Page 7 of Formula Freedom (Race Fever #3)

Reid

T he paddock is a world of organized chaos—an ever-moving backstage city where the soul of racing lives. It’s a sprawling network of team motorhomes, hospitality suites, tech hubs and portable garages.

The Melbourne Global Prix is in three days, and I’ll be spending a lot of time here.

The paddock stretches behind the grandstands, every square meter buzzing.

Engineers with headsets, mechanics rolling tool carts, media crews with shoulder-mounted cameras, and the occasional fan lucky enough to score access to it all.

This is one of my favorite tracks on the calendar and of course, I’m biased being that I’m Australian.

The circuit is built around a lake right in the middle of the city and is lined with palm trees and skyline views over the water.

The street circuit gets repurposed into a semi-permanent track every year and I inhale the smell of hot asphalt and machine oil as if it’s potpourri.

The weather is perfect for late March. It’s autumn here down under with warm days and slightly crisp mornings and evenings.

As I stroll past the other teams’ garages, I can’t help but think what a fucking perfect day it is.

I mean, outside of the fact that my brother is a douchebag who hit one of my closest friends in the world.

I head toward Matterhorn’s garage—painted in bold red and white, the team’s Swiss colors clean and unmistakable—but before I get there, I spot Carlos leaning against a fence overlooking Turn10, arms folded, sunglasses on.

“Morning, mate,” I say as I approach.

He turns with a grin, removing his shades, his warm Mexican accent curling around every word—smooth, unhurried. But his smile slips a little. “ Madre mía , Hemsworth. You look like someone who didn’t sleep well last night.”

I shake my head, rubbing the back of my neck. “Didn’t.”

Carlos pushes off the fence and moves my way. “Too much pre-race adrenaline? Or too many grid girls after you last night?”

I bark a short laugh. “Neither. Not even close.”

Carlos frowns. “What’s up, then?”

I glance around. A few crew guys walk past, but no one is close enough to hear. I’ve got another twenty minutes before I have to check in. I nod toward the Matterhorn hospitality suite that is accessed by a staircase from the garage. “Got time for a coffee?”

“Sure thing, amigo.”

We cut through the Matterhorn garage, past crates marked with tire allocations and engineers hunched over laptops. One of the crew members jabs playfully at me and Carlos, “What are you doing, Hemsworth? Bringing the enemy through here.”

“Pipe down,” I call back. “He’s too stupid to understand any of this high-tech stuff.”

Carlos snickers and we jog up the metal staircase, exiting to a short hallway. To the left are executive offices and the right, the hospitality suite.

The doors glide open and we step into a space the complete opposite of the grease-and-grit chaos downstairs.

The room is sleek and modern—glass walls on one side offering panoramic views of the paddock and pit lane below.

A long coffee bar stretches along the back wall, gleaming with polished chrome, where a Matterhorn-branded espresso machine hums quietly.

A pair of chefs in crisp white coats are plating gourmet breakfast bites beside baskets of fresh pastries and fruit.

There are half a dozen tables near the windows, already occupied by team execs and a few VIP guests—sponsors, mostly—clinking glasses and sipping flat whites.

Red-and-white accent lighting glows subtly beneath wall panels, matching the team colors.

Mounted screens stream live track setup footage, rotating through sector maps and car telemetry.

Carlos gives a low whistle as we step in. “Matterhorn really does it up.”

“Swiss efficiency,” I mutter, heading toward the coffee station. “And a shit-ton of sponsor money, same as your Union Jack Sports.”

He chuckles and follows. The mood in here is calm, clinical even—like the war room version of a five-star lounge. We both grab flat whites and find a table in the corner.

I keep it simple to start. “Lara showed up at my hotel last night.”

Carlos’s eyebrows rise. “Wait! What? Lara Lara? Your childhood-best-friend-and-like-a-sister-who’s-engaged-to-your-brother Lara?”

I roll my eyes at him. “Yeah. That one.”

