Page 81 of Formula Freedom
I smirk and make my way over. Francesca gives me a nod, her posture relaxed but alert—the kind of energy that says she’s used to being surrounded by men who think they’re smarter than she is.
“You’re officially in the club now?” I say, dropping onto the bench beside her.
“Apparently,” she says, her Italian accent lilting. “I got the secret handshake and everything.”
Carlos lifts his beer. “We told her she had to win a bar fight or crush someone in a sim before we really let her in.”
“She’s already done both,” I say as I accept a beer from Nash. “Remember Monaco two years ago in FI2?”
Francesca snorts. “That wasn’t a fight. That was a guy who grabbed my ass during a group photo and I threw him into a planter.”
“Cleanest overtake of the season,” Carlos deadpans.
I grin and raise my bottle to her. “Glad you’re here. You earned it. How has the media been so far?”
Nose wrinkled, she groans. “It’s fine except for the fact that every question is about being the first woman or how I ‘plan to compete with the boys.’ Like I wasn’t already doing that.”
“Forget the reporters,” Nash says. “You’ve got the lap times. That’s what matters.”
Francesca tilts her head. “Still, I got asked yesterday if I’d wear makeup under my helmet.”
Carlos chokes on his drink. “Jesus. Did you tell them to fuck off?”
“I told them waterproof mascara,” she replies dryly. “In case I cry with joy when I beat them.”
We all laugh and I’m remembering just how refreshing she was when we were in FI2 together.
It’s good, this moment. Comfortable. The fire crackles between us, throwing warm light across the brushed steel of the pagoda’s supports. For a second, it’s as if the world has slowed down.
And still… I can’t help the flicker of longing in my chest. I wish Lara were here. I wish I could see her face across this fire, watch her roll her eyes at Carlos’s jokes or listen to her ask Francesca questions in that curious way she has.
My hand itches for my phone. But it’s not in my pocket—I’d tossed it in my locker earlier before suiting up and never grabbed it afterward.
Carlos stretches his legs out, balancing his beer on one knee. “You know, Accardi, if you podium in your first race, Nash is going to lose his mind.”
Nash grins, unfazed. “Not worried. She’s fast, but I’ve got seniority.”
Francesca arches a brow, her smile slow and dangerous. “And yet I was faster in the session.”
Carlos lets out a low whistle and tips his bottle toward her. “Savage.”
“I like her,” Nash says with a decided grin. “You’re the wild card this grid needed to wake it up.”
Francesca lifts a brow. “I’m not here to shake things up. I’m here to win.”
“You can do both,” Carlos says, raising his bottle in mock salute. “That’s what makes you great.”
We sip our beers, none of us willing to have more than one with qualifying tomorrow. Laughter rolls easily between us, a rare kind of quiet before the storm.
One of the Matterhorn junior engineers walks by, heading toward the staff trailers. He spots me and pauses. “Reid! They’re looking for you up at the garage.”
“Why? Is something wrong?”
He shrugs. “No clue. Just said to grab you if I saw you.”
I shoot Carlos a look. “Probably forgot to sign off on the tire sheets.”
Francesca laughs. “Probably forgot them because you were too busy perfecting your surfer smile for the cameras again.”
