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)
CHAPTER 5
Reid
The paddock is a world of organized chaos—an ever-moving backstage city where the soul of racing lives. It’s a sprawling network of team motorhomes, hospitality suites, tech hubs and portable garages.
The Melbourne Global Prix is in three days, and I’ll be spending a lot of time here. The paddock stretches behind the grandstands, every square meter buzzing. Engineers with headsets, mechanics rolling tool carts, media crews with shoulder-mounted cameras, and the occasional fan lucky enough to score access to it all.
This is one of my favorite tracks on the calendar and of course, I’m biased being that I’m Australian. The circuit is built around a lake right in the middle of the city and is lined with palm trees and skyline views over the water. The street circuit gets repurposed into a semi-permanent track every year and I inhale the smell of hot asphalt and machine oil as if it’s potpourri.
The weather is perfect for late March. It’s autumn here down under with warm days and slightly crisp mornings and evenings. As I stroll past the other teams’ garages, I can’t help but think what a fucking perfect day it is. I mean, outside of the fact that my brother is a douchebag who hit one of my closest friends in the world.
I head toward Matterhorn’s garage—painted in bold red and white, the team’s Swiss colors clean and unmistakable—but before I get there, I spot Carlos leaning against a fence overlooking Turn 10, arms folded, sunglasses on.
“Morning, mate,” I say as I approach.
He turns with a grin, removing his shades, his warm Mexican accent curling around every word—smooth, unhurried. But his smile slips a little. “Madre mía, Hemsworth. You look like someone who didn’t sleep well last night.”
I shake my head, rubbing the back of my neck. “Didn’t.”
Carlos pushes off the fence and moves my way. “Too much pre-race adrenaline? Or too many grid girls after you last night?”
I bark a short laugh. “Neither. Not even close.”
Carlos frowns. “What’s up, then?”
I glance around. A few crew guys walk past, but no one is close enough to hear. I’ve got another twenty minutes before I have to check in. I nod toward the Matterhorn hospitality suite that is accessed by a staircase from the garage. “Got time for a coffee?”
“Sure thing, amigo.”
We cut through the Matterhorn garage, past crates marked with tire allocations and engineers hunched over laptops. One of the crew members jabs playfully at me and Carlos, “What are you doing, Hemsworth? Bringing the enemy through here.”
“Pipe down,” I call back. “He’s too stupid to understand any of this high-tech stuff.”
Carlos snickers and we jog up the metal staircase, exiting to a short hallway. To the left are executive offices and the right, the hospitality suite.
The doors glide open and we step into a space the complete opposite of the grease-and-grit chaos downstairs.
The room is sleek and modern—glass walls on one side offering panoramic views of the paddock and pit lane below. A long coffee bar stretches along the back wall, gleaming with polished chrome, where a Matterhorn-branded espresso machine hums quietly. A pair of chefs in crisp white coats are plating gourmet breakfast bites beside baskets of fresh pastries and fruit.
There are half a dozen tables near the windows, already occupied by team execs and a few VIP guests—sponsors, mostly—clinking glasses and sipping flat whites. Red-and-white accent lighting glows subtly beneath wall panels, matching the team colors. Mounted screens stream live track setup footage, rotating through sector maps and car telemetry.
Carlos gives a low whistle as we step in. “Matterhorn really does it up.”
“Swiss efficiency,” I mutter, heading toward the coffee station. “And a shit-ton of sponsor money, same as your Union Jack Sports.”
He chuckles and follows. The mood in here is calm, clinical even—like the war room version of a five-star lounge. We both grab flat whites and find a table in the corner.
I keep it simple to start. “Lara showed up at my hotel last night.”
Carlos’s eyebrows rise. “Wait! What? Lara Lara? Your childhood-best-friend-and-like-a-sister-who’s-engaged-to-your-brother Lara?”
I roll my eyes at him. “Yeah. That one.”
Carlos and I got close last season. His easygoing nature and genuine care for people make him easy to talk to. In such a high-stakes, competitive world, it’s nice to have someone you can let all that go with. He’s been that person for me, and he’s met Lara a few times over the last season. He’s also met my brother, so he knows all the dynamics.
“What did she want?” he asks.
“She left Lance. Packed a bag and ran.”
Carlos immediately sobers. “Ran? That sounds… scary. What happened?”
My teeth grit together so hard, I’m afraid I’ll break a molar. “He hit her.”
His face freezes. The smile’s long gone, and he curses in Spanish.
“Apparently, they’ve been in a bad place for a while. Emotional stuff, control issues, jealousy. She finally confronted him about cheating and he slapped her.”