Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
“That’s 2.76,” Bex calls, glancing at the digital stopwatch. “Not bad, but I’ve seen better from you lot.”
One of the guys flips her a good-natured salute before jogging back to his mark.
I step closer, peering into the open cockpit where Nash grins like a kid who’s just beaten his personal best on a video game. “You rolled two inches past your marks,” I tease. “Left front guy had to chase you.”
“Yeah?” he fires back, unstrapping his belts. “Bet you couldn’t stop dead-on if you tried.”
A couple of the crew overhear and groan like they’ve heard this argument a hundred times. “Oh, I’d pay to see that,” the rear jack operator calls.
Bex waves a gloved hand toward an empty demo chassis. “Come on then, rookie. Let’s see your precision.”
I laugh, but the challenge is too good to pass up. “Fine. But if I embarrass myself, this never leaves the garage.”
Once I’m strapped in, I take a deep breath and accelerate down the mock pit lane at limiter speed, eyes fixed on the bright orange guide cone. When I judge the moment to be perfect, I brake hard and the car comes to a quick stop. The jack man pops the lever under me, and a cheer goes up when my tires stop dead in the center of the marks.
“Only an inch off perfect,” Bex announces with a grin. “Not bad for a rookie.”
Nash scoffs, coming to the side of my car. “Fluke.”
I raise my hands in victory and Nash grumbles, “Guess you’re not just a pretty face after all, Accardi.”
“Careful,” I shoot back. “I might take your seat next season.”
The guys laugh, and the easy camaraderie warms me. This—being part of a team—is what makes this sport so great. Even though Nash and I compete on the track, we are always working to advance the team.
Half an hour later, we’re in the engineering bay. The walls are lined with aerodynamic models and framed blueprints of past cars, and the scent of machine oil and coffee lingers in the air. The cars we’ll be driving at Silvercrest are both on jacks with mechanics swarming to implement updates.
Nash sits at a long table, a few chairs down from me, lazily spinning a pen between his fingers. Across from us is Tom Whitaker, the Titans’ head of electronics, with his ever-present notepad and a coffee that smells strong enough to melt carbon fiber. Next to him, Rina Morales, lead tire performance engineer, has her tablet angled so she can flick between compound degradation charts with lightning speed. At the far end, Matteo Ricci—the soft-spoken aerodynamics lead—leans in enough for the light to catch the silver in his hair, fixed on the airflow simulations rotating in slow loops on his display.
All brilliant minds creating a hive of knowledge that will hopefully lead to the best race we can run.
Bex leans over the conference table, pointing at one of the displays. “Brake temps spiked here in practice last year. We’re adjusting duct openings to counter that but keep it in mind when you’re setting up for Turn 1.”
She then turns to me, focuses the spotlight and asks, “What do you think, Francesca?”
As the chief race strategy engineer, Bex is the ultimate expert on these things. But all the engineers, if they’re any good, always rely on driver input since we’re the ones on the track.
I study the simulation overlay. “If the wind shifts from the southwest, we’ll need to account for extra drag. That uphill kink before the chicane could eat more speed than usual.”
Bex’s head lifts, and she gives me a smile of approval. “Good catch, rookie.”
It still catches me off guard sometimes—how much my voice matters here. In FI2, strategy meetings were mostly me listening while the engineers talked over my head, handing me a neat little plan they expected me to follow without question. Here, they want my read on the track, my feel for the car in different conditions, and they adjust things based on it. It’s more responsibility, sure, but also more trust. And in FI, the stakes are so much higher—every tenth of a second could be the difference between a podium and finishing outside the points. That pressure sits on my shoulders, but it’s the kind I’m happy to carry.
The meeting continues for another thirty minutes and then we’re dismissed. Everyone files out of the room and I hit the cafeteria for a quick salad. My phone buzzes in my pocket and when I pull it out, my heart skips a beat at seeing Ronan’s name. We still good for tonight?
A ripple of heat runs through me, as vivid as the memory of last night. His weight above me, the press of his mouth, the low, rough way he said he wanted me. But it’s not only that—it’s the quiet after, lying tangled together while he told me pieces of his past he probably doesn’t share with anyone.