Page 8 of Formula Freedom (Race Fever #3)

Reid

I t’s only practice, but you wouldn’t know it from how hard my heart’s beating.

First practice sessions are where you lay the groundwork for the whole race weekend.

No points, no podiums—just data. Testing tire compounds, dialing in aero settings, finding the limits without stepping over them.

It’s about learning the track in real-time conditions, determining where the tire grip is strongest, what bumps are waiting to make your life hell.

The engineers watch everything—steering angles, brake pressures, throttle traces—and they’ll spend the next two days crunching that information down to the millisecond, figuring out where we’re fast and where we’re bleeding time. The statistical analysis that goes into this sport is unmatched.

Each session runs for about an hour. There’s no lap limit—you can go out as much as you want—but tire sets are restricted, so you’ve got to be smart about how and when you run. You go out, log a few laps, come back in, the engineers make adjustments. Then you do it all over again.

We’re all out there at the same time—twenty cars jostling for clean air, even though none of us are racing. Some are doing long runs on heavy fuel, testing tire degradation. Others, like me, are hunting lap time—trying different setups, checking balance in high-speed corners.

You’ve got to stay sharp. Even in practice, one mistake can ruin your weekend—or someone else’s. Every corner, every sector, every run out of pit lane is a piece of the puzzle we’re trying to solve before Sunday’s race.

I’m harnessed into my car and one of the mechanics slots the external starter into the back. The engine barks to life, vibrating up through the seat and into my chest. In a few moments, I’ll be waved out onto pit lane.

Admittedly, I’m having a hard time keeping my head in the game. I can’t stop thinking about what Lance did to Lara and how the next few hours, days, weeks might unfold.

I called Lara about an hour ago, before pulling on my race suit. Her voice was soft but steady. She said Lance had been texting again—pleading this time, not threatening. Promises of change. Apologies laced with excuses, and that concerned me. Would Lara listen to that? Would she forgive him?

“I wish he’d just leave me alone,” she’d said, and that relieved me.

No, she’s not going back to him. I know Lara and she’s nobody’s punching bag. She’d never give him a second chance.

Dad called me too with an update. He still hasn’t been able to get Lance to pick up.

Left a voicemail spelling it all out—that the family knows what happened and that Lance needs to stay away from Lara.

Dad even swung by their apartment in Torquay, but Lance wasn’t there, which probably means he’s still here in Melbourne—maybe even at the track right now.

He has a job to do after all, and he has an all-access pass to the paddock.

I shove those thoughts aside, castigating myself. Fucking focus, Hemsworth. Lara’s safe for now and you need to do your job.

The cockpit is tight, forming around my body. Felix Baumann’s voice crackles over the radio as I click on my helmet mic.

“Radio check, Reid.”

“Copy,” I reply.

“All right, mate. First run will be on the mediums. Plan A. Push sectors two and three. Let’s see where we’re sitting.”

“Copy.”

The car rolls forward, guided by the team of mechanics with hand signals until I’m released into the pit lane. I ease down the blue lane, checking my mirrors, the engine vibrating up through my spine. It’s a visceral thing—this beast under me—alive, straining, waiting to be unleashed.

It’s the best bloody sensation in the entire world.

At the end of the pit lane, the light turns green, and I punch it.

The track is fast, flowing corners broken up by heavy braking zones and tight technical sections.

Palm trees whip past in a blur and I know the lake is shimmering off to my left, but I’m not paying attention to it.

Fans are already packed into the grandstands even for practice, flags waving, cameras flashing.

The first few laps are warm-up. Get the tires and brakes up to temperature. Test out the grip.

Felix keeps a steady stream of info in my ear.

“Track temp twenty-eight degrees.”

“Wind crosshead through Sector1.”

“Purple Sector1 for Nash Sinclair. He’s on the softs.”

I smirk inside my helmet. Of course Nash is already lighting it up. He’s back in Formula racing and he’s on a mission to show the world he hasn’t lost any of his drive or talent.

I’m aiming for purple though, and I intend to get it.

In racing, everything’s timed to the millisecond.

The track’s broken into three sectors, and you get live updates every time you pass through one.

If you set the fastest time out of anyone, your sector lights up purple.

If it’s your personal best but not the fastest overall, it shows green.

Anything slower than your best comes up yellow.

Purple’s what you’re chasing every lap—you want to see nothing but purple across your dash.

I start to push harder, carving clean lines through the corners, balancing the throttle, feathering the brake. I’ve done hundreds of laps of this track in the simulator, but it still hits different when you’re on it—when you’re hunting tenths of a second at 300 kilometers an hour.

At Turn10, I nail the exit, carrying speed onto the backstraight.

“Nice, nice. Good rotation there,” Felix says.

“Thanks, mate,” I reply, which is probably two words too many. Contrary to the way we sound on TV, it’s hard as fuck to talk when you’re rocketing through g-forces.

I chase down another driver—S?ren Christensen, the Danish rookie from Freedom Dynamics. He’s fast but reckless, and I time it perfectly, slipstream past him on the straight, and dive down the inside into Turn11.

