Page 45 of Formula Chance

Fucking perfect.

She’s perfect, and as she stares at me, I absolutely recognize the love. I can feel it inside of me, but I bottle it tight. As close as we’ve gotten the last few days, I’m still well aware of how bad it hurts to lose it all.

CHAPTER 16

Nash

The Silvercrest tracksprawls before me like a coiled serpent, its twists and turns a classic symbol of British motorsport history. It’s one of the oldest circuits, built in 1948, known for being a unique testing ground for drivers and engineers alike. Its balance of high-speed straights and demanding technical corners, along with subtle elevation changes, challenge even the most skilled drivers. It’s a place where precision and bravery collide, and today is my day to show the team—the world—that I can handle it.

Track time to test the cars is limited to make it fair to all teams across the board, so there’s no room today for hesitation or mistakes. This is my one shot before the practice rounds in Melbourne next week.

The early-morning fog has lifted, leaving a sheen of moisture on the tarmac. It’s typical for England and I’ll have to balance pushing the speed boundaries while trying like hell not to slide into the wall. My hands tighten in my gloves, flexing and stretching with a slight tugging sensation from my scars.

This is the moment I’ve been waiting for and dreading in equal measure.

I haven’t been behind the wheel of a formula car at full throttle since the crash. Even thinking about it sends a sharp pang through my chest. But I don’t question if I’m mentally ready for this moment because to let in just a sliver of doubt could be deadly. I’m here to prove I can do this… to the team.

To Bex.

To myself.

Mechanics and engineers bustle around me, fine-tuning the car. I spot Bex by the monitors, her headset on as she reviews the data. She’s been the calm voice in the storm of my nerves lately and seeing her so focused reassures me.

I let myself fall back into memories of last night. Not sure I’ll ever be able to look at that simulator in Guildford the same way after what I did to Bex on it, but fuck… I had one of the strongest orgasms I’ve ever experienced. Maybe it was the setting and the risk of getting caught, but I’m thinking most of it had to do with the woman beneath me. I watch her doing her thing, completely oblivious to me and the rest of the world, and I admire her focus.

Here I am… getting ready to get into a car that can cost upward of twenty million dollars, and I’m thinking of fucking Bex last night.

I shake my head and turn away from her, instead admiring the gleaming vehicle before me. The new team colors of purple and silver with black edging looks amazing. But it’s more than just pretty packaging. The hybrid engine alone can cost ten million dollars, making this sport widely considered the most expensive in the world.

Matthieu’s voice cuts through the hum of the garage like nails on a chalkboard. “Let’s see if the comeback king can handle more than a straight line.”

I glance his way, catching the smirk on his face. It’s tempting to fire back, but I won’t stoop to his level of immaturity. Instead, I let my silence be the answer.

“Don’t mind him,” Bex says as she comes up behind me, her voice low but steady. “Focus on the track. You’ve got this.”

“I got this,” I repeat, warmed that she left her position on the wall to come wish me good luck.

I give her a smile and watch as she walks back to her post.

“You’re up,” Hendrik says, and I nod, pulling my helmet over my head and sliding into the cockpit. The familiar smell of fuel and rubber greets me, and the seat molds to me like a long-lost friend. The team secures me, the belts tightening across my chest, and for a moment, the weight of it all presses down.

“Engine on in five,” comes Alex’s voice through the radio.

The car roars to life beneath me, vibrations humming through my body. It’s a sound that used to feel like home. Now, it’s a challenge—a dare.

I roll out of the garage, the sunlight hitting the sleek nose of the car as I make my way down the pit lane. Bex’s voice comes through the radio, calm and clinical. “Out-lap, Nash. Take your time, check grip levels.”

My first turn around the track is cautious. The car feels taut, responsive and alive under me. I ease into the turns, letting the tires warm up, feeling for the edges of grip.

By the third lap, my confidence builds. I push harder, braking later, carrying more speed through the corners. The car responds beautifully, its rear sticking to the track like glue.

“Nash, your sector times are solid,” Bex’s voice crackles in my ear. “Let’s try a hot lap. DRS is enabled.”

DRS, or drag reduction system, is one of those tools in formula racing that can make or break a race. It’s a mechanism on the rear wing of the car that opens a flap to reduce drag, giving you a speed boost on the straights. The trick is, you can’t just use it whenever you want. There are designated DRS zones on the track, and you have to be within one second of the car ahead of you to activate it. It’s like a slingshot—you hit the button, the flap opens, and you gain those crucial extra kilometers per hour to close the gap or attempt an overtake. It’s a brilliant piece of engineering, but timing is everything, and if you don’t get it right, it can just as easily work against you.

I press the DRS button and the car surges as the rear wing opens. The straightaway stretches out like an invitation, and I don’t hold back. The g-forces slam me into the seat as I hurtle toward Turn 1, braking hard and late, the tires squealing but holding.

“Nice,” Bex says, a hint of warmth in her tone.

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