Page 29 of Formula Freedom
Reid
There’s a kindof euphoria that follows a great qualifying run. It hits just after the adrenaline fades but before the weight of the race settles on your shoulders. Some could get addicted to this feeling and I am at risk for that, no doubt.
Second on the grid. P2.
It’s not pole, but it’s damn close. Lex Hamilton edged me out by two-tenths, and even though I would’ve killed for that top spot, I can’t shake the idea that tomorrow is mine to take.
P2 is powerful. P2 is dangerous. It means I’m right there—ready to launch, ready to disrupt—and Matterhorn has a car that can do the job.
Just because qualifying is over doesn’t mean there isn’t work still to be done. The rest of the day is the usual pre-race madness—press interviews, media scrums, team meetings that stretch longer than they should. Felix wanted to review tire data one more time. Tariq kept tweaking race simulations like he was trying to code the perfect Sunday outcome into existence. There was talk of potential safety car deployment probabilities, first-stint tire wear and undercut windows.
All of it mattered. But all of it blurred.
Because the whole time, my brain kept circling back to one thing.
Lara.
She’s more on my mind now than ever as I reach the hotel suite door and swipe my keycard. The lock clicks open with a soft beep. I push inside and find her curled up on the couch, a paperback in hand. My breath catches as I note she’s wearing one of my Matterhorn hoodies, which swallows her and makes her look way too sexy.
She looks up and smiles like she was expecting me, but not quite yet. “Hey. I thought you were at dinner with your parents.”
Yeah… that’s where I’m supposed to be. It’s where Lara’s supposed to be too, but things changed once my brother fucking put his hands on her.
I close the door behind me and shrug off my jacket. “They’re having dinner with Lance.”
Her eyebrows lift. “And you’re not?”
I shake my head as I cross the room. “Didn’t feel right. I told them I wanted a quiet night.”
She tilts her head, studying me with quiet curiosity. “Because of Lance?”
“Because of you,” I say simply.
Her cheeks flush, and I see the way she tries to hide it behind a half smile. I grab the room service menu off the coffee table and hold it up. “You hungry?”
“Starving.” She scoots forward, pulling the second menu out from under a notepad. “Let’s order something. I’ll call it in if you pick.”
We settle beside each other on the couch, menus in hand. It’s easy. Comfortable. Domestic in a way I hadn’t expected but don’t hate. We debate over grilled chicken versus pasta, finally compromising on getting both to share, and she calls it in.
After she hangs up, she glances toward the small hotel bar. “Want some wine?”
I shake my head. “Race tomorrow. I’ll pass.”
Lara moves to the wet bar, expertly uncorks a bottle of white. “How do you think dinner will go tonight?”
“I know Lance hasn’t returned my parents’ calls. They texted him that dinner was still on, but who knows if he’ll show up. They didn’t tell him you or I wouldn’t be there though. I have no fucking clue what’s going to happen, but I suspect my parents will lay into him all the while reassuring him that they love him unconditionally.”
“I’m sorry this is happening,” she says as she pours herself a glass.
“Please stop apologizing. Just accept it’s not your fault. It’s all going to be fine,” I assure her, and she nods in understanding.
She turns my way, holds up her glass. “To celebrate P2,” she says with a smile.
I grin as she takes her seat on the couch, both of us sinking into the cushions as we wait for our dinner.
“How do you really feel about qualifying?” she asks. “Are you upset you didn’t get P1?”
It’s a fair question and the answer is yes. We all want that first position on the grid. I lift a shoulder. “I gave it all I had out there so I’m good with the result. They’re making a few tweaks to the strategy that I think will make the difference tomorrow.”
