Page 187 of Knot So Lucky

The garage smells like rubber and fuel and the particular electricity of pre-race preparation. My heart rate is elevated, adrenaline mixing with exhaustion from the morning run to create a state of heightened awareness.

"Alright, Rory," Richard's voice comes through the comm system, crisp with authority. "Three-lap sprint, then pit stop simulation. We're timing everything. Entry speed, position accuracy, crew execution, exit acceleration."

"Copy," I respond, hands tightening on the steering wheel.

"Rory?" Another voice joins the comm—familiar and immediately calming. "It's Roran. Mind if I help with strategy?"

"Hell yeah," I say, grinning inside the helmet. "Could use your brain on this."

"Good," Roran replies, and I can hear the smile in his voice. "Because your next race with the pack is approaching, and I'll help however I can."

The words make my chest tight with emotion I don't have time to process.

"Thanks, bro," I manage. "I really appreciate it. I'll keep doing my best."

"I know you will. Now let's show them what Lane driving looks like."

The lights go green, and I'm off.

Three laps at sprint pace—pushing the car to its limits, testing brake points and apex approaches, feeling out the balance and response characteristics. The prototype handles beautifully, responsive to even minor steering inputs, power delivery smooth and immediate.

Roran's voice guides me through strategy adjustments.

"Late apex on Turn Three, carry more speed through the chicane. You're being too conservative—trust the downforce."

"Brake later into Six. The car can handle it, stop being gentle."

"Perfect line through Eight. Do that again but squeeze another tenth out of the exit acceleration."

His coaching is surgical, precise, identifying micro-improvements that add up to significant lap time gains.

The pit entry comes too fast—I'm still amped from the sprint laps—but I nail the speed limit and positioning, bringing the car to a precise stop in the marked zone.

The crew erupts into motion.

Organized chaos that's really carefully choreographed efficiency. Tires come off and go on with mechanical precision.Fuel systems engage and disengage. Aerodynamic adjustments are made with tools moving too fast to track individually.

Fourteen seconds. That's how long the stop takes.

Fourteen seconds that could be the difference between winning and losing in actual competition.

"Good stop," Richard announces. "Exit when ready."

I punch the accelerator, feeling the car surge forward with renewed grip from fresh tires. The exit is clean, smooth, hitting my marks perfectly.

"Beautiful," Roran says, pride evident in his voice. "That's my sister."

The endearment makes me smile despite the concentration required for driving.

We run the drill five more times, each stop shaving off fractions of seconds as the crew finds their rhythm. By the final run, we're down to twelve-point-three seconds—competitive with the top teams in the sport.

When I finally pull into the garage and kill the engine, my whole body is vibrating with adrenaline and satisfaction.

This is what I'm good at. Not just driving, but the complete integration of driver, car, and crew working as a seamless unit.

Marco helps me out of the car, grinning.

"Damn good driving, Rory. You're going to dominate that race."