Page 32 of Formula Freedom (Race Fever #3)

Reid

F ree practice sessions are where the real work begins on race weekends.

They don’t count toward qualifying or points, but they’re just as critical.

This is where we do last-minute testing—tire compounds, fuel loads, brake performance to name a few.

The first session this morning was decent—clean laps, no traffic, and I got a baseline read on the track conditions after yesterday’s rubbering in.

But now it’s Friday afternoon and the second session matters more.

This is when we run heavy fuel and mock qualifying laps and simulate different race setups.

Temperatures are hotter now and more in line with the actual conditions of tomorrow’s race.

Tire pressure, grip, braking zones—nothing stays constant.

This session will give us the best glimpse of what Sunday might look like.

The cockpit is fucking hot.

Even with the fan pumping air into my helmet and the chill vest under my fire suit, sweat’s already beading at the back of my neck.

The sun’s high, glaring off the tarmac in shimmering waves, and the second free practice session is about to begin.

I’m strapped in, gloved up, visor cracked an inch while I wait for the pit exit to open.

Everything is tight. Controlled. Just the way it has to be for everyone’s safety.

As I have nothing to do but wait, Lara drifts into my head. Last night, just before I turned off my phone, a text came through from her. Good luck tomorrow. I love you.

I stared at it longer than I should’ve. Crafted and deleted about five different replies before I finally just wrote back, Love you too.

I didn’t ask how things were going. I didn’t ask if Lance showed up, or if she was okay, or if she was planning to come back. Because if I asked, I’d obsess. And if I obsess, I’ll lose focus. So I forced myself to leave it there, let it be what it was.

I might not know the outcome of tomorrow’s race but I know that after that, my life with Lara will truly begin, and that has to be enough.

“Thirty seconds,” Felix says in my ear.

“Copy,” I reply, rolling my shoulders to shake off the stiffness. I check my mirrors, flick through the settings on my steering wheel, thumb through the brake bias one notch forward.

Tariq’s voice comes through next. “Fuel set for a six-lap stint. Traffic ahead—Freedom and Titans both stacking. Expect outlap congestion.”

Which basically means I’ve got just enough fuel to run six laps—tight and fast, like a qualifying simulation.

Nothing wasted. And of course, both Freedom and Titans are dumping their drivers onto the track at the same time.

We’re all going to trip over each other on the outlap, weaving through traffic, trying to find clean air before the real push begins.

Classic.

“Understood.”

Pit lane light turns green. The engine’s already rumbling under me—alive, twitchy, waiting for release.

“Go.”

I drop the clutch and ease out of the box. Tires chirp as I cross the white line, and then I’m gone—roaring out of pit lane into the blur of Suzuka.

The first lap is a warm-up. I test the balance, weaving to generate tire temp, lightly dragging the brakes to get heat into the pads.

Sector1 is a blur of precision—five flowing corners back-to-back.

No margin for error, no time to breathe.

The car is neutral but light on rear exit, so I adjust the diff settings on the fly.

Lap two, I push harder—130R’s coming and my pulse kicks.

Flat through seventh gear, throttle pinned. The car grips and I scream around the curve while my guts slam into my rib cage.

The team’s feeding me split times over the radio—Gunner’s two tenths ahead in Sector2, Francesca’s just gone purple through the S ’s.

I don’t give it much time, but I do take a moment to appreciate the fact that this has to be the thrill of a lifetime for the Italian driver. She’s sharp and aggressive, and she’s going to make this season hell for Nash—hell, all of us—and I can’t wait to see it play out.

Many people think rookies aren’t to be worried about, but I think they’re the most dangerous because they have everything to prove. Add on the fact that Francesca is already facing an uphill battle because she’s a woman, and she’s probably the opponent I fear the most this season.

By lap four, I’m in the zone. The noise falls away, the car becomes an extension of me—inputs, response, reaction. It’s not thinking anymore. It’s just instinct and that’s where my true talent lies.

After six laps, Felix calls me in and I peel into pit lane, coasting back to the garage. The moment I stop, the crew swarms—front jack, tire blankets, the hiss of cooling fans. I peel off my gloves and lift my visor.

“Balance is good,” I tell Felix as he leans in. “Slight understeer in Turn9, bit twitchy on throttle exit, but manageable.”

He nods, already scribbling notes on the tablet. “Tariq’s adjusting rear suspension pressure by two clicks. You’ll be able to tell in the next stint.”

I climb out of the car and tug off my helmet. My suit is damp with sweat, and I take the water bottle from the crew member without even looking.

