Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 71396 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 357(@200wpm)___ 286(@250wpm)___ 238(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71396 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 357(@200wpm)___ 286(@250wpm)___ 238(@300wpm)
Calm. Focused. Lethal.
This is where he belongs.
I watch as a crew member straps him in, cinching the belts tight across his chest. The car jolts slightly as the engine fires to life—high-pitched, angry, alive. Mechanics scatter. The tires are warm now, the electric blankets pulled off seconds ago. Everything is in motion.
Reid eases away from the garage with smooth precision, merging into the slow parade of cars heading out to line up for the formation lap.
The screen in front of me flips to the track feed. I follow his red-and-white Matterhorn car weaving left and right, heating up the tires and brakes, radio crackling in my ear as his race engineer, Felix, gives him final notes.
“Temps look good. Front grip will come to you quick. Let’s keep it clean off the line.”
The lap unfolds in a slow choreography—cars snaking around the track, shifting into formation, jostling for mental advantage even at reduced speed.
Reid once told me, “The formation lap isn’t about speed—it’s about readiness. Tactile feel. Getting the car alive under you before it matters.”
As they round the final turn, the field tightens.
One by one, each car rolls into position. Reid slots into P2, to the side and slightly behind Lex Hamilton on pole. To his right, Nash Sinclair is in P3, and behind Reid is Carlos in P4. The grid locks into place with military precision.
I watch as the five red starting lights appear one by one.
Once they’re all lit, there’s a pause.
My breath catches. The garage goes still. No one speaks.
Then the lights extinguish and they’re off.
The sound is thunderous, thousands of horsepower screaming to life at once, and Reid rockets off the line, holding P2 and sticking tight to Lex Hamilton. I watch the monitors, then flick to the track itself, then back again, my eyes bouncing between screens and real-life action.
Lap after lap, Reid keeps Lex Hamilton firmly within reach, hovering just outside the DRS zone, never letting the gap widen too far.
I listen to snippets about tire degradation, the DRS window and other small strategy bits that pass like a calm current through the radio. Reid responds only when necessary, his voice clipped and composed.
Each lap is a study in discipline, strategy and nerves of steel. Reid pushes just enough in the high-speed sectors to stay in Lex’s mirrors, then backs off through technical corners to save his tires. It’s all part of a bigger picture—staying in striking distance until the strategy window opens.
“Box, box,” Felix says, and my stomach jumps. Reid drives into pit lane and to the front of the garage. The pit crew explodes into motion when he pulls in.
It’s over in less than three seconds. Four fresh tires. No mistakes.
He’s back out in P9 but quickly claws his way back to P2 as other drivers pit.
By the final ten laps, the top three are locked in—Lex in first, Reid in second, Nash just behind him. It’s frustrating watching as Reid tries to get within DRS range, but he just can’t get there. In the end, that order holds to the checkered flag, and when Reid crosses the line in P2, the garage erupts in cheers, and I think mine might be the loudest of them all. Some unknown person standing next to me hugs me hard and then I’m slapping high fives, and there are more hugs. Although I’ve seen Reid hit the podium before, I’ve never been down here in the thick of it. I can’t imagine ever watching another race from anywhere else but the garage.
A warm hand lands on my shoulder and I look up to see Felix grinning at me.
“He drove a hell of a race,” he says.
I nod, heart still pounding. “Yeah. He really did.”
“Come on,” he says, leading me through the garage. “Let’s go celebrate with him.”
♦
The post-race energy is a different kind of high—part frenzy, part celebration. I follow Felix and the rest of the garage crew toward parc fermé—a secured area where the cars are locked down and inspected to make sure everything’s legal before the results become official. I stand shoulder to shoulder with members of the pit crew, the engineers and all the other Matterhorn people that helped propel Reid to second place.
The top three drivers pull into their designated spots—Lex first, Reid second, Nash third.
Reid climbs out of his Matterhorn car, pulling off his helmet and balaclava, sweat glistening on his brow as he shakes out his hair. His eyes find mine almost immediately.
He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t have to.
He strides toward me, the moment caught by half a dozen cameras, and pulls me into a tight hug. My feet leave the ground, and I bury my face in his shoulder, grinning like an idiot.
“P2,” I whisper against him.
“Next time, P1,” he replies, then pulls back just enough so I’m mesmerized by his eyes as they pin me in place. “I’m going to take a few days off. What do you think about getting some surfing in back home?”