Page 20 of Formula Freedom
The first few laps are warm-up. Get the tires and brakes up to temperature. Test out the grip.
Felix keeps a steady stream of info in my ear.
“Track temp twenty-eight degrees.”
“Wind crosshead through Sector1.”
“Purple Sector1 for Nash Sinclair. He’s on the softs.”
I smirk inside my helmet. Of course Nash is already lighting it up. He’s back in Formula racing and he’s on a mission to show the world he hasn’t lost any of his drive or talent.
I’m aiming for purple though, and I intend to get it. In racing, everything’s timed to the millisecond. The track’s broken into three sectors, and you get live updates every time you pass through one. If you set the fastest time out of anyone, your sector lights up purple. If it’s your personal best but not the fastest overall, it shows green. Anything slower than your best comes up yellow. Purple’s what you’re chasing every lap—you want to see nothing but purple across your dash.
I start to push harder, carving clean lines through the corners, balancing the throttle, feathering the brake. I’ve done hundreds of laps of this track in the simulator, but it still hits different when you’re on it—when you’re hunting tenths of a second at 300 kilometers an hour.
At Turn10, I nail the exit, carrying speed onto the backstraight.
“Nice, nice. Good rotation there,” Felix says.
“Thanks, mate,” I reply, which is probably two words too many. Contrary to the way we sound on TV, it’s hard as fuck to talk when you’re rocketing through g-forces.
I chase down another driver—Søren Christensen, the Danish rookie from Freedom Dynamics. He’s fast but reckless, and I time it perfectly, slipstream past him on the straight, and dive down the inside into Turn11.
“Great move. Clear track ahead.”
I don’t bother responding, my eyes cutting to the digital dash on my steering wheel. Purple sector two. Green sector three. I’m piecing together a good lap.
As I come across the line, Felix’s voice cracks through again. “P2. One-tenth behind Nash.”
I pump the brakes gently into Turn1, smiling to myself. The rest of the session blurs by—pushing, cooling down, pitting for small setup changes, then pushing again. Drivers’ names flash across the monitors in the garages, all familiar, all gunning for the top. It’s a tight field this year.
But when the checkered flag waves at the end of the session, it’s Nash Sinclair on top.
And me, just a breath behind.
When I roll back into the garage, the crew rushes out, pushing me back into the stall. As soon as I kill the engine, the cockpit fills with claps and slaps to my helmet as I try to undo my harness. I disconnect the steering wheel, hand it to one of the mechanics and climb out.
“Well done, mate,” Felix says, a wide grin splitting his face. “Good base. Very good.”
I peel off my helmet, the heat rushing out from inside, and yank off the balaclava in one motion, raking a hand through my sweat-dampened hair. The garage buzzes around me, but all I can think about is getting a cold drink and some space to breathe. Sean Byrne slaps me on the back, grinning. Gunner gives me a quick fist bump.
And that’s when I see him.
Standing just outside the Matterhorn garage.
Lance. He’s dressed in pressed chinos, a short-sleeved polo and a designer watch on his wrist. His blond hair is perfectly styled, his summer tan still deep and rich.
Every instinct in my body goes hot. He’s staring right at me, expression blank and unreadable. I toss my gloves aside and storm across the tarmac toward him.
“Reid, mate,” Carlos says, appearing out of nowhere and grabbing my forearm. I twist my neck to look at him. “You play it cool. People are watching.”
“Understood,” I grit out and he releases me.
Lance stands statue-still as I approach, opening his mouth to say something, but I don’t want to hear it. I grab two fistfuls of his shirt, slamming him back against the side of a utility van hard enough to make it rattle. “What the fuck are you doing here?” I hiss.
His eyes widen and he tries to dislodge my hands. “What the fuck, Reid? I need to talk to you about Lara.”
“Give me one reason I don’t lay you out right now. You fucking hit her.”