“You were fourth on the sheet,” Tariq says, handing me a printout.

I see that Francesca ran third fastest so far. “Good for you,” I murmur, then add, “But I’m going to kick your ass on Sunday.”

The garage smells like rubber and heat. I lean against the counter, sipping water, heart still racing—not from exhaustion but from adrenaline that hasn’t quite worn off yet. This track. This life. This pulse-pounding stretch between everything falling into line or falling to shit.

Still, even as I settle into debrief mode, a single thread tugs at the back of my mind.

Lara.

I don’t know where she is. I don’t know what she’s doing. But I do know this—I want her here.

And I’ve never wanted anything so badly in my life.

?

After the debrief, I peel off my gloves and grab another water before ducking out of the garage.

Practice two is done—data logged, improvements noted.

I ultimately finished P2 again, two-tenths off Nash, but the balance is better than it was.

Suzuka is still throwing punches, but I’m dodging them cleaner now.

We’ll dial in final tweaks tomorrow during FP3, and then it’s on to qualifying. The real test.

For now, I’ve earned a break. No sim time. No debriefs. Just a few calm hours before the next round of madness begins.

Matterhorn’s hospitality area is quiet at this hour, but a few paddock spaces down, Titans Racing has a private tented setup with paper lanterns, some low benches, and a square fire pit flickering in the center.

It’s mostly dark by now, the sky purpled behind the grandstands.

I catch sight of Carlos lounging on one of the benches, a bottle of Asahi in hand.

Francesca’s beside him, still in her branded gear with her hair pulled into a ponytail.

Nash leans on the edge of the table, rolling a bottle between his palms.

Carlos sees me first. “Oi! Hemsworth, get your broody ass over here. We’re bonding.”

I smirk and make my way over. Francesca gives me a nod, her posture relaxed but alert—the kind of energy that says she’s used to being surrounded by men who think they’re smarter than she is.

“You’re officially in the club now?” I say, dropping onto the bench beside her.

“Apparently,” she says, her Italian accent lilting. “I got the secret handshake and everything.”

Carlos lifts his beer. “We told her she had to win a bar fight or crush someone in a sim before we really let her in.”

“She’s already done both,” I say as I accept a beer from Nash. “Remember Monaco two years ago in FI2?”

Francesca snorts. “That wasn’t a fight. That was a guy who grabbed my ass during a group photo and I threw him into a planter.”

“Cleanest overtake of the season,” Carlos deadpans.

I grin and raise my bottle to her. “Glad you’re here. You earned it. How has the media been so far?”

Nose wrinkled, she groans. “It’s fine except for the fact that every question is about being the first woman or how I ‘plan to compete with the boys.’ Like I wasn’t already doing that.”

“Forget the reporters,” Nash says. “You’ve got the lap times. That’s what matters.”

Francesca tilts her head. “Still, I got asked yesterday if I’d wear makeup under my helmet.”

Carlos chokes on his drink. “Jesus. Did you tell them to fuck off?”

“I told them waterproof mascara,” she replies dryly. “In case I cry with joy when I beat them.”

We all laugh and I’m remembering just how refreshing she was when we were in FI2 together.

It’s good, this moment. Comfortable. The fire crackles between us, throwing warm light across the brushed steel of the pagoda’s supports. For a second, it’s as if the world has slowed down.

And still… I can’t help the flicker of longing in my chest. I wish Lara were here. I wish I could see her face across this fire, watch her roll her eyes at Carlos’s jokes or listen to her ask Francesca questions in that curious way she has.

My hand itches for my phone. But it’s not in my pocket—I’d tossed it in my locker earlier before suiting up and never grabbed it afterward.

Carlos stretches his legs out, balancing his beer on one knee. “You know, Accardi, if you podium in your first race, Nash is going to lose his mind.”

Nash grins, unfazed. “Not worried. She’s fast, but I’ve got seniority.”

Francesca arches a brow, her smile slow and dangerous. “And yet I was faster in the session.”

Carlos lets out a low whistle and tips his bottle toward her. “Savage.”

“I like her,” Nash says with a decided grin. “You’re the wild card this grid needed to wake it up.”

Francesca lifts a brow. “I’m not here to shake things up. I’m here to win.”

“You can do both,” Carlos says, raising his bottle in mock salute. “That’s what makes you great.”

We sip our beers, none of us willing to have more than one with qualifying tomorrow. Laughter rolls easily between us, a rare kind of quiet before the storm.