Page 16 of Formula Freedom (Race Fever #3)

Lara

T he Matterhorn VIP suite is crammed with people, much more than during qualifying. The balcony that overlooks pit lane is crowded as well, and beyond that across the track, I see fans pouring into the grandstands.

My parents are seated at a high-top table near the center, chatting politely with Graham and Leanne Hemsworth.

I hover at the edge for a beat before joining them, unsure what today will bring.

Not just on the track—but emotionally. This is the first time both sets of parents are together since everything with Lance imploded.

“Sweetheart,” my mum says, rising to kiss my cheek. “You look lovely.”

I nod, smiling as I slide onto the stool beside her. “I’ve been told I take after my mum.”

Everyone laughs, which breaks the tension I’m sensing, even if it’s imagined. Both sets of parents seem relaxed and at ease, despite the fact that Lance slapped me and Reid’s getting ready to sling himself around a track at g-force-producing speeds.

“Did Lance show up to dinner last night?” I ask, my gaze cutting back and forth between Graham and Leanne.

Everyone goes still, the weight of the question pressing into the silence. I guess I could have segued more smoothly into that, but I don’t want the uncertainty of where things stand hanging over my head. I want to enjoy this race for Reid.

Graham is the first to speak. “He did show up. About ten minutes late, but he came. We were surprised, honestly.”

“He looked rough,” Leanne says. “Tired. Like he hadn’t slept. But not angry, not volatile.”

“We confronted him about what he did to you,” Graham continues.

My fingers play with a folded linen napkin. “And what did he say?”

“He didn’t deny it,” Graham says, his voice heavy with sadness. “But he did try to spin it. He said things got out of hand. That he’d been under a lot of pressure at work. That he shouldn’t have done what he did.”

“That was the closest he came to an apology,” Leanne murmurs. “It wasn’t much, but… it wasn’t nothing.”

My stomach churns at that. I know Lance. That kind of admission, even framed as self-justification, is more than I would’ve expected.

“When we made it clear we were siding with you,” Graham says, “that what he did was unacceptable—he got defensive. Said it wasn’t our place. That it was between the two of you and no one else.”

I nod, not surprised. My mom reaches over and pats my hand to show her support.

“He wants to talk to you,” Leanne adds gently. “But I suggested that he needs to give you space.”

I let out a small breath through my nose. “Thank you for that.”

“I told him only when you’re ready,” Leanne says, her gaze kind. “That it was up to you to decide if there was anything worth saying. He didn’t like it, but he heard me.”

The room falls quiet again. The support around me feels like a warm net, holding me steady. But at the center of it all is still this broken piece—this man I once thought I loved and the pain he chose to cause.

“Thank you,” I say, looking at them both. “For confronting him. For not looking away.”

“You’re family,” Graham says, his tone thick with emotion. “Always have been.”

“We’ll always love him,” Leanne says. “But we’re not going to excuse him. And we’re not going to stop loving you either.”

I heave out a sigh, glancing around the table. “I just don’t want this to break up your friendships.”

My dad and Graham exchange a look but it’s my dad who says, “What happened between you and Lance has nothing to do with our friendships. We’ve all talked about it.

We can all unilaterally condemn Lance’s actions and respect each other for it.

Just like Graham and Leanne can still love their son, despite what he did, and we respect them for it. Lara… none of this is on you.”

Lance’s parents nod vigorously in agreement. It takes everything in me not to break apart from gratitude. I reach out, offering Graham and Leanne each a hand, which they willingly accept, squeezing mine in return. “I know this is messy. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” my mum says firmly. “You made the brave choice.”

“And is Lance here at the race today?” I ask, our hands releasing.

“Yes,” Graham says. “But we’ve asked him to give you space and he will.”

Plus, I know he’s not allowed here in the Matterhorn suite, so I won’t have to confront him at all. The last knots of tension ease within my chest.

“Ms. Candlish?”

I turn toward the voice, see a Matterhorn employee standing there. “Yes?”

The young man smiles. “Reid asked me to see if you and the family would like to watch the race from the garage. You’d be on a headset and have a monitor view. You’d be right in the thick of it.”

My eyes widen. “Really?” I then turn back to the parents. “Do you want to?”

Graham chuckles and shakes his head. “We’ve done that on many occasions and it’s a blast. But I think we’ll stay up here in the comfort of the suite and watch from the balcony.”

Leanne nods her agreement, and I look to my parents. My mum makes a shooing motion. “We’ll stay here too. Why pass up the food and drinks?”

“I can stay,” I immediately say, not wanting to abandon them.

“You’d be crazy not to take that opportunity,” Graham says with a stern look. “It’s a whole new level of excitement down there. Go have fun.”

My eyes roam the table and every parental gaze tells me to go. So I do.

I grab my purse and sling it over my shoulder. “Okay, then… I think I will.”

I walk around the table, giving the Candlish and Hemsworth parents hugs before following the young man through the private corridor, down toward the garage.

With every step, my nerves start to tingle.

Not just from the excitement of being allowed into the heartbeat of the team, but because Reid wants me there.

Mechanics in red-and-white Matterhorn shirts with sponsor patches buzz around the sleek cars. The smell of petrol and rubber fills my nostrils, and my heart kicks harder as I enter the garage itself.

I’m led to a bank of tables along the wall with TV monitors spaced above. A headset is handed to me. I slip it on just as Felix’s voice crackles over the channel. “Reid, final systems check complete. Confirm strategy A. Ready when you are.”

I take my place near one of the team engineers, monitor in front of me, headset snug against my ears.

