Page 16 of Formula Freedom
Reid stares at me, and I can tell he’s worried about me. “You staying here through the weekend wasn’t a request. Just so you know.”
I smirk faintly. “Bossy.”
“Only when I’m right.” And then to my utter shock, he bends down and presses a kiss to the top of my head. “I’ll see you later.”
When he’s gone, I sit staring at the door. That kiss on my head was nothing but brotherly love, but I’d be lying if it didn’t stir up a lot of old feelings I’d thought were buried deep. A wave of guilt hits me hard, because I have no right thinking about my past with Reid. I need to be thinking about how to untangle my present with his brother.
Besides, Reid made it clear long ago… we can’t be anything more than friends.
CHAPTER 5
Reid
The paddock isa world of organized chaos—an ever-moving backstage city where the soul of racing lives. It’s a sprawling network of team motorhomes, hospitality suites, tech hubs and portable garages.
The Melbourne Global Prix is in three days, and I’ll be spending a lot of time here. The paddock stretches behind the grandstands, every square meter buzzing. Engineers with headsets, mechanics rolling tool carts, media crews with shoulder-mounted cameras, and the occasional fan lucky enough to score access to it all.
This is one of my favorite tracks on the calendar and of course, I’m biased being that I’m Australian. The circuit is built around a lake right in the middle of the city and is lined with palm trees and skyline views over the water. The street circuit gets repurposed into a semi-permanent track every year and I inhale the smell of hot asphalt and machine oil as if it’s potpourri.
The weather is perfect for late March. It’s autumn here down under with warm days and slightly crisp mornings and evenings. As I stroll past the other teams’ garages, I can’t help but think what a fucking perfect day it is. I mean, outside of the fact that my brother is a douchebag who hit one of my closest friends in the world.
I head toward Matterhorn’s garage—painted in bold red and white, the team’s Swiss colors clean and unmistakable—but before I get there, I spot Carlos leaning against a fence overlooking Turn10, arms folded, sunglasses on.
“Morning, mate,” I say as I approach.
He turns with a grin, removing his shades, his warm Mexican accent curling around every word—smooth, unhurried. But his smile slips a little. “Madre mía, Hemsworth. You look like someone who didn’t sleep well last night.”
I shake my head, rubbing the back of my neck. “Didn’t.”
Carlos pushes off the fence and moves my way. “Too much pre-race adrenaline? Or too many grid girls after you last night?”
I bark a short laugh. “Neither. Not even close.”
Carlos frowns. “What’s up, then?”
I glance around. A few crew guys walk past, but no one is close enough to hear. I’ve got another twenty minutes before I have to check in. I nod toward the Matterhorn hospitality suite that is accessed by a staircase from the garage. “Got time for a coffee?”
“Sure thing, amigo.”
We cut through the Matterhorn garage, past crates marked with tire allocations and engineers hunched over laptops. One of the crew members jabs playfully at me and Carlos, “What are you doing, Hemsworth? Bringing the enemy through here.”
“Pipe down,” I call back. “He’s too stupid to understand any of this high-tech stuff.”
Carlos snickers and we jog up the metal staircase, exiting to a short hallway. To the left are executive offices and the right, the hospitality suite.
The doors glide open and we step into a space the complete opposite of the grease-and-grit chaos downstairs.
The room is sleek and modern—glass walls on one side offering panoramic views of the paddock and pit lane below. A long coffee bar stretches along the back wall, gleaming with polished chrome, where a Matterhorn-branded espresso machine hums quietly. A pair of chefs in crisp white coats are plating gourmet breakfast bites beside baskets of fresh pastries and fruit.
There are half a dozen tables near the windows, already occupied by team execs and a few VIP guests—sponsors, mostly—clinking glasses and sipping flat whites. Red-and-white accent lighting glows subtly beneath wall panels, matching the team colors. Mounted screens stream live track setup footage, rotating through sector maps and car telemetry.
Carlos gives a low whistle as we step in. “Matterhorn really does it up.”
“Swiss efficiency,” I mutter, heading toward the coffee station. “And a shit-ton of sponsor money, same as your Union Jack Sports.”
He chuckles and follows. The mood in here is calm, clinical even—like the war room version of a five-star lounge. We both grab flat whites and find a table in the corner.
I keep it simple to start. “Lara showed up at my hotel last night.”
