Page 22 of Formula Freedom
He glances over at me, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “Yeah? You catch my little detour through Turn9?”
I laugh. “You made it look intentional. Like you were just, you know, inspecting the gravel.”
“Perfect excuse,” he says dryly. “Felix wasn’t impressed.”
“You still finished strong,” I offer. “Third fastest overall.”
His smile widens, a little more genuine now. “Could’ve been better. I had more pace, but we were trying a few setup changes. Mostly went out heavy on fuel to simulate long-run stints.”
I love that I understand so many of the elements of Formula racing. Pace isn’t just about raw speed, but consistency—lap after lap, sector after sector—especially when the car’s heavy and the tires are degrading. It’s the difference between setting a single fast lap and actually winning races.
I grew up in this world, sitting in the stands, memorizing lap charts while cheering Reid and Lance through karting, rally and every Formula step after that. Racing is about managing everything that tries to slow you down.
“Still,” I say, experiencing an unexpected bubble of pride, “you looked… in control. Fast.”
Something flickers in his eyes—gratitude maybe, or something warmer—but he just nods. “Thanks. Means a lot, coming from you.”
There’s a beat where we stand there, some kind of unspoken current humming between us, before he rubs a hand over his hair and says, “Mind if I grab a quick shower before we catch up?”
“Of course not,” I say quickly, stepping aside to let him pass.
I retreat to the couch while he disappears into the primary suite bathroom. I listen to the muted sounds of the shower running and let myself breathe for the first time in hours.
Today has been… full. Emotionally exhausting in ways I hadn’t expected.
Mum and Dad called this afternoon, checking in. They were supportive as ever, promising that whatever happens next, they’ll back me. No judgment, only heartbreak that I’ve been living under Lance’s thumb for so long and didn’t think I had a safe space to share that. I reassured my parents that it was only because I was trying to handle it myself and that it did not reflect on my trust in their support.
I really got choked up when Leanne Hemsworth called—Reid and Lance’s mum. I’d barely answered when her soft, tearful voice filled my ear, telling me how sorry she was, how much she loved me, how none of this was my fault. It broke something open inside me that I hadn’t realized I was still holding on to. I cried after that call for a solid half hour.
But her words reassured me, and they were the same ones I’d heard over and over today. “Lara, darling… we love you and always will. Just as I will continue to love both of my sons. But I won’t ever support Lance in a way that makes light of what he put you through. It’s something we’re all going to try to reconcile.”
I appreciated that so much. Not once did I expect Lance’s parents to turn on him. That’s not who they are. It’s not who I am either. Just because Lance did something very wrong to me doesn’t mean he should be cut out of everyone’s lives. It’s just now… he can no longer be a part of mine, and I can’t envision how that’s going to look in the future. Do we stop having family get-togethers? Or do we have them, and I choose not to go to avoid Lance? Or maybe Lance doesn’t get invited? It’s all so sad—almost an end to life the way I knew it, and I’m mourning the loss for everyone.
But after those two calls, I was able to focus a bit and work became a welcome distraction—CAD files and zoning regulations don’t require emotional energy, and I got lost in my job. I love what I do and I’m especially grateful that I can work remote.
But what really made my day was watching the practice session on TV. And to be honest, I watched Reid and that sent my heart racing for other reasons.
He was magnificent out there. Smooth. Aggressive when he needed to be, patient when it counted. My years of cheering on Reid and Lance as they progressed through their racing careers has made me a savvy spectator, and I know a good run when I see it. When the session ended, I found myself grinning like an idiot.
The shower shuts off and a few minutes later, Reid reemerges, his hair damp, a Matterhorn team tee stretched across his broad shoulders, loose joggers riding low on his hips.
He flops down onto the couch beside me with a groan, grabbing one of the throw pillows to hug to his chest.
“I’m glad today is over,” he mumbles.
I laugh. “You were great though.”
Reid cocks an eyebrow. “I fishtailed in gravel.”
“You recovered well. Very graceful fishtail. I’d call it aflourish.”
He chuckles and tosses the pillow aside, lacing his fingers across his tight abs. “Thanks for sugarcoating it.”
We fall into an easy silence for a moment, the kind that only comes with years of knowing each other.
Finally, he says, “I had a run-in with Lance today.”
My heart lurches and I sit up straight on the couch before angling to face him. “What happened?”
