Page 49 of Formula Freedom
“Eventually,” I reply with a grin, watching the horizon. “Carlos never misses a chance to visit a beach, even if he can’t tell a surfboard from a skateboard.”
As if on cue, Carlos appears in the distance, strolling toward us from the car park. His grin is wide, radiant, like he’s just stepped into paradise—which, to be fair, Torquay kind of is. He’s wearing mirrored sunglasses that flash brightly under the sun, paired with navy board shorts and a floral button-down shirt that he absolutely cannot pull off, yet somehow does anyway. Even from here, his easy charm radiates, making it impossible not to like him. Women watch as he struts by, and I can tell that a few people recognize him.
He spots us, lifting his hand in a carefree wave before picking up his pace, clearly excited to join us.
We both rise to greet him, and he pulls Lara into a bear hug that lifts her clean off her feet, then fist-bumps me like we haven’t seen each other in months instead of days.
“Mate,” he says, kicking off his shoes and staring at the water. “This is ridiculous. I may never leave.”
“You say that every time we go anywhere with a coastline,” I mutter.
“But this time I mean it.”
We’ve already surfed this morning—Lara and I—but we’ve got boards lying on the sand, and Carlos eyes them warily.
“I’m not going out there,” he says, eyeballing the ocean dubiously.
“Oh, come on.” Lara grins. “Didn’t you claim you were an expert wakeboarder?”
“I saidwillingwakeboarder,” he corrects. “There’s a difference. Surfing is just drowning slowly on an expensive piece of fiberglass.”
I nudge him with my elbow. “Thought you were supposed to be brave.”
“I race cars, not sharks.” Carlos eyes the boards skeptically. “Out there? It’s all fins and teeth.”
Lara laughs. “Oh, come on. That shirt will scare them off.”
Carlos puffs up indignantly. “I’ll have you know this is designer.”
“Designed by who?” I deadpan. “A tourist shop in Waikiki?”
“Jealousy,” he says, flicking his collar. “It’s never attractive.”
Lara throws herself onto a towel, still damp from earlier, and I follow. Carlos flops down beside us, leaning back in the sand and soaking in the sun like a lizard, his somber eyes meeting mine. “Did you hear about Bex?”
“What about her?”
Carlos shakes his head with a mix of disbelief and frustration. “Word is she resigned from Titans Racing. Just packed her stuff and walked out.”
My eyebrows shoot straight up. “Wait—what?”
“Alex at Union Jack called me when I was driving here. He saw her packing up her office.”
Lara’s jaw slackens. “Why?”
Carlos looks down, digging his fingers into the sand. “She’s had a running beef with Laurent. He’s refused to follow any of her strategy calls and supposedly she called for an undercut Sunday. He ignored her three laps in a row, then blamed his crappy result on her. Voss stepped in mid-session, took her headset and completely undermined her authority in front of everyone.”
“Wait… who’s Voss?” Lara asks.
“Hendrik Voss. Titans’ chief racing engineer,” Carlos provides. “He’s over all engineers and would be Bex’s immediate boss.”
“Oh,” she murmurs, now understanding the implications of how he demeaned her.
“I’ve heard Laurent’s been a douche to her,” I say. “It’s what women face in this sport.”
Lara grimaces. “And he’s the other Titans’ driver, right?”
“Yes,” Carlos and I answer at the same time.