Carlos and I got close last season. His easygoing nature and genuine care for people make him easy to talk to.

In such a high-stakes, competitive world, it’s nice to have someone you can let all that go with.

He’s been that person for me, and he’s met Lara a few times over the last season.

He’s also met my brother, so he knows all the dynamics.

“What did she want?” he asks.

“She left Lance. Packed a bag and ran.”

Carlos immediately sobers. “Ran? That sounds… scary. What happened?”

My teeth grit together so hard, I’m afraid I’ll break a molar. “He hit her.”

His face freezes. The smile’s long gone, and he curses in Spanish.

“Apparently, they’ve been in a bad place for a while. Emotional stuff, control issues, jealousy. She finally confronted him about cheating and he slapped her.”

Carlos swears under his breath. “ ?Carajo! ”

“She showed up at my hotel with a red mark across her cheek and bruises on her arm.”

He runs a hand over his face. “That’s… I don’t even know what to say.”

“She stayed with me last night—”

Carlos’s eyebrows shoot straight up.

“—in the guest bedroom,” I clarify with a chastising look. “We called our parents this morning to tell them what’s happened.”

“How are your parents taking it?”

His question is pointed. Lance is their son too, after all, but Carlos knows that our parents are longstanding friends who co-own a business. He’s met my parents before, but not Lara’s.

“They’re gutted, of course. Furious at Lance but fully supporting Lara.”

Carlos looks away, jaw tight before his eyes come back to me. “No offense, but Lance always had that smugness about him. He didn’t have many friends in FI3 because of that air of superiority. Lara is so nice. I didn’t really understand her being with him.”

“I think he’s been spiraling since losing his FI3 seat.”

I’ve been thinking about that all morning.

Lance had the potential to race in FI but ultimately, he couldn’t hack it.

Our racing careers split down very different roads almost a decade ago.

Lance started first—karting at seven, already obsessed with podiums and being the center of attention.

I followed two years later, just trying to keep up.

But while he chased the straightest line to stardom through open-wheel, I veered into rally at fourteen, which turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to me.

I learned car control in the mud, reaction timing on ice, and how to keep my cool when the road was chaos.

When I finally transitioned to Formula International3, I had an edge.

Lance and I ended up on the same FI3 team for one season—and that’s where everything cracked open.

I excelled. He floundered. I moved up to FI2 and then up to the top tier, Formula International.

Lance didn’t get a contract renewal. He bounced around, never found another seat, and ended up in sponsorship work.

His resentment festered from there, and I think watching me rise while he stalled out—watching me succeed where he failed—it broke something in him.

“I think he’s now suffering from a massive inferiority complex and Lara got the brunt of it.”

Carlos nods slowly. “And now he’s lost her.”

“He should’ve. He doesn’t deserve her.”

“What are you going to do?”

I sigh. “She’s staying with me through the weekend. After that, we’ll figure it out. But she’s not going back to him.”

“Good,” Carlos says. “She’s lucky she’s got you.”

“She’s not lucky,” I reply angrily. “She’s traumatized. And scared. And trying not to implode her family while trying to protect herself.”

He nods slowly. “You’re right. That was the wrong word. But I’m glad she went to someone who gives a shit.”

We fall into a quiet beat and Carlos studies me across the table. I can see curiosity swimming in his brown eyes. “Is she more than a friend to you?”

I jerk at the bold question. “No, she’s with Lance. Or she was with Lance. I would never move in on my brother’s territory.”

Carlos holds up a hand and shakes his head. “No, you wouldn’t do that. I know. But do your feelings for her run deeper than friendship?”

The back of my neck heats up because I do indeed think of her as more than a friend. Always have and always will. “We had something in the past, but it didn’t work out,” I admit.

“Why not?” Carlos asks. “You two are both great people.”

“I wasn’t ready. I was too focused on racing and didn’t think I could give her what she needed and still be competitive.”

“That’s fair,” he says. “This life isn’t easy on relationships.”

