Page 18 of Formula Freedom
We fall into a quiet beat and Carlos studies me across the table. I can see curiosity swimming in his brown eyes. “Is she more than a friend to you?”
I jerk at the bold question. “No, she’s with Lance. Or she was with Lance. I would never move in on my brother’s territory.”
Carlos holds up a hand and shakes his head. “No, you wouldn’t do that. I know. But do your feelings for her run deeper than friendship?”
The back of my neck heats up because I do indeed think of her as more than a friend. Always have and always will. “We had something in the past, but it didn’t work out,” I admit.
“Why not?” Carlos asks. “You two are both great people.”
“I wasn’t ready. I was too focused on racing and didn’t think I could give her what she needed and still be competitive.”
“That’s fair,” he says. “This life isn’t easy on relationships.”
I nod, ignoring the tiny ache in the center of my chest that I have felt on more than one occasion when I would let myself wonder what could have been with Lara.
“Maybe it’s your time now,” Carlos suggests.
I look away. “Doesn’t matter. She’s not ready for anything. And Lance is still out there. He texted her all night, flipping between threats and begging. My dad’s trying to get in touch with him now to figure out where he is. I know he’s got paddock passes for this weekend, but I have no clue if he’s here or if he went back to Torquay looking for Lara.”
Carlos lets out a long breath. “If you need anything… I mean it. You’re not in this alone.”
“Thanks, man. I appreciate it.”
He glances at his watch, then rises from the table. “You know where to find me. Try not to hit anything stupid fast on your practice laps today. I’d hate to have to rescue your sorry ass.”
“You’ll be too busy fixing your understeer.”
He grins and walks off with a wave.
I pull out my phone and check my texts. Nothing from my father so I’m guessing he hasn’t talked to Lance yet.
I shoot off a quick message to Lara.How are you holding up?
I’m immediately rewarded with a response.All good here. Getting some work done. Good luck at practice. I’ll be watching on TV.
Of course she will be. Lara loves racing. She grew up right beside the Hemsworth boys, always cheering us on. Smiling, I head back downstairs for our morning briefing.
The garage bustles with well-coordinated activity and the pressure everyone’s under is palpable. The bay doors are open, our two red-and-white Formula cars gleaming under the overhead lights. My name and number are stamped above the bay, next to Gunner’s. The space smells like fuel and rubber and focus.
“Reid!” someone calls.
It’s Max Riedel, our team principal—short, wiry, Swiss to the bone and always with an anxious expression on his face.
“Good morning,” I reply.
He nods toward the small briefing room at the back of the bay. “Meeting in five. Get settled.”
“On it,” I assure him. As I move past my car, I lovingly run a hand over her aerodynamic body. My voice drops to a whisper as I coax, “Don’t let me down today.”
Inside, the rest of the core team is already gathering. Anita Frey, our quiet performance analyst, is setting up telemetry feeds on a monitor. Tariq Masood, newly promoted to performance strategist, gives me a polite nod. He’s meticulous and scary smart, and I’ve always liked working with him.
Our chief race engineer, Felix Baumann, leans against the wall with a tablet in hand. He’s got silver hair, a stoic face and the kind of dry humor that sneaks up on you.
And at the far end, Sean Byrne, the head mechanic—loud, bearded and always the first to curse when something goes sideways—is hunched over the tire compound schedule.
Gunner slides in next to me just before Max starts the meeting.
“All right,” Max says, looking around. “Practice one kicks off in just under two hours. We’ve got a solid base setup, but I want both of you pushing data on the medium and soft compounds—corner exits especially. This track’s all about traction out of Turn2, Turn10, and Turn13.”
