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)
“Okay,” I say with a gusty sigh of relief. I like the idea of this type of freedom. Plus, I’m not afraid of Lance, only of the uncomfortable confrontation that will inevitably come.
Reid stuns me by leaning down and brushing his lips over my cheek. With a wink, he disappears back into the fray, leaving me warmer than I should be. My fingers press to my skin that tingles from his kiss.
Posey watches me for a second, a glint in her eye. “You’re doomed, you know that, right?”
I laugh, but it’s shaky. “Yeah. I know.”
After Reid leaves, Posey grabs her coffee and stands. “Come on. Let’s make some bad decisions and call it a tour.”
And just like that, we’re off. She leads me through the paddock like a seasoned insider—introducing me to team personnel, mechanics and a few PR reps who all seem to know her and treat her like family. We duck into the Crown Velocity garage where Lex is reviewing telemetry, and Posey sneaks a quick kiss before dragging me out with a playful “Eww, data.”
I meet a few of the engineers and get a peek at the sleek chaos of a top-tier operation. We wave at a handful of drivers, dodge camera crews, and grab ice-cold lemon waters from a sponsor’s hospitality tent before looping back around toward Matterhorn. I’ve never seen this world from the inside before—never really lived it. But with Posey, it’s fun. Easy. I forget the angst of the last few days and enjoy the moment.
When we finally return, laughing over something absurd she said about pit crew uniforms, I think maybe—just maybe—I can start to breathe again.
Posey and I say goodbye back at the Matterhorn VIP suite as she’s going to watch qualifying from Crown Velocity.
“Thank you for hanging out with me,” I say, pulling her into a hug. “You managed to make me forget about all my worries for a few hours.”
She squeezes me hard and then leans back, an impish smile on her face. “And planted plenty of ideas in your head that maybe this is your and Reid’s time, I hope.”
I blush but play it off. “I wouldn’t go that far.”
“Oh, I would,” she says with a giggle and then she’s off.
I head out onto the balcony that overlooks pit lane. I lean against the railing, eyes fixed below just as a car comes barreling in—brakes locking up for a split second before it slips perfectly into its box. The precision of it stuns me, even after all these years growing up in the orbit of this sport. Watching it from above is an entirely different perspective.
It’s mind-boggling the way the pit crew launches into action like a machine with a hundred moving parts and one brain.
The front jackman is the first to strike—sliding low and fast under the nose, lifting the car in a single, fluid motion. Another jackman mirrors him at the back, hoisting the rear end while the tire crews descend in unison.
Eight men. Four corners. Air guns scream to life, a symphony of torque and timing. One man at each wheel yanks off the used rubber while another instantly fits the fresh compound. The movements are practiced, balletic—every step executed without a single wasted breath.
A crew member crouched behind each tire braces the car, keeping it steady like a human anchor.
I blink and it’s over.
The tires are locked in. The jacks drop. The car kisses the asphalt with a hiss. And just like that—gone. The driver slingshots back into pit lane in under three seconds.
I let out a slow breath.
It’s not just fast. It’s not just impressive. It’s beautiful.
A perfectly timed dance, every man in sync, every hand exactly where it needs to be. No one yells. No one flinches. The trust, the muscle memory—it’s astonishing.
I’ve been around racing my whole life. I’ve watched from stands and screens, read race reports and lap times like bedtime stories. But watching FI up close like this—feeling it from this angle?
It hits different.
And I find myself smiling, because despite everything that brought me here, in this moment, I’m exactly where I’m meant to be.
Qualifying isn’t the race—it just decides who starts where on the grid tomorrow. Every driver goes out on the track trying to set the fastest lap they can. The quicker your time, the better your position at the start of the race. One lap can make or break your whole weekend.
The tension builds with every lap time flashing on the big screens—purple, green, yellow—the seconds slicing thinner and thinner. I split my attention watching Reid’s red-and-white car as it screams past the areas of the track I can see, then crane my neck to watch the large-screen TV on the side wall of the balcony when I can’t see him. Other members of the executive team surround me and it’s fascinating to be a part of this. They’re kind and include me in their conversations, and I can tell that Reid told them I’d be here and that I was important to him.