I nod, ignoring the tiny ache in the center of my chest that I have felt on more than one occasion when I would let myself wonder what could have been with Lara.

“Maybe it’s your time now,” Carlos suggests.

I look away. “Doesn’t matter. She’s not ready for anything.

And Lance is still out there. He texted her all night, flipping between threats and begging.

My dad’s trying to get in touch with him now to figure out where he is.

I know he’s got paddock passes for this weekend, but I have no clue if he’s here or if he went back to Torquay looking for Lara. ”

Carlos lets out a long breath. “If you need anything… I mean it. You’re not in this alone.”

“Thanks, man. I appreciate it.”

He glances at his watch, then rises from the table. “You know where to find me. Try not to hit anything stupid fast on your practice laps today. I’d hate to have to rescue your sorry ass.”

“You’ll be too busy fixing your understeer.”

He grins and walks off with a wave.

I pull out my phone and check my texts. Nothing from my father so I’m guessing he hasn’t talked to Lance yet.

I shoot off a quick message to Lara. How are you holding up?

I’m immediately rewarded with a response. All good here. Getting some work done. Good luck at practice. I’ll be watching on TV.

Of course she will be. Lara loves racing. She grew up right beside the Hemsworth boys, always cheering us on. Smiling, I head back downstairs for our morning briefing.

The garage bustles with well-coordinated activity and the pressure everyone’s under is palpable.

The bay doors are open, our two red-and-white Formula cars gleaming under the overhead lights.

My name and number are stamped above the bay, next to Gunner’s.

The space smells like fuel and rubber and focus.

“Reid!” someone calls.

It’s Max Riedel, our team principal—short, wiry, Swiss to the bone and always with an anxious expression on his face.

“Good morning,” I reply.

He nods toward the small briefing room at the back of the bay. “Meeting in five. Get settled.”

“On it,” I assure him. As I move past my car, I lovingly run a hand over her aerodynamic body. My voice drops to a whisper as I coax, “Don’t let me down today.”

Inside, the rest of the core team is already gathering. Anita Frey, our quiet performance analyst, is setting up telemetry feeds on a monitor. Tariq Masood, newly promoted to performance strategist, gives me a polite nod. He’s meticulous and scary smart, and I’ve always liked working with him.

Our chief race engineer, Felix Baumann, leans against the wall with a tablet in hand. He’s got silver hair, a stoic face and the kind of dry humor that sneaks up on you.

And at the far end, Sean Byrne, the head mechanic—loud, bearded and always the first to curse when something goes sideways—is hunched over the tire compound schedule.

Gunner slides in next to me just before Max starts the meeting.

“All right,” Max says, looking around. “Practice one kicks off in just under two hours. We’ve got a solid base setup, but I want both of you pushing data on the medium and soft compounds—corner exits especially. This track’s all about traction out of Turn2, Turn10, and Turn13.”

Felix adds, “We’ll test aero adjustments in session two. Keep your feedback detailed. We’re chasing a tenth in sector two.”

Anita brings up a simulation on the screen.

“High probability of a virtual safety car in this race based on previous years. We’ll have pit windows ready, but I want you both mentally flexible.

If we pit early, it’ll be to undercut or jump traffic.

” Her eyes flick back and forth between me and Gunner. “All good?”

“Understood,” I say, loving the special language spoken in this room. It’s a world of science, mathematics and pure gut instinct.

Sean chimes in. “And keep the damn car in one piece. We just got the front wing reset.”

We all laugh but as the meeting continues, we become tight and focused. My mind stays sharp, but the edge of distraction is still there, lurking just beneath.

Because no matter how much I love this—no matter how fast the car is or how good the run will be—part of me is still back in that hotel suite, wondering if Lara’s going to be okay.

Moreover, my thoughts have fixated on something I have no business considering. But being truthful, I’m already wondering… with Lance out of the picture, do I have another shot at something I stupidly left behind?