I watch in awe at the flurry of activity—crew members double-checking tire pressures, final tweaks on the telemetry, engineers murmuring into radios, eyes locked on screens tracking live data from the cars already rolling toward the formation lap.

When I glance over at the car, I see Reid hoist himself into the cockpit. One fluid motion. His helmet is already on, visor down, obscuring the face I know so well. But even without seeing his eyes, I know the look that’s there.

Calm. Focused. Lethal.

This is where he belongs.

I watch as a crew member straps him in, cinching the belts tight across his chest. The car jolts slightly as the engine fires to life—high-pitched, angry, alive. Mechanics scatter. The tires are warm now, the electric blankets pulled off seconds ago. Everything is in motion.

Reid eases away from the garage with smooth precision, merging into the slow parade of cars heading out to line up for the formation lap.

The screen in front of me flips to the track feed. I follow his red-and-white Matterhorn car weaving left and right, heating up the tires and brakes, radio crackling in my ear as his race engineer, Felix, gives him final notes.

“Temps look good. Front grip will come to you quick. Let’s keep it clean off the line.”

The lap unfolds in a slow choreography—cars snaking around the track, shifting into formation, jostling for mental advantage even at reduced speed.

Reid once told me, “ The formation lap isn’t about speed—it’s about readiness. Tactile feel . Getting the car alive under you before it matters .”

As they round the final turn, the field tightens.

One by one, each car rolls into position. Reid slots into P2, to the side and slightly behind Lex Hamilton on pole. To his right, Nash Sinclair is in P3, and behind Reid is Carlos in P4. The grid locks into place with military precision.

I watch as the five red starting lights appear one by one.

Once they’re all lit, there’s a pause.

My breath catches. The garage goes still. No one speaks.

Then the lights extinguish and they’re off.

The sound is thunderous, thousands of horsepower screaming to life at once, and Reid rockets off the line, holding P2 and sticking tight to Lex Hamilton. I watch the monitors, then flick to the track itself, then back again, my eyes bouncing between screens and real-life action.

Lap after lap, Reid keeps Lex Hamilton firmly within reach, hovering just outside the DRS zone, never letting the gap widen too far.

I listen to snippets about tire degradation, the DRS window and other small strategy bits that pass like a calm current through the radio. Reid responds only when necessary, his voice clipped and composed.

Each lap is a study in discipline, strategy and nerves of steel. Reid pushes just enough in the high-speed sectors to stay in Lex’s mirrors, then backs off through technical corners to save his tires. It’s all part of a bigger picture—staying in striking distance until the strategy window opens.

“Box, box,” Felix says, and my stomach jumps. Reid drives into pit lane and to the front of the garage. The pit crew explodes into motion when he pulls in.

It’s over in less than three seconds. Four fresh tires. No mistakes.

He’s back out in P9 but quickly claws his way back to P2 as other drivers pit.

By the final ten laps, the top three are locked in—Lex in first, Reid in second, Nash just behind him.

It’s frustrating watching as Reid tries to get within DRS range, but he just can’t get there.

In the end, that order holds to the checkered flag, and when Reid crosses the line in P2, the garage erupts in cheers, and I think mine might be the loudest of them all.

Some unknown person standing next to me hugs me hard and then I’m slapping high fives, and there are more hugs.

Although I’ve seen Reid hit the podium before, I’ve never been down here in the thick of it.

I can’t imagine ever watching another race from anywhere else but the garage.

A warm hand lands on my shoulder and I look up to see Felix grinning at me.

“He drove a hell of a race,” he says.

I nod, heart still pounding. “Yeah. He really did.”

“Come on,” he says, leading me through the garage. “Let’s go celebrate with him.”

?

The post-race energy is a different kind of high—part frenzy, part celebration.

I follow Felix and the rest of the garage crew toward parc fermé—a secured area where the cars are locked down and inspected to make sure everything’s legal before the results become official.

I stand shoulder to shoulder with members of the pit crew, the engineers and all the other Matterhorn people that helped propel Reid to second place.

The top three drivers pull into their designated spots—Lex first, Reid second, Nash third.

Reid climbs out of his Matterhorn car, pulling off his helmet and balaclava, sweat glistening on his brow as he shakes out his hair. His eyes find mine almost immediately.

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t have to.

He strides toward me, the moment caught by half a dozen cameras, and pulls me into a tight hug. My feet leave the ground, and I bury my face in his shoulder, grinning like an idiot.

“P2,” I whisper against him.

“Next time, P1,” he replies, then pulls back just enough so I’m mesmerized by his eyes as they pin me in place. “I’m going to take a few days off. What do you think about getting some surfing in back home?”

My eyes widen in confusion. He’s just won P2 and he’s talking about vacation. “You want to go surfing?” I ask dumbly.

He grins at me. “Only if you want to.”

“Yes,” I exclaim with a laugh. “But let’s talk about this later, okay?”

Reid grins at me as he steps back and then moves down the line, back-slapping and hugging the entire team.

The next half hour is surreal to watch. Reid disappears into the media scrum, and I stand off to the side as he gives polished answers to questions, his professional charm never slipping even as the promise of champagne and victory fills the air.

The best part, though, is the podium. I watch him take the second step, lift his trophy, and grin at the crowd.

Champagne explodes as all three drivers soak each other with the celebratory spray.

Reid is grinning from ear to ear and my face hurts, so I know I’m matching him pearly white for pearly white.

I’m about to burst with pride. That man belongs up there.

And I suddenly realize—standing here as close to Reid’s racing career as I can get—I want to belong by his side.