Page 40 of Formula Fling

I walk over, taking in the sight of Crown Velocity’s signature colors—a sleek combination of silver, black and a vibrant turquoise green—gleam under the various sponsor logos. Thecar is a work of art, every curve, every line designed for maximum performance. The body is constructed from the most advanced carbon fiber materials, the front wing meticulously engineered to cut through the air with minimal drag. The tires, provided by our tire partner, are ready to be put to the test, and the engine… well, that’s where the magic happens. It’s a beast, capable of pushing to over two hundred miles per hour, tuned to perfection by our engineers.

I run my hand along the side of it, feeling the smooth surface under my fingertips. This is where I belong—behind the wheel, pushing the limits, chasing that perfect lap.

But before I can get in and see what this baby can do with the upgrades, I need to go inside and gear up. I head into the portable garage where the team’s equipment is neatly organized. Ronan and I alternate usage of a small dressing room to change.

While a crash can result in serious injuries, the evil demon we never want to encounter is fire. Nomex is the name of the game, a flame-resistant, high-performance synthetic fiber that can withstand temperatures of eight hundred degrees Celsius.

Everything we wear is made of Nomex starting with an underlayer of long sleeves and trousers, followed by our race suit. Socks, gloves, racing boots… all made of the life-saving fiber. After putting in my communication earpieces, I tug on the balaclava—also made of Nomex—and ensure it’s secured tightly over my head and perimeter of my face so only from my eyebrows to my chin is uncovered.

I resist the urge to look around for Posey. I know she’s sitting somewhere in the stands, most likely with Maeve, to watch. Instead, I head over to the engineers where Ronan and I have a final briefing on the adjustments that were made based on simulator data. It takes about twenty minutes and then we’re ready to go.

Ronan is up first, taking his car out for a calibration lap. I try to focus on the big screen which shows him on the portions of the track I can’t see but fuck if I can’t help but look around for Posey.

I jolt to realize she’s not but twenty feet from me, just outside our portable garage. No clue where Maeve is. I glance around but everyone’s busy.

No reason I can’t go say hello.

Posey has her eyes pinned on one of the large screens showing the live feed of Ronan’s run. When she senses me approaching, she turns her head my way. Christ, she’s pretty and her eyes light up when she sees me. I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face. I’m supposed to be focused, but there’s something about her that pulls me in, makes me want to be near her.

My intent is only a quick hello, but as I get closer, something impetuous takes over. “Hey,” I say, my voice low as I reach her.

“Hey,” Posey replies, her smile widening.

“Wish me luck?” I ask, my eyes locking onto hers.

“Good luck,” she says softly, her cheeks flushing.

But that’s not enough. Before I can stop myself, I lean in, my hand slipping around her waist as I pull her close and press a quick kiss to her lips. It’s bold, and I can feel her tense slightly, but I don’t care. She’s too irresistible.

When I pull back, she’s looking around, clearly embarrassed. “Lex,” she hisses with a censuring look. “Someone could have seen that.”

“Relax,” I say with a wink, stepping back. “No one did and now I have a good-luck kiss to propel me forward.”

She starts to chew me out, but I slip my helmet on, cutting off the noise. “I’ll see you after the run,” I call, very pleased with myself and, as always, getting a kick out of the blush I put on her face.

When Ronan is done, it’s my turn and I settle into my car. The HANS—or head-and-neck support device—is deployed, connecting my helmet and seat belts to the carbon fiber safety device that limits my head movement to prevent injuries during high-impact collisions.

Now it’s go time.

There is no turning of a key or pushing a button to start the engine of a formula car. Rather, it’s a precise, coordinated dance between me and the pit crew, and nothing happens without them. Using an external starter motor, they slot it into the rear of my car. That thing is the key to firing up this beast of an engine, which is so finely tuned, it needs an extra boost just to wake up.

As they work at the back, I’m already in the cockpit, fingers moving over the steering wheel like a pianist. I bring everything online—electronics, fuel pumps, hybrid systems—watching the lights flicker on my dash. The engine doesn’t roar to life until all those systems are perfectly synced.

But once the engine fires, the sound flows through me in a powerful wave. It’s a guttural growl vibrating through the entire chassis, a promise of power just waiting to be unleashed. I grip the paddles behind the wheel, engaging the clutch with a precise squeeze. Can’t rush this. One wrong move, and I could stall the damn thing. With a gentle shift into first gear, I feel the car tense, like a predator ready to pounce.

Now it’s just me, the engine and the track.

My first lap out is for the team to calibrate all the upgraded components. Next, I run a few installation laps to check that all systems are functioning correctly, a process dictated by my feel of the car and the engineering team reading real-time data collected by sensors. Telemetry systems track everything from brake temperature to suspension load, and engineers analyze this data to evaluate how well the upgrades are performing.

While all the science and technology can be boggling at times, when it boils down to it, it’s the feel of the car all around me in my tightly enclosed space that enables me to give the best feedback.

“Lex,” Randall’s voice crackles through the headset. “One more lap before you can open her up.”

“Copy that,” I reply, my voice steady. The car responds to every slight movement of the wheel, the tires gripping the asphalt as I push it through the broad turns. The adjustments we made are working—there’s more stability in the corners, and the power is smooth, controlled.

“Feels good,” I say as I push harder, the car accelerating smoothly down the straightaway. “Rear’s holding well through turn three.”

“Noted,” Randall replies. “Watch the braking into the Vale chicane. We adjusted the balance slightly, so it might feel a bit different.”

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