Page 46 of Formula Chance

I grin behind the visor, the adrenaline coursing through me like a drug. This—this is what I missed.

I focus on Bex’s next set of instructions. “Next lap, try a different line through Turn 8. You’re losing a fraction of a second there.”

Her advice is spot-on. I adjust, and the car flows through the corner like water over smooth stone.

By the time I return to the pit lane, my heart is pounding in the best way. The crew swarms the car, checking tire wear and making adjustments, while I climb out, pulling off my helmet.

Bex approaches, her expression guarded but pleased. “That was solid. Better than I expected for your first run back.”

“High praise,” I say with a smirk, pulling the protective balaclava off. I know she’s tempering her kudos for those standing around listening. She doesn’t want the personal nature of our relationship to bleed into work, but I can’t resist teasing her.

She shakes her head, but there’s a glimmer of amusement on her face. “Don’t get cocky. There’s still room for improvement.”

“Always is,” I reply, accepting the water bottle someone hands me.

Matthieu strolls over, clapping slowly. “Not bad, Sinclair. But let’s see if you can keep it up in Melbourne when the stakes are real.”

“Looking forward to it,” I say evenly, refusing to rise to his bait.

Bex steps in before Matthieu can say more. “Why don’t you focus on your own laps, Matthieu? Nash isn’t your competition.”

The look of annoyance on Matthieu’s face is priceless. He mutters something under his breath before walking off.

“That dude is such a tool,” I say to Bex once he’s out of earshot.

“He’s jealous of you,” she replies knowingly. “You did well out there, Nash. Really well.”

The surety in her voice settles something in me, something that’s been uneasy for a long time. Maybe I can do this. Maybe I’m not just a shadow of who I used to be.

“Couldn’t have done it without you,” I say honestly. I glance around and no one is paying any attention to us. I step in closer and lower my voice. “Especially the way you helped me last night.”

“In the simulator, you mean?” she asks coyly.

“In the simulator, on the simulator.”

Bex flushes, her head ducking to hide her smile. And that feels like a victory all its own.

“I have to get ready for Matthieu’s session,” she says and turns her back on me, hurrying over to the pit wall.

As the crew preps the other car, I glance at the track, my pulse steady, my mind clear. This isn’t just a comeback. It’s a beginning.

And for the first time in a long time, I’m ready to face whatever comes next without any doubt.

♦

I sit ona stool next to Bex, sipping water and cooling down from my session as Matthieu takes to the track. Bex is back at the monitors, headset on, her sharp eyes glued to the telemetry. The team around her moves with quiet efficiency, but the tension in the air is thick enough to cut with a knife.

I have my own headset on to listen to the chatter, watching Matthieu’s telemetry data, which looks like a foreign language to me, but Bex’s big brain understands it just fine. I look to another screen that shows the car from multiple camera angles as Matthieu takes off.

His out-lap starts smoothly enough. The guy’s quick—there’s no denying that—but he’s also known for being reckless, always pushing just a little too hard when it’s not necessary.

“Matthieu,” Bex says over the comms, her voice calm but firm. “The rear tires are still warming up. Keep it smooth through Sector 1.”

His response crackles back, dripping with irritation. “I know how to drive. Stop micromanaging.”

I watch her jaw tighten, but she doesn’t bite back. Instead, she adjusts the monitor in front of her and switches to a new data feed. “Your tire temps are low on the left rear. If you push too hard, you’ll lose grip in Turn 4. Ease off a fraction.”

Matthieu doesn’t respond this time, but his lap data speaks for him. He carries too much speed into Turn 4, and the rear end of the car twitches. He catches it, but not without losing a few tenths.

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