Chapter 9
CHAPTER 9
Nash
T he Jeddah Circuit is lit up like a carnival, the massive floodlights bouncing off the black asphalt and making the Red Sea shimmer in the background. The scream of engines fills the night, sizzling through my chest like a second heartbeat. It’s a sight I didn’t think I’d see again—not from anywhere other than a television.
I’m not on the track tonight but will be next week. For now, I’m happy to sit at the pit wall, the nerve center of the race. Located between the track and pit lane, with the team’s garage just on the other side of that, it’s a long desk with a canopy cover and elevated stools bolted into the flooring. Sleek black consoles crammed with monitors display every piece of data you can imagine. Telemetry streams the tire temperatures, sector times, engine performance, and more in real-time. Each screen flickers with lines of code and graphics I can’t comprehend, and the constant chatter on the headsets is almost a language of its own.
Bex sits to my left, her gaze glued to the monitors and jaw tight as she barks orders to Alex, one of the race engineers who relays messages to the drivers. Luca is beside her, arms crossed, his posture deceptively relaxed, but I can see the tension on his face. Hendrik, our senior engineer, is on the far end, hyperfocused and relaying orders back to the garage.
This fifty-lap race has been a mixed bag so far. Matthieu’s running in seventh place at lap twenty-eight and Bernie’s sitting at twelfth. Up front, it’s a hell of a battle. Lex is leading, his Crown Velocity car flying through the streets of Jeddah like it’s on rails. Carlos is right behind him in P2, with Reid pushing his Matterhorn car hard in P3. Reid’s teammate, Gunner James, also an American, is about three seconds behind, and the fifth position is with Landon Russell, racing for my former team, Bauer FI.
I’ve got a headset on, listening to the chatter between Matthieu and Alex. It’s strange, being here but not out there. My body practically hums with the memory of gripping the wheel, the adrenaline rush of pushing a car to its limits. But tonight, I’m an observer, soaking it all in and learning how the team operates.
And right now, it’s a goddamn mess.
“Mattie… box this lap. Box, box,” Alex says into the radio, relaying the universal term among formula racing to enter pit lane. He’s good—steady under pressure. Exactly what a driver needs to hear mid-race. Only one person usually has a driver’s ear and messages have to be relayed at strategic times, such as on a straightaway, as it’s often too dangerous to distract them.
But Matthieu? The guy’s about as steady as a hurricane. “Not smart. Tires still have grip. Staying out,” he snaps back with irritation.
Bex is staring hard at the telemetry on the monitor in front of me. She shakes her head and says to us on the pit wall, “The tires are degrading fast. His lap times are creeping up.”
Matthieu is the type of driver who thinks he’s Superman, but the data doesn’t lie. Part of Bex’s strategy was to use an undercut, a simple but often employed strategy, to propel Matthieu up a few spots. By calling Matthieu in early for fresh tires, he’ll have better grip when he comes back on track and subsequently faster lap times. If the pit crew is able to effectuate a lightning-fast tire change—usually in the two- to three-second range—it can allow your driver to overtake rivals when they pit later on worn rubber. It’s about timing, precision and making the tires work harder when it counts most.
And Matthieu’s refusal is going to blow the opportunity. Bex’s data and experience can pinpoint the best time for him to pit and Matthieu thinks he’s smarter than that.
“Tell him again,” Bex says to Alex, watching his progress on the track as the pit lane exit approaches.
He relays the information. “Box, Mattie. You’ll catch at least three positions on the undercut.”
“And that will put me at tenth. Not risking it,” he growls back.
Alex’s voice cuts through the comms again. “Matthieu, lap times are falling off. We need you to pit. Box, box.”
“No!” Matthieu barks. “Stop asking me. I’m staying out.”
Bex pounds her fist on the desk, her expression a mixture of fury and disbelief. “Unbelievable,” she mutters, more to herself than anyone else. She leans toward Alex. “Tell him again next lap. Emphasize the time loss.”
Alex hesitates, clearly feeling the tension, but he nods. “Got it.”
I step closer to the monitors, watching Matthieu’s sector times drop. He’s losing grip, his car sliding just enough to cost him precious milliseconds in the corners. The cars he’s supposed to be undercutting are pitting now, rejoining with fresh tires and setting blistering lap times.
“This is a disaster,” I murmur.
Bex casts me a glance and shakes her head in disgust at the situation.
I give her an encouraging smile.
As a driver, there were plenty of times I didn’t agree with the race engineers because I had a certain feel for the car. In those instances, I would make my feelings known, but I never disregarded instructions when given to me. Bex’s expression softens slightly, and I see the gratitude in her expression as she turns back to the monitors. I’ve seen Bex angry before—hell, I’ve been on the receiving end of it more times than I can count—but this is different. This isn’t personal. This is professional, and it’s eating at her because she knows she’s right, and her driver’s not listening.
Matthieu flies past the pit entry again, his engine screaming as he barrels into Turn 1. He’s stubborn, arrogant and a menace.
