Page 61 of Formula Chance

Dad leans back, swirling his wineglass. “She’s a sharp one. Probably one of the best strategists I’ve seen. You’re right—it wasn’t a bad decision, just bad luck. But the sport’s unforgiving, and she knows that.”

I nod in agreement. “She’s pioneering her way into history as the first female chief strategist. I can’t even imagine the pressure.”

Mom dabs her lips with her napkin, her hazel eyes shining with curiosity. “Maybe it’s not just the race, honey. You two have a lot of history. Maybe she’s feeling the weight of that too.”

And there it is. I’ve been waiting all night for my mom to really poke her nose into my business and I can’t help but smirk. “What do you really want to know, Mom?”

Crossing her arms on the table, she leans toward me with eager excitement. “Okay… lay it all out. How are you two getting along? Are you going to move in together? Get engaged again? Maybe—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I interject, holding up a hand. “Way too fast, Mrs. Sinclair. Way too fast.”

She waves a dismissive hand at me. “Not fast enough,” she says. “You two never should have broken up in the first place but you were both young and dumb. And you’re neither anymore. You’re a man who has wisdom and I sure hope that added bit of knowledge you’ve gained is telling you not to let her get away again.”

“Mom… we’ve been good. Really good. Better than I thought we’d be. But…”

“But what?” she prompts gently. My dad works on his steak, pretending he’s not listening.

I take a sip of my water and set the glass down. “I still love her. I never stopped. But I’m scared, okay? Scared of going all in again and having it fall apart.”

That is not a hard admission for me to make to my parents. There’s nothing I can’t tell them, except maybe about that time in middle school when we broke into the principal’s office and super-glued everything down on his desk.

“Just like you were scared to get back into the car?” Dad asks pointedly, proving he was listening. “But you did it anyway.”

I blink at him. “That’s different.”

“Is it?” Mom asks. “You took a risk to come back to racing because you love it. Why wouldn’t you take a risk on someone you love just as much, if not more?”

The truth in her words settles across me like a weighted blanket. I’ve spent months pushing through my fears to get back on the track, but when it comes to Bex, I’ve been holding myself in reserve.

Playing it safe.

Maybe too safe.

“You’re a fighter, Nash,” Dad says, his tone softer now. “Don’t let fear keep you from something—or someone—who’s worth fighting for.”

I nod slowly, their words sinking in. “I hear you and you’re not wrong. But I think Bex needs to work through her stuff right now, then maybe we can have a deeper discussion about us.”

“Excellent,” my mother says, holding up her wineglass. Dad and I pick ours up, and we all tap them in the middle. “Here’s to our son’s new career and new… well, old… love. May you get all the happiness you deserve, dear boy, and know that we couldn’t be any prouder of you than we are now.”

I take a sip, settle back into my chair and look between my parents. They’ve been married thirty-two years. “How did you two make it work for so long?”

“I learned to say ‘yes, dear’ without really thinking about it. Once that became a natural response to your mom, our relationship never faltered.”

My mom swats at my dad’s shoulder, and he laughs. “Matt Sinclair… you’ve never once said ‘yes, dear’ in your life.”

“Yes, dear,” he intones, and she swats him again. They laugh, and I watch their easy banter and adoring looks while they tease each other.

Fuck… I want that again.

I’m going to have it again.

CHAPTER 21

Bex

The monitor infront of me blurs slightly, my eyes unfocused as I stare at the data scrolling past. Numbers, tire temperatures, sector times—they all swim together in a meaningless haze. I rub at my temples, trying to summon clarity, but the tension pressing down on my shoulders is relentless. The garage is buzzing with activity outside the strategy room, but the sound feels muted, like I’m underwater.

The flight back from Melbourne was a blur of exhaustion and regret. We left Monday morning on one of the private charter jets leased by Titans Racing, the sun barely cresting over the horizon as we took off. It was a long journey—twenty-one hours in the air, broken only by a quick refueling stop. I tried in vain to sleep on the plane, but I kept replaying the race, over and over again. Crossing time zones always messes with my head and leaving Australia and landing in England on the same day, despite being in the air for almost an entire rotation of the earth, made it worse. By the time I arrived in Guildford Monday evening, the sky was dark, and I felt like I’d been run over by a freight train.

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