the conference, Dale stayed long after everyone else had left the building. He wandered through the garage, touching the door of the No. 1 stall — Michael’s stall — as if expecting to hear his voice echo back.

He remembered the early days when Michael joined JRM in 2017. How nervous he was. How badly he wanted to prove he belonged. And how, little by little, race by race, moment by moment, he became a cornerstone of the team.

People talked about statistics. Finishes. Points. Wins.

But Dale thought about the deeper things.

How Michael always asked the rookies if they needed help.

How he stayed late to sign autographs even when no cameras were around.

How he trusted the team with everything he had.

How he laughed — loud, contagious, genuine.

How he made JRM feel like a family, not a workplace.

And now, his absence felt like a hole the size of the entire shop.

As Dale prepared to leave for the night, he opened Michael’s message again.

Then he finally typed something back, even though he knew no one would read it:

“You’ll always be part of this team. And part of my life. Thank you, brother.”

He hit send — for himself, not for the phone.

And in the quiet of the JRM garage, surrounded by memories and tools and the faint smell of gasoline, Dale Jr whispered the truth he had been carrying all day:

“Rest easy, Mike. We’ll race the rest of this life for you.”