Bex slams her headset down, her frustration boiling over. “We just handed him a chance at the podium, and he threw it away. I can’t work like this, Luca. If the drivers won’t trust the strategy, what’s the point?”
Luca places a hand on her shoulder, his voice calm but firm. “We’ll deal with it after the race. For now, focus on damage control.”
She exhales sharply, nodding as she picks up her headset and puts it back on. Her attention snaps to the monitors, already recalculating, adjusting, finding a way to salvage the situation. It’s impressive, watching her work, even under this kind of pressure.
Matthieu’s lap times continue to drop, and the cars he was supposed to undercut are now pulling away. The window has closed, and with it, our best chance at a strong finish. The frustration is palpable, but there’s nothing more to do now except watch and wait.
Regardless, I can’t help but admire Bex, even as the tension in the air churns my stomach. She’s up against one of the biggest challenges in racing—an overconfident driver who thinks he knows better than the team. I know she’ll have words for Matthieu when this is over, and I expect Luca will back her up.
Although Matthieu’s stubbornness is still a raw wound, Bex shifts her focus. She’s like that—quick to adapt. She leans over the console, scanning the telemetry for Bernie, who’s holding onto P12. He’s been steady all night, nothing spectacular but nothing catastrophic either.
“Tell Bernie to maintain pace for now,” Bex says to Petr Arboldt, a newly acquired race engineer who joined the team just last week. He’s Bernie’s point of contact over the comms.
“All right, Bernie,” Petr radios, his German accent thick but clear. “We’re going to play the long game here. Tires are looking good, but we need to conserve. You’ve got P10 within reach. Maintain pace, and we’ll box for fresh softs later.”
Bernie’s voice crackles through, calm but with a hint of that competitive edge. “Understood. Just let me know when.”
I watch Bex nod slightly, staring intently on the screen. She’s already calculating every possible scenario, every move the cars ahead might make. It’s fascinating to watch, even if the night is unraveling faster than a cheap suit.
But then Bernie throws a wrench in the works.
“Car in front is slow through Sector 2,” he says, the excitement creeping into his tone. “I can take him.”
Bex straightens, and she does something that a chief strategy engineer rarely does. She takes over the comms, her tone sharp but calm. “Not yet, Bernie. Maintain your pace. Their tires are degrading faster than yours. We’ll get them later.”
There’s a pause, and I can almost hear the wheels turning in Bernie’s head. Then, defiance. “I’m going for it.”
“Maintain pace!” Bex snaps, but it’s too late. His car darts out of line, diving into the corner on the inside. The move is aggressive, too aggressive, and my gut clenches as I watch it unfold on the monitor.
The rear end of the car in front slides, and there’s contact. The carbon fiber—renowned for its strength—shreds like paper and the front wing crumples, scattering debris across the track.
“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath, gripping the edge of the console as the replay shows the tangle from multiple angles.
Bernie lets out a string of curses and starts accusing the other driver of coming over on him, but when the officials replay the contact, no doubt they’ll find Bernie at fault.
Bernie’s car limps through the corner, his voice crackling through the radio. “My fucking wing is gone.”
Bex exhales sharply, her lips pressed into a thin line. Petr relays the message to Bernie, his own frustration barely concealed. “Understood. Box this lap.”
We all watch as Bernie crawls into the pit lane, the front wing flapping and bouncing on the asphalt. The pit crew is ready, but the damage is bad. Really bad.
We wait for what seems like hours but is only seconds while the aerodynamics and mechanics crews undertake a quick evaluation. The message is relayed to Hendrik on the other side of Luca, and he shakes his head with a grim expression. “Car’s toast. We’ve got suspension damage from the collision. We have to retire it.”
The words hang in the air and Bex slumps, her shoulders sagging as the weight of the night bears down on her. Her first race has gone horribly, but none of it’s her fault.
Luca doesn’t take it as well. He rips off his headset and slams it onto the console, the sound loud enough to turn a few heads.
“Fucking hell,” he growls, stalking off toward the back of the pit wall, his frustration palpable.
I glance at Bex, who looks like she’s about to fall apart but refuses to show it. Her hands rest on the console, fingers trembling slightly. She’s blaming herself—I know that look all too well.
“You did everything right,” I tell her, leaning close so only she can hear. She turns her head, unsure. “This one’s not on you, Bex. It’s on them. Matthieu ignoring the strategy, Bernie not listening to your call… that’s on them, not you.”
Her lips part, but no words come out. She nods once, sharp and quick, and turns back to the monitors. I see her pulling herself together, the cracks sealing as she compartmentalizes the mess.
This is the best example of the weight Bex has to carry. It’s not just data and strategy—it’s people. Drivers who think they’re invincible. Team principals who demand perfection. Engineers who rely on her to call the right shots.
She sits a little straighter, adjusting her headset and turning her focus back to Matthieu’s car. There’s still a race to finish, and Bex? She doesn’t quit, even when the odds are stacked against her.
“Time to move forward,” she murmurs, and I feel a strange sense of pride in her resilience.
She’s stronger than she gives herself credit for, and maybe—just maybe—she’ll believe it one day.