Page 27 of Formula Chance

“Mattie… box this lap. Box, box,” Alex says into the radio, relaying the universal term among formula racing to enter pit lane. He’s good—steady under pressure. Exactly what a driver needs to hear mid-race. Only one person usually has a driver’s ear and messages have to be relayed at strategic times, such as on a straightaway, as it’s often too dangerous to distract them.

But Matthieu? The guy’s about as steady as a hurricane. “Not smart. Tires still have grip. Staying out,” he snaps back with irritation.

Bex is staring hard at the telemetry on the monitor in front of me. She shakes her head and says to us on the pit wall, “The tires are degrading fast. His lap times are creeping up.”

Matthieu is the type of driver who thinks he’s Superman, but the data doesn’t lie. Part of Bex’s strategy was to use an undercut, a simple but often employed strategy, to propel Matthieu up a few spots. By calling Matthieu in early for fresh tires, he’ll have better grip when he comes back on track and subsequently faster lap times. If the pit crew is able to effectuate a lightning-fast tire change—usually in the two- to three-second range—it can allow your driver to overtake rivals when they pit later on worn rubber. It’s about timing, precision and making the tires work harder when it counts most.

And Matthieu’s refusal is going to blow the opportunity. Bex’s data and experience can pinpoint the best time for him to pit and Matthieu thinks he’s smarter than that.

“Tell him again,” Bex says to Alex, watching his progress on the track as the pit lane exit approaches.

He relays the information. “Box, Mattie. You’ll catch at least three positions on the undercut.”

“And that will put me at tenth. Not risking it,” he growls back.

Alex’s voice cuts through the comms again. “Matthieu, lap times are falling off. We need you to pit. Box, box.”

“No!” Matthieu barks. “Stop asking me. I’m staying out.”

Bex pounds her fist on the desk, her expression a mixture of fury and disbelief. “Unbelievable,” she mutters, more to herself than anyone else. She leans toward Alex. “Tell him again next lap. Emphasize the time loss.”

Alex hesitates, clearly feeling the tension, but he nods. “Got it.”

I step closer to the monitors, watching Matthieu’s sector times drop. He’s losing grip, his car sliding just enough to cost him precious milliseconds in the corners. The cars he’s supposed to be undercutting are pitting now, rejoining with fresh tires and setting blistering lap times.

“This is a disaster,” I murmur.

Bex casts me a glance and shakes her head in disgust at the situation.

I give her an encouraging smile.

As a driver, there were plenty of times I didn’t agree with the race engineers because I had a certain feel for the car. In those instances, I would make my feelings known, but I never disregarded instructions when given to me. Bex’s expression softens slightly, and I see the gratitude in her expression as she turns back to the monitors. I’ve seen Bex angry before—hell, I’ve been on the receiving end of it more times than I can count—but this is different. This isn’t personal. This is professional, and it’s eating at her because she knows she’s right, and her driver’s not listening.

Matthieu flies past the pit entry again, his engine screaming as he barrels into Turn 1. He’s stubborn, arrogant and a menace.

Bex slams her headset down, her frustration boiling over. “We just handed him a chance at the podium, and he threw it away. I can’t work like this, Luca. If the drivers won’t trust the strategy, what’s the point?”

Luca places a hand on her shoulder, his voice calm but firm. “We’ll deal with it after the race. For now, focus on damage control.”

She exhales sharply, nodding as she picks up her headset and puts it back on. Her attention snaps to the monitors, already recalculating, adjusting, finding a way to salvage the situation. It’s impressive, watching her work, even under this kind of pressure.

Matthieu’s lap times continue to drop, and the cars he was supposed to undercut are now pulling away. The window has closed, and with it, our best chance at a strong finish. The frustration is palpable, but there’s nothing more to do now except watch and wait.

Regardless, I can’t help but admire Bex, even as the tension in the air churns my stomach. She’s up against one of the biggest challenges in racing—an overconfident driver who thinks he knows better than the team. I know she’ll have words for Matthieu when this is over, and I expect Luca will back her up.

Although Matthieu’s stubbornness is still a raw wound, Bex shifts her focus. She’s like that—quick to adapt. She leans over the console, scanning the telemetry for Bernie, who’s holding onto P12. He’s been steady all night, nothing spectacular but nothing catastrophic either.

“Tell Bernie to maintain pace for now,” Bex says to Petr Arboldt, a newly acquired race engineer who joined the team just last week. He’s Bernie’s point of contact over the comms.

“All right, Bernie,” Petr radios, his German accent thick but clear. “We’re going to play the long game here. Tires are looking good, but we need to conserve. You’ve got P10 within reach. Maintain pace, and we’ll box for fresh softs later.”

Bernie’s voice crackles through, calm but with a hint of that competitive edge. “Understood. Just let me know when.”

I watch Bex nod slightly, staring intently on the screen. She’s already calculating every possible scenario, every move the cars ahead might make. It’s fascinating to watch, even if the night is unraveling faster than a cheap suit.

But then Bernie throws a wrench in the works.

“Car in front is slow through Sector 2,” he says, the excitement creeping into his tone. “I can take him.”

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