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)
Instead, he says, “Come on. Let’s go walk around the paddock and try to get under the other drivers’ skins.”
I bust out laughing, thinking that is the best idea I’ve heard in a long time. “Let’s do it.”
We walk the length of the lined garages, weaving in and out of team members and spectators with passes. Everything we need to race—cars, tools, spare parts, even the espresso machine—gets flown in on chartered 747 freighters. It’s an operation that runs like clockwork, coordinated months in advance by an entire logistics division of each racing team. Once it all lands, local transporters—rented rigs painted with team branding—bring the cargo to the track and line it all up in the paddock like we never left Europe.
Crew members in matching gear rush between garages, lugging tires, adjusting equipment and shouting instructions over the hum of generators. There’s the sharp tang of fuel in the air, the metallic clink of tools, the low rumble of an engine firing for testing. We pass drivers giving interviews, sponsors shaking hands, and cameras trying to catch anything that might go viral before the weekend’s over. It’s the kind of crazy that I’ve come to love and I wish Lara were here walking with me.
Fuck… don’t think about her.
Up ahead is a large gaggle of reporters in front of the Titans Racing’s hospitality unit and for the first time, a buzz that doesn’t center on Nash Sinclair.
Through the crowd I get a glimpse of long golden hair cascading in waves and there she is.
Francesca Accardi.
The Italian driver who just came into FI is tall, which makes her easy to see over the reporters gathered around her. She stands with the kind of posture that makes heads turn before you even see her face. Her hair is long and wavy, a rich caramel-blond that catches the light, and her skin has a Mediterranean golden warmth to it. Her eyes are light brown, almost amber in the right light, framed by thick dark lashes and a gaze that’s more calculating than coy. And her mouth—full, sculpted, the kind you’d expect to see on a runway ad for Italian couture. She’s stunning in a way that’s impossible to ignore—striking, poised, almost unreal—but there’s nothing delicate about her. She carries herself like someone who’s earned her place here, not been handed it.
Francesca’s wearing a cream-colored suit tailored perfectly in the European style with wide legs and paired with sky-high heels. She answers questions with an intense expression, but she also looks at ease and in control. Like she knows exactly how many eyes are on her and she doesn’t give a damn.
Carlos and I continue, but we cross paths near the loading ramp and she glances our way—polite, brief—and gives a subtle nod.
I raise a hand in acknowledgment.
“Cool as ice,” Carlos mutters once we’ve passed. “And twice as sharp.”
“She’s really good,” I say.
“Think she’ll handle the pressure?”
“She’s here, isn’t she?”
Carlos lets out a low whistle. “Gonna be a hell of a weekend.”
The rest of the day flies by and I only manage to think of Lara a few dozen times. I get a short text from her wanting to know how my day is going but I hold off responding because I don’t want to convey in any way that I’m still disappointed. Because as much as I’m put out she’s not here, I don’t want to pile more guilt onto her shoulders. She’s got enough.
After walking the track and doing a few press interviews, I head into the Matterhorn simulator bay. Not all teams have them, but we’ve got a high-end portable simulator that travels with us—a compact rig with triple screens and a full cockpit interface. It’s not the full-motion beast back in Zurich that tilts and jerks with every apex, but it’s good enough for visual runs and last-minute setup tweaks. The engineers feed it live data from the track so I can get an idea of how the car’s reacting before I ever hit the asphalt. It’s nowhere near as immersive, but in a pinch, it sharpens the edge.
The door shuts behind me with a satisfying click, cutting off the noise. I drop into the seat, pull the harness down, and fire up the system. It’s the first time all day that I’ve had a chance to sit and be still. One of the data engineers uploads the Suzuka track for me, and I start the run.
I barely push through two laps before pulling the brakes hard and yanking off the gloves with a frustrated growl.
I’m not dialed in. Not even close.
“You okay, Reid?” the engineer asks.
“Yeah, mate… just give me a minute.”
I lean my head back against the rest and stare at the LED ceiling panel. Then I pull out my phone.
There’s no further update from Lara and I haven’t answered her last text. I scroll to her name, thumb hovering over the screen.