Page 72 of Formula Freedom
“I know. And I meant it when I said it, but things have changed. Lance coming here and finding us like that changes things and I can’t ignore it anymore.”
He crosses his arms, jaw tight. “So you’re choosing to go clean up after the guy who just called you a slut.”
I flinch. “I’m choosing to stop this once and for all. To keep this from dragging out into some ugly split that pulls our families apart.”
He throws out his hands. “I’m sorry… but I’m just not understanding it. He cheated on you. He hit you. And now you want to run after him?”
Ugh, I’m so frustrated. We’re going round and round on this and I want to tell him he’s being stupid, but I can’t. So I take a breath, calm my voice and say, “I’m sorry this is hurting you, but I hope you can accept it’s something that I need to do. I can’t move on until this is settled and I hope you can respect my decision.”
Reid stares at me and I’m surprised when he nods. “Of course I respect you. I just don’t like it.”
I heave a sigh of relief, a thank-you on my lips, but he turns and walks to the bedroom. I know he’s hurt that I’m not going to Japan with him, but I know deep in my heart we can’t move forward without addressing this.
I follow him into the room more slowly. We move around each other like ghosts—undressing, brushing teeth, settling into bed. Reid and I haven’t ever fought like this, but then again, the nature of our relationship wasn’t a breeding ground for conflict. Our friendship was always rock solid, and I don’t know if I should keep trying to talk to him.
Ultimately, I hold my own space. We lie side by side on our backs, neither of us touching.
Neither of us says good night.
Neither of us sleeps.
CHAPTER 24
Reid
The Japanese GlobalPrix is in four days, and I arrived in Japan late last night. The drive from Nagoya to the track in Suzuka takes just under an hour, most of it through quiet highways flanked by rice paddies and tidy factory towns. I’m behind the wheel of a black Lexus sedan—a loaner arranged through a sponsor, clean and quiet, with just enough torque to be familiar. Most drivers stay in Nagoya as Suzuka’s too industrial, too crowded, and sparse when it comes to luxury hotels where wealthy racing teams insist we stay. Even though it’s a bit of a drive, it gives me time to think and I’m glad to focus my brain on racing today.
It will be my second time racing this historical circuit and it’s one of my favorites because there’s something sacred about racing in Japan. It’s not just the fans—though they’re some of the most passionate and respectful in the world—it’s the sense that motorsport here is treated like an art form. Japan’s racing history is intertwined with its industrial heart. Honda, Toyota and Nissan didn’t just build road cars, they built dynasties in motorsport.
The Suzuka track is a figure-eight layout, rare and unforgiving. You’ve got the tight technicalScurves in Sector1 that punish oversteer and reward rhythm. You have the 130R—a high-speed left-hander that separates the bold from the reckless. 130R sounds innocent when you first hear it, but you’d be a fool to think that. It’s so named for its 130-meter radius—a wide, sweeping left-hand curve that comes late in the lap, right after the long backstraight and just before the final chicane.
On paper, it looks like a gentle bend. In reality, it’s one of the most dangerous corners in racing.
The speed and g-forces slam you into the side of the cockpit at nearly five times your body weight. There’s no margin for error. One wobble, one missed line, and you’re in the wall.
And yet, just thinking about it lights me up. My fingers itch for the wheel, and my whole body buzzes like it’s already strapped into the cockpit. This is the high we chase. The rush. That split second where precision meets danger—and you find out if you’ve got the guts to hold your line.
Man, I wish I could get in the car right now because I’m pumped and I’m ready, but alas… free practice isn’t for another two days. Still, lots to be done, including the track walk with Felix today, then sim work and set up talks with Tariq. Media stuff today and tomorrow—press, sponsor interviews, maybe some fan meet-and-greets in the paddock. Long days, but just busywork, and thankfully, that’s enough to keep my thoughts off Lara.
That’s been easier said than done. She’s back in Torquay, and yeah—I hate it. We haven’t really talked since we both flew halfway around the world yesterday. Just a quick text from her saying she made it home and that Lance wasn’t there yet. I, in turn, texted her when I landed safely in Japan last night. It was short and awkward and it’s bugging me that our lifelong friendship has been reduced to this.
It should’ve eased something in me that Lance wasn’t there, but it didn’t. It’s got me on edge because I don’t know where his head’s at.
I’m also nursing a bruised ego. Like Lara chose him—or at least the past—over us. And maybe she’s right. Maybe this is the last thread she needs to cut to gain closure, but it still sits in my chest like a loose bolt I can’t tighten and that’s not something I can afford to give credence to.
I’ve got too much to do today to keep pulling on that thread. If I want to be sharp by Sunday, I’ve got to get my head straight. No distractions. No emotion. Just the track.
I take the exit toward the Suzuka Circuit and soon massive grandstands rise like cliffs in the distance. The entrance is flanked by banners in Japanese script and the buzz of early fan arrivals. Even midweek, the energy here is building. I pull into the VIP entrance, nodding at security, who wave me through after a glance at my credentials. Barricades keep fans back, but throngs of them point their phone cameras at me as I drive slowly. I give them a wave, a smile. They’re the core of racing… the actual heartbeat.
The paddock is alive with efficient motion—technicians wheeling equipment, team staff running schedules, and early media teams setting up for broadcast. I park in the Matterhorn-designated slot and step out, hearing my name called by eager fans. I move over to the barricades, manned by security, and sign autographs and pose for pictures.
Felix and Tariq are waiting for me near the garage entrance. Gunner is leaning over his car, checking out a modification an engineer is explaining. Felix hands me a folded printout of the resurfacing notes. “Turn8 has been re-layered. Grip might be patchy on corner exit.”
“Got it,” I say, scanning the document. “Any tire chatter from the other teams yet?”
Tariq smirks. “Coral Reef’s pretending they’re going full softs. They won’t. They’ll hedge on mediums and undercut like always.”
Tire strategy is what makes or breaks most races and why our strategists are indispensable. “Got it, mate.”
