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)
Lap two, I push harder—130R’s coming and my pulse kicks.
Flat through seventh gear, throttle pinned. The car grips and I scream around the curve while my guts slam into my rib cage.
The team’s feeding me split times over the radio—Gunner’s two tenths ahead in Sector 2, Francesca’s just gone purple through the S’s.
I don’t give it much time, but I do take a moment to appreciate the fact that this has to be the thrill of a lifetime for the Italian driver. She’s sharp and aggressive, and she’s going to make this season hell for Nash—hell, all of us—and I can’t wait to see it play out.
Many people think rookies aren’t to be worried about, but I think they’re the most dangerous because they have everything to prove. Add on the fact that Francesca is already facing an uphill battle because she’s a woman, and she’s probably the opponent I fear the most this season.
By lap four, I’m in the zone. The noise falls away, the car becomes an extension of me—inputs, response, reaction. It’s not thinking anymore. It’s just instinct and that’s where my true talent lies.
After six laps, Felix calls me in and I peel into pit lane, coasting back to the garage. The moment I stop, the crew swarms—front jack, tire blankets, the hiss of cooling fans. I peel off my gloves and lift my visor.
“Balance is good,” I tell Felix as he leans in. “Slight understeer in Turn 9, bit twitchy on throttle exit, but manageable.”
He nods, already scribbling notes on the tablet. “Tariq’s adjusting rear suspension pressure by two clicks. You’ll be able to tell in the next stint.”
I climb out of the car and tug off my helmet. My suit is damp with sweat, and I take the water bottle from the crew member without even looking.
“You were fourth on the sheet,” Tariq says, handing me a printout.
I see that Francesca ran third fastest so far. “Good for you,” I murmur, then add, “But I’m going to kick your ass on Sunday.”
The garage smells like rubber and heat. I lean against the counter, sipping water, heart still racing—not from exhaustion but from adrenaline that hasn’t quite worn off yet. This track. This life. This pulse-pounding stretch between everything falling into line or falling to shit.
Still, even as I settle into debrief mode, a single thread tugs at the back of my mind.
Lara.
I don’t know where she is. I don’t know what she’s doing. But I do know this—I want her here.
And I’ve never wanted anything so badly in my life.
♦
After the debrief, I peel off my gloves and grab another water before ducking out of the garage. Practice two is done—data logged, improvements noted. I ultimately finished P2 again, two-tenths off Nash, but the balance is better than it was. Suzuka is still throwing punches, but I’m dodging them cleaner now.
We’ll dial in final tweaks tomorrow during FP3, and then it’s on to qualifying. The real test.
For now, I’ve earned a break. No sim time. No debriefs. Just a few calm hours before the next round of madness begins.
Matterhorn’s hospitality area is quiet at this hour, but a few paddock spaces down, Titans Racing has a private tented setup with paper lanterns, some low benches, and a square fire pit flickering in the center. It’s mostly dark by now, the sky purpled behind the grandstands. I catch sight of Carlos lounging on one of the benches, a bottle of Asahi in hand. Francesca’s beside him, still in her branded gear with her hair pulled into a ponytail. Nash leans on the edge of the table, rolling a bottle between his palms.
Carlos sees me first. “Oi! Hemsworth, get your broody ass over here. We’re bonding.”
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.”