Page 40 of Formula Freedom
Felix snorts. “He’s exaggerating. He’s been great.”
“I just like seeing how the other half lives,” Drake adds. “Besides, I’ve followed your career since rally. Used to binge race replays during road trips.”
That catches me off guard. “Seriously?”
“Seriously. Something about a guy throwing dirt like it’s a religion just speaks to me.” His grin is genuine. “The way you handled that 2019 Targa Tasmania final—insane.”
I shake my head, completely bowled over. “Didn’t expect a hockey goalie to be a rally fan.”
“I love extreme sports,” he says. “I think in another life, I’d have raced rally. I’ve obviously gotten into Formula racing since Brienne entered this world, and I love it.”
“Well,” I say, gesturing around the garage, “this is it. Chaos, carbon fiber and the occasional miracle.”
Drake laughs. “Sounds a lot like hockey, honestly. But listen… I know you’ve got stuff to do, so I’ll let you get to it.
He sticks out his hand and we shake again. “Thanks for stopping by.”
“Sure thing. You ever get to Pittsburgh and want to come see a hockey game, you look me up, okay?”
“You got it,” I assure him.
Drake leaves and Felix ushers me upstairs for some last-minute reviews of all the data we’ve acquired over the practice and qualifying rounds. The countdown is now on for the race to start.
CHAPTER 12
Lara
The Matterhorn VIPsuite is crammed with people, much more than during qualifying. The balcony that overlooks pit lane is crowded as well, and beyond that across the track, I see fans pouring into the grandstands.
My parents are seated at a high-top table near the center, chatting politely with Graham and Leanne Hemsworth. I hover at the edge for a beat before joining them, unsure what today will bring. Not just on the track—but emotionally. This is the first time both sets of parents are together since everything with Lance imploded.
“Sweetheart,” my mum says, rising to kiss my cheek. “You look lovely.”
I nod, smiling as I slide onto the stool beside her. “I’ve been told I take after my mum.”
Everyone laughs, which breaks the tension I’m sensing, even if it’s imagined. Both sets of parents seem relaxed and at ease, despite the fact that Lance slapped me and Reid’s getting ready to sling himself around a track at g-force-producing speeds.
“Did Lance show up to dinner last night?” I ask, my gaze cutting back and forth between Graham and Leanne.
Everyone goes still, the weight of the question pressing into the silence. I guess I could have segued more smoothly into that, but I don’t want the uncertainty of where things stand hanging over my head. I want to enjoy this race for Reid.
Graham is the first to speak. “He did show up. About ten minutes late, but he came. We were surprised, honestly.”
“He looked rough,” Leanne says. “Tired. Like he hadn’t slept. But not angry, not volatile.”
“We confronted him about what he did to you,” Graham continues.
My fingers play with a folded linen napkin. “And what did he say?”
“He didn’t deny it,” Graham says, his voice heavy with sadness. “But he did try to spin it. He said things got out of hand. That he’d been under a lot of pressure at work. That he shouldn’t have done what he did.”
“That was the closest he came to an apology,” Leanne murmurs. “It wasn’t much, but… it wasn’t nothing.”
My stomach churns at that. I know Lance. That kind of admission, even framed as self-justification, is more than I would’ve expected.
“When we made it clear we were siding with you,” Graham says, “that what he did was unacceptable—he got defensive. Said it wasn’t our place. That it was between the two of you and no one else.”
I nod, not surprised. My mom reaches over and pats my hand to show her support.
