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)
I’m harnessed into my car and one of the mechanics slots the external starter into the back. The engine barks to life, vibrating up through the seat and into my chest. In a few moments, I’ll be waved out onto pit lane.
Admittedly, I’m having a hard time keeping my head in the game. I can’t stop thinking about what Lance did to Lara and how the next few hours, days, weeks might unfold.
I called Lara about an hour ago, before pulling on my race suit. Her voice was soft but steady. She said Lance had been texting again—pleading this time, not threatening. Promises of change. Apologies laced with excuses, and that concerned me. Would Lara listen to that? Would she forgive him?
“I wish he’d just leave me alone,” she’d said, and that relieved me.
No, she’s not going back to him. I know Lara and she’s nobody’s punching bag. She’d never give him a second chance.
Dad called me too with an update. He still hasn’t been able to get Lance to pick up. Left a voicemail spelling it all out—that the family knows what happened and that Lance needs to stay away from Lara. Dad even swung by their apartment in Torquay, but Lance wasn’t there, which probably means he’s still here in Melbourne—maybe even at the track right now. He has a job to do after all, and he has an all-access pass to the paddock.
I shove those thoughts aside, castigating myself. Fucking focus, Hemsworth. Lara’s safe for now and you need to do your job.
The cockpit is tight, forming around my body. Felix Baumann’s voice crackles over the radio as I click on my helmet mic.
“Radio check, Reid.”
“Copy,” I reply.
“All right, mate. First run will be on the mediums. Plan A. Push sectors two and three. Let’s see where we’re sitting.”
“Copy.”
The car rolls forward, guided by the team of mechanics with hand signals until I’m released into the pit lane. I ease down the blue lane, checking my mirrors, the engine vibrating up through my spine. It’s a visceral thing—this beast under me—alive, straining, waiting to be unleashed.
It’s the best bloody sensation in the entire world.
At the end of the pit lane, the light turns green, and I punch it. The track is fast, flowing corners broken up by heavy braking zones and tight technical sections. Palm trees whip past in a blur and I know the lake is shimmering off to my left, but I’m not paying attention to it. Fans are already packed into the grandstands even for practice, flags waving, cameras flashing.
The first few laps are warm-up. Get the tires and brakes up to temperature. Test out the grip.
Felix keeps a steady stream of info in my ear.
“Track temp twenty-eight degrees.”
“Wind crosshead through Sector 1.”
“Purple Sector 1 for Nash Sinclair. He’s on the softs.”
I smirk inside my helmet. Of course Nash is already lighting it up. He’s back in Formula racing and he’s on a mission to show the world he hasn’t lost any of his drive or talent.
I’m aiming for purple though, and I intend to get it. In racing, everything’s timed to the millisecond. The track’s broken into three sectors, and you get live updates every time you pass through one. If you set the fastest time out of anyone, your sector lights up purple. If it’s your personal best but not the fastest overall, it shows green. Anything slower than your best comes up yellow. Purple’s what you’re chasing every lap—you want to see nothing but purple across your dash.
I start to push harder, carving clean lines through the corners, balancing the throttle, feathering the brake. I’ve done hundreds of laps of this track in the simulator, but it still hits different when you’re on it—when you’re hunting tenths of a second at 300 kilometers an hour.
At Turn 10, I nail the exit, carrying speed onto the backstraight.
“Nice, nice. Good rotation there,” Felix says.
“Thanks, mate,” I reply, which is probably two words too many. Contrary to the way we sound on TV, it’s hard as fuck to talk when you’re rocketing through g-forces.
I chase down another driver—Søren Christensen, the Danish rookie from Freedom Dynamics. He’s fast but reckless, and I time it perfectly, slipstream past him on the straight, and dive down the inside into Turn 11.
“Great move. Clear track ahead.”
I don’t bother responding, my eyes cutting to the digital dash on my steering wheel. Purple sector two. Green sector three. I’m piecing together a good lap.
As I come across the line, Felix’s voice cracks through again. “P2. One-tenth behind Nash.”
I pump the brakes gently into Turn 1, smiling to myself. The rest of the session blurs by—pushing, cooling down, pitting for small setup changes, then pushing again. Drivers’ names flash across the monitors in the garages, all familiar, all gunning for the top. It’s a tight field this year.