“Great move. Clear track ahead.”

I don’t bother responding, my eyes cutting to the digital dash on my steering wheel. Purple sector two. Green sector three. I’m piecing together a good lap.

As I come across the line, Felix’s voice cracks through again. “P2. One-tenth behind Nash.”

I pump the brakes gently into Turn1, smiling to myself. The rest of the session blurs by—pushing, cooling down, pitting for small setup changes, then pushing again. Drivers’ names flash across the monitors in the garages, all familiar, all gunning for the top. It’s a tight field this year.

But when the checkered flag waves at the end of the session, it’s Nash Sinclair on top.

And me, just a breath behind.

When I roll back into the garage, the crew rushes out, pushing me back into the stall. As soon as I kill the engine, the cockpit fills with claps and slaps to my helmet as I try to undo my harness. I disconnect the steering wheel, hand it to one of the mechanics and climb out.

“Well done, mate,” Felix says, a wide grin splitting his face. “Good base. Very good.”

I peel off my helmet, the heat rushing out from inside, and yank off the balaclava in one motion, raking a hand through my sweat-dampened hair.

The garage buzzes around me, but all I can think about is getting a cold drink and some space to breathe.

Sean Byrne slaps me on the back, grinning. Gunner gives me a quick fist bump.

And that’s when I see him.

Standing just outside the Matterhorn garage.

Lance. He’s dressed in pressed chinos, a short-sleeved polo and a designer watch on his wrist. His blond hair is perfectly styled, his summer tan still deep and rich.

Every instinct in my body goes hot. He’s staring right at me, expression blank and unreadable. I toss my gloves aside and storm across the tarmac toward him.

“Reid, mate,” Carlos says, appearing out of nowhere and grabbing my forearm. I twist my neck to look at him. “You play it cool. People are watching.”

“Understood,” I grit out and he releases me.

Lance stands statue-still as I approach, opening his mouth to say something, but I don’t want to hear it. I grab two fistfuls of his shirt, slamming him back against the side of a utility van hard enough to make it rattle. “What the fuck are you doing here?” I hiss.

His eyes widen and he tries to dislodge my hands. “What the fuck, Reid? I need to talk to you about Lara.”

“Give me one reason I don’t lay you out right now. You fucking hit her.”

His eyes go wide. “How… how did you know?”

“It doesn’t matter, but now everyone knows, and you have a lot to answer for.”

“I just—” He stammers. “I fucked up, okay? I know that. I would never really hurt her, Reid. You’ve got to believe me.”

“You left your handprint on her face,” I snarl. “Bruises on her arm. You sent her threatening texts.”

“That was—” He swallows. “It got out of hand. She was provoking me. You know how Lara can be.”

I almost go blind with rage and give him a hard shake. “Don’t you dare try to make this her fault. You were fucking cheating on her, you lowlife piece of shit.”

“She’s stubborn. She pushes. I just… I lost my temper. It wasn’t supposed to happen.”

I can’t believe he’s still trying to put this off on her. I can’t fucking stand someone who doesn’t take responsibility for their actions.

“You’re done, Lance,” I growl. “You go near her again, and I swear to God you’ll regret it.”

The change that comes over Lance could be frightening to some. I bet Lara has seen this and been scared. Face hardening, eyes cold and calculating, and a slight sneer twisting his face.

He knocks my hands away from his chest and leans toward me. “You’re just pissed because I got her and you didn’t.”

That stuns me for half a second, but I brush it off as ludicrous. I even open my mouth to deny it, but he rolls right over me with a smirk. “Yeah. Thought I didn’t know? You’ve been carrying a torch for her since we were kids. Always second best to me, little brother.”

I rear back, fist tightening. My arm even starts to swing, prepared to launch straight into that nose that matches mine. I even anticipate the crunch of bone, the satisfying spurt of blood, but then Carlos appears, stepping between us and clapping a firm hand on my chest.

“Not here, hermano ,” he says low. “People are watching and he’s not worth it.”

I breathe hard, fists still clenched, but I let Carlos ease me back a step. I glance around, and sure as shit, several people have stopped in their tracks, watching the brotherly drama play out.

Lance straightens his shirt, giving me a cocky, hollow grin. “See you around, little brother.”

He saunters off like he’s won something, and maybe he did. He wasn’t intimidated by my threats in the least, which means Lara will still be in his sights.

Carlos shakes his head beside me. “Guy’s a bloody mess.”

“Yeah,” I mutter, watching Lance disappear into the crowd.

My friend’s strong hands go to my shoulders, forcing me to turn to him.

Carlos’s expression is grim. “You need to snap out of this. You have another practice session in a few hours. You have qualifying tomorrow and a race on Sunday. You’re one of the fastest right now, but to keep that, you have got to get your head on straight.

You cannot afford to let this interfere with your concentration. ”

I blow out my frustration, rake my fingers through my hair.

He’s right… I have a job to do. I have a career that I love more than anything, and I cannot let this thing with Lance and Lara derail me.

As much as I vow to protect Lara from my brother, and as much as I want to make my brother suffer, those things have to give way to something more important right now.