Page 28 of Formula Chance

Bex straightens, and she does something that a chief strategy engineer rarely does. She takes over the comms, her tone sharp but calm. “Not yet, Bernie. Maintain your pace. Their tires are degrading faster than yours. We’ll get them later.”

There’s a pause, and I can almost hear the wheels turning in Bernie’s head. Then, defiance. “I’m going for it.”

“Maintain pace!” Bex snaps, but it’s too late. His car darts out of line, diving into the corner on the inside. The move is aggressive, too aggressive, and my gut clenches as I watch it unfold on the monitor.

The rear end of the car in front slides, and there’s contact. The carbon fiber—renowned for its strength—shreds like paper and the front wing crumples, scattering debris across the track.

“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath, gripping the edge of the console as the replay shows the tangle from multiple angles.

Bernie lets out a string of curses and starts accusing the other driver of coming over on him, but when the officials replay the contact, no doubt they’ll find Bernie at fault.

Bernie’s car limps through the corner, his voice crackling through the radio. “My fucking wing is gone.”

Bex exhales sharply, her lips pressed into a thin line. Petr relays the message to Bernie, his own frustration barely concealed. “Understood. Box this lap.”

We all watch as Bernie crawls into the pit lane, the front wing flapping and bouncing on the asphalt. The pit crew is ready, but the damage is bad. Really bad.

We wait for what seems like hours but is only seconds while the aerodynamics and mechanics crews undertake a quick evaluation. The message is relayed to Hendrik on the other side of Luca, and he shakes his head with a grim expression. “Car’s toast. We’ve got suspension damage from the collision. We have to retire it.”

The words hang in the air and Bex slumps, her shoulders sagging as the weight of the night bears down on her. Her first race has gone horribly, but none of it’s her fault.

Luca doesn’t take it as well. He rips off his headset and slams it onto the console, the sound loud enough to turn a few heads.

“Fucking hell,” he growls, stalking off toward the back of the pit wall, his frustration palpable.

I glance at Bex, who looks like she’s about to fall apart but refuses to show it. Her hands rest on the console, fingers trembling slightly. She’s blaming herself—I know that look all too well.

“You did everything right,” I tell her, leaning close so only she can hear. She turns her head, unsure. “This one’s not on you, Bex. It’s on them. Matthieu ignoring the strategy, Bernie not listening to your call… that’s on them, not you.”

Her lips part, but no words come out. She nods once, sharp and quick, and turns back to the monitors. I see her pulling herself together, the cracks sealing as she compartmentalizes the mess.

This is the best example of the weight Bex has to carry. It’s not just data and strategy—it’s people. Drivers who think they’re invincible. Team principals who demand perfection. Engineers who rely on her to call the right shots.

She sits a little straighter, adjusting her headset and turning her focus back to Matthieu’s car. There’s still a race to finish, and Bex? She doesn’t quit, even when the odds are stacked against her.

“Time to move forward,” she murmurs, and I feel a strange sense of pride in her resilience.

She’s stronger than she gives herself credit for, and maybe—just maybe—she’ll believe it one day.

CHAPTER 10

Bex

I’ve spent theentire day unpacking, arranging and then rearranging the contents of my new flat in Guildford. We flew back from Jeddah this morning and I didn’t even consider resting. I jumped right into getting my new home organized because tomorrow, we start preparing for the Melbourne race. My father was a workaholic and used to say, “I’ll rest when I’m dead.”

I’m thinking a little of that has rubbed off on me.

But it’s evening now, and I’m finally done. I have everything put away and the boxes broken down and in the rubbish bin. I took a hot bath, wrapped myself up in a fluffy robe, and now I’m curled up with a glass of wine.

I glance around, noting the lack of artwork and knickknacks. The sole framed photo is one of my family on a small desk near the window where I work in the evenings. A pinboard on the wall is already cluttered with notes, strategy charts, and photos from past FI2 races for inspiration.

I rented this flat close to the Guildford headquarters, sight unseen as I didn’t have time to shop around, and when it boils down to it, I’ll hardly be here. Between working with my team locally and traveling to races, I’ll have very little downtime.

And even if I did, I’d probably still work anyway. I don’t have any friends here, and the few I had back in Vienna weren’t close enough that I’d consider going on a holiday to visit. My family is close in spirit, but we’re all spread apart. My parents are still in London, although retired. My father, Rick, was with Union Jack for over thirty years and my mom, Margaret, retired this year from nursing. My siblings are all amazing overachievers like me, but no one is nearby. My brother, Jamie, is in Edinburgh and works as a professor of environmental sciences. My sister, Cate, is a nurse practitioner in Bristol, and my other brother, Tom, is a software developer in Cardiff. We have a group chat that is active on a daily basis, but we really can only get everyone together at Christmas.

I consider calling Cate, the sibling I’m closest to, but I’m tired and languid. I talked earlier to my dad who wanted all the details about the race. He watched it, of course, and helped me break apart the dynamics of my strategy compared to what actually happened with two egotistical drivers. In the end, he provided validation that I didn’t really need but was appreciated. “Keep your chin up, Bex. You’re going to be an amazing success one day and those idiots who don’t understand that now will regret it.”

My new flat is modest but charming, with exposed brick walls and large windows that let in a soft, golden glow from the streetlights outside. The kitchen is small but functional, with white cabinets and a black granite countertop. It will hardly get used since it’s so hard to cook for one person and lucky for me, the Guildford campus of Titans Racing has an incredible cafeteria.

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