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)
“Wow,” Lara breathes as we walk through the atrium. “This doesn’t feel like a racing team. It feels like NASA.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
When I first came here, I was brand new to FI and completely overwhelmed. I remember walking through these halls and thinking I was a fraud—like at any minute, someone was going to pull my contract and tell me I wasn’t ready. A complete contradiction to the deeply held confidence that I was good enough to not only be here but win podiums.
Now it’s different. Not exactly comfortable. Earned. Every inch of this place has a memory attached to it—late-night briefings, hours in the simulator fighting jet lag, early-morning debriefs with Tariq over bitter coffee and barely functioning brains.
I wouldn’t trade any of it.
I lead Lara upstairs first to the executive wing. “Max Riedel, our team principal, runs most of his ops from here,” I explain, pointing to a glass-walled office that overlooks the main floor. “That’s his war room during race weeks.”
“And the rest of the team?” she asks, curious.
I nod toward the corridor. “Anita Frey—performance analyst. She’s usually buried in data. Felix Baumann is our chief race engineer. He’s the guy in my ear yelling in three languages when I miss an apex. And Tariq Masood—performance strategist. Probably the smartest man in the building and also the driest. They all have offices up here, but they tend to hang out in the development wing.”
Lara nods, eyes round with awe, keeping pace beside me as we head back downstairs and deeper into the development bay.
This is where the heartbeat lives—carbon fiber panels, wings stacked like art, the scent of engine oil and cutting compound lingering in the air. A few engineers are around today, low-key but focused. They nod when they see me, and I gesture subtly for them to relax.
No meetings today.
Just a tour for a special woman.
Lara pauses near one of the newer chassis builds—bare bones, sleek and matte black. “Is this yours?”
“Next season’s prototype,” I say. “Still being tweaked.”
She runs her fingers lightly along the edge of the sidepod. “It looks like it could fly.”
“Hey, Hemsworth,” one of the junior engineers calls out as we pass. “You testing the new dampers this week?”
“Not yet. Suzuka’s too twitchy,” I reply. “Tariq’s still running numbers.”
He nods, clearly trying not to look at Lara, who’s drawing curious glances without even realizing it.
When we turn the corner, she leans in and whispers, “What does that mean—too twitchy?”
I smile. “Suzuka’s a technical circuit with a lot of quick transitions. If the suspension setup is too soft or experimental, it can overreact and make the car unpredictable.”
She processes that, then nods. “So you’re basically saying… it could kill you?”
I laugh under my breath. “Hopefully not. But yeah, a bad setup at Suzuka can ruin a lap. Or a weekend.”
She tilts her head. “And you still love this?”
I glance down at her, the corner of my mouth pulling into a grin. “I love it because of that. Because it’s a dance between chaos and control. And when it works? When the car does exactly what I want… there’s nothing better.”
She’s quiet after that, and I expect she’s finally seeing this life not just as a job but as an obsession.
A calling, really.
Next, I take her to the simulator wing, tucked behind biometric locks and privacy glass.
“This is the quiet room,” I tell her as we step inside. The walls are dark. The lighting’s low. There are two full-motion rigs set in the middle of the space, curved screens wrapping around like a cockpit.
She approaches one cautiously. “You train in this?”
“Sometimes five, six hours at a time.”
She climbs onto the side platform and peers in. “This resembles a real car when you’re in it?”
I nod. “And it punishes every mistake I make.”
“I’d crash in the first turn.”
“Everyone does at some point. Racing in a sim… you’re a little more reckless than out on the track.”
We finish in the drivers’ lounge—more casual, leather couches, a mini kitchen, the air faintly scented with eucalyptus from the physio room next door. Lara sinks into the couch while I grab two bottles of water.
She glances around, her eyes landing on a photo taped to one of the lockers—me on the podium from last year, soaked in champagne after a win.
“This is all so…” She trails off.
“Too much?” I ask, passing her a bottle.
“No,” she says. “It’s a lot. But it’s not overwhelming. It’s just… yours.”
I nod slowly. “Yeah. It is.”
She takes a sip of water and looks up at me. “Thanks for sharing it with me.”
I meet her eyes and smile. “You’re the only person I’ve ever brought here.”
She doesn’t say anything. Just reaches across the cushion and slides her hand into mine. We sit there a while longer, no cameras, no crew, no Monaco spotlights—just the two of us, in the quiet center of the storm.