Page 19 of Formula Freedom
Felix adds, “We’ll test aero adjustments in session two. Keep your feedback detailed. We’re chasing a tenth in sector two.”
Anita brings up a simulation on the screen. “High probability of a virtual safety car in this race based on previous years. We’ll have pit windows ready, but I want you both mentally flexible. If we pit early, it’ll be to undercut or jump traffic.” Her eyes flick back and forth between me and Gunner. “All good?”
“Understood,” I say, loving the special language spoken in this room. It’s a world of science, mathematics and pure gut instinct.
Sean chimes in. “And keep the damn car in one piece. We just got the front wing reset.”
We all laugh but as the meeting continues, we become tight and focused. My mind stays sharp, but the edge of distraction is still there, lurking just beneath.
Because no matter how much I love this—no matter how fast the car is or how good the run will be—part of me is still back in that hotel suite, wondering if Lara’s going to be okay.
Moreover, my thoughts have fixated on something I have no business considering. But being truthful, I’m already wondering… with Lance out of the picture, do I have another shot at something I stupidly left behind?
CHAPTER 6
Reid
It’s only practice,but you wouldn’t know it from how hard my heart’s beating.
First practice sessions are where you lay the groundwork for the whole race weekend. No points, no podiums—just data. Testing tire compounds, dialing in aero settings, finding the limits without stepping over them. It’s about learning the track in real-time conditions, determining where the tire grip is strongest, what bumps are waiting to make your life hell.
The engineers watch everything—steering angles, brake pressures, throttle traces—and they’ll spend the next two days crunching that information down to the millisecond, figuring out where we’re fast and where we’re bleeding time. The statistical analysis that goes into this sport is unmatched.
Each session runs for about an hour. There’s no lap limit—you can go out as much as you want—but tire sets are restricted, so you’ve got to be smart about how and when you run. You go out, log a few laps, come back in, the engineers make adjustments. Then you do it all over again.
We’re all out there at the same time—twenty cars jostling for clean air, even though none of us are racing. Some are doing long runs on heavy fuel, testing tire degradation. Others, like me, are hunting lap time—trying different setups, checking balance in high-speed corners.
You’ve got to stay sharp. Even in practice, one mistake can ruin your weekend—or someone else’s. Every corner, every sector, every run out of pit lane is a piece of the puzzle we’re trying to solve before Sunday’s race.
I’m harnessed into my car and one of the mechanics slots the external starter into the back. The engine barks to life, vibrating up through the seat and into my chest. In a few moments, I’ll be waved out onto pit lane.
Admittedly, I’m having a hard time keeping my head in the game. I can’t stop thinking about what Lance did to Lara and how the next few hours, days, weeks might unfold.
I called Lara about an hour ago, before pulling on my race suit. Her voice was soft but steady. She said Lance had been texting again—pleading this time, not threatening. Promises of change. Apologies laced with excuses, and that concerned me. Would Lara listen to that? Would she forgive him?
“I wish he’d just leave me alone,” she’d said, and that relieved me.
No, she’s not going back to him. I know Lara and she’s nobody’s punching bag. She’d never give him a second chance.
Dad called me too with an update. He still hasn’t been able to get Lance to pick up. Left a voicemail spelling it all out—that the family knows what happened and that Lance needs to stay away from Lara. Dad even swung by their apartment in Torquay, but Lance wasn’t there, which probably means he’s still here in Melbourne—maybe even at the track right now. He has a job to do after all, and he has an all-access pass to the paddock.
I shove those thoughts aside, castigating myself.Fucking focus, Hemsworth. Lara’s safe for now and you need to do your job.
The cockpit is tight, forming around my body. Felix Baumann’s voice crackles over the radio as I click on my helmet mic.
“Radio check, Reid.”
“Copy,” I reply.
“All right, mate. First run will be on the mediums. Plan A. Push sectors two and three. Let’s see where we’re sitting.”
“Copy.”
The car rolls forward, guided by the team of mechanics with hand signals until I’m released into the pit lane. I ease down the blue lane, checking my mirrors, the engine vibrating up through my spine. It’s a visceral thing—this beast under me—alive, straining, waiting to be unleashed.
It’s the best bloody sensation in the entire world.
At the end of the pit lane, the light turns green, and I punch it. The track is fast, flowing corners broken up by heavy braking zones and tight technical sections. Palm trees whip past in a blur and I know the lake is shimmering off to my left, but I’m not paying attention to it. Fans are already packed into the grandstands even for practice, flags waving, cameras flashing.
