Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
I spot Nash Sinclair, the team’s first driver, leaning against the pit wall divider, arms crossed over his chest. When our eyes meet, he pushes off the barrier and steps closer. “You got this. Just do what you do best.”
Nash is one of the most respected drivers on the grid and also happens to be dating Bex. He drives with a steady hand that doesn’t shake under pressure.
Three years ago, he was involved in a crash that left his car in flames. Another driver didn’t survive and Nash barely did—burns, surgeries, months in recovery. He walked away from FI after that, went to Open Wheel and tried to outrun his demons.
People thought he’d retire and frankly, most would have. But here he is, faster than ever, now sitting at the front of the grid.
“Thanks for the faith,” I say with a smile. “Good luck to you.”
We bump fists and then it’s game on.
I climb into the cockpit and harness myself in. One of the engineers gives it a tug. “Harness secure. We’re sending you out soon and it’s pretty open, so take advantage of the clean air.”
Just the asphalt and a shot at a clean flyer. “Copy.” My gloved hands wrap around the grips of my steering wheel, fingers checking the paddles, thumb testing radio and mode toggles.
“Telemetry is green,” I hear Zach say over comms. “ERS and fuel mode set. Tire blankets coming off.”
In other words, the car’s systems are all checked and good to go for my first lap out. ERS—my energy recovery system—is fully charged, fuel settings are optimized for a short, fast run, and once the tire blankets come off, I’ve got maybe thirty seconds to get rolling before the tires cool down. This lap has to count.
Outside, the team peels away the heaters. A tech plugs in the external starter and with a gruff cough, the engine kicks, rising to an angry idle. The wheel vibrates and the whole chassis pulses under my seat.
“All right,” Bex says. “Release when ready.”
I flick the clutch paddle, feel the brakes bite, and pull out into pit lane. I trundle toward the exit, waiting for the green, and my pulse hammers in my veins. Once released, I bury the throttle, the engine howls and I surge forward. The pit wall blurs past, grandstands rise ahead, and then the first corner barrels toward me.
I hit Turn 1 clean and my Sector 1 time flashes purple—fastest of the session.
“Nice work,” Bex’s voice filters in, not excited, but calm and measured. “Keep pushing.”
I do. Through the turns, chicanes… faster than instinct should allow. The car hums beneath me and everything I ask of it is returned in razor-sharp performance. Into Degner, the first one fast, the second curve tighter. I brake later than I ever would’ve dared in FI2, and the car sticks like it’s wired to the track. Adrenaline surges, my confidence mounting.
Under the bridge now and everything feels good. It’s as if I’m part of the car, driving faster than I ever have before. I do this knowing that I must have better focus. Mistakes can be deadly.
I throttle out of a hairpin and let the car pull wide, ready to kick it up another notch.
But just ahead, a car drifts into my line and I recognize it as Ronan Barnes. He’s on an outlap and has to yield to me.
Except he doesn’t.
“Car ahead not moving!” I snap into the comm.
“He’s being shown blue flags,” Bex replies, clipped. “Hold pace if you can. You’re faster.”
Blue flags mean move. If you’re not on a timed lap and someone behind you is, you yield—simple as that. It’s not just etiquette, it’s a rule. But sometimes egos get in the way, and the flag might as well be invisible. No one has a bigger ego in FI than Ronan Barnes.
I close the gap but he’s too close, causing me to dip a tire into the grass to avoid kissing his gearbox. I throw the car wide, my entire rhythm taking a nosedive. My lap time is toast.
“Box, box,” Bex says, and I hear the frustration humming in her tone. “Abort the lap.”
As I swing left into pit entry, I mutter, “Unbelievable. Tell me you’re reporting that.”
“Already noted by Race Control,” Bex says. “We’ll reset and go again.”
Ronan Barnes.
Too gorgeous for his own good and the cocky attitude to match. I’ve known him for years—karting, FI3, FI2. Always the same swagger, the same smirk beneath dazzling blue eyes. He’s brilliant, fast and never plays nice.
He comes from serious money—the kind that shows up in tailored suits and headlines the tabloids. His reputation off-track is the cliched playboy, but on the track he’s a calculated tactician. The quality he has in both places—cold as ice.
And just now? He blocked me. On purpose or not, I don’t care. I’m not letting it slide.