Chapter 30
JACK
“Midnight!” Thomas’s voice cuts through. He’s standing a few feet away, phone in hand, looking impatient. “We need to move.”
I force myself to turn away from the railing and follow him toward the garage even though every instinct is screaming at me to go find her instead.
I need to compartmentalize. Push Lark and that song and everything I’m feeling into a box and lock it down.
Focus on what’s directly in front of me.
Seventeen cars sit between me and the front of the grid.
Seventeen obstacles between me and proving I deserve to be back in this seat, that eighteen months on the sidelines didn’t dull my edge.
As I walk toward the garage, I can’t stop hearing her voice.
Can’t stop thinking about those lyrics she wrote, about the fact that she’s here at a Formula One race in Vegas when I had no idea she’d be anywhere near this circuit.
Maybe the universe is giving me another shot at this.
Maybe I haven’t fucked it up beyond all repair.
First I’m going to win this race and get my seat back.
Then I’m getting my girl back.
I climb into the car and everything else fades away—the roar of the crowd, the blare of the announcers, every thought except the one right in front of me. The mechanics strap me in and the steering wheel clicks into place. This is where I belong. This is where everything makes sense.
The Strip Circuit is a spectacle under the lights.
Every casino, every building lit up like they’re competing for attention.
The track snakes through it all, barriers close on both sides, unforgiving.
Every overtake on this track is a high-risk gamble.
Seventeen cars ahead of me. Seventeen obstacles between me and proving I deserve to be here.
I can see Luca up in P4, his scarlet car vibrant under the lights. He’s been on podiums lately, proving this car is capable of winning. Now I need to prove I’m capable of driving it there from the back of the field.
The formation lap begins and we all file out, warming tires and brakes, testing temperatures. The car feels good underneath me. Responsive. Alive. We form back up on the grid. The countdown begins on the overhead lights.
Five red lights appear one by one.
My hands tighten on the wheel. Every muscle coiled. Every sense is razor-focused.
The lights go out.
Go.
The g-force slams me back into my seat as twenty engines roar to life around me. I nail the start, the car launching forward like it’s been shot from a cannon. Two cars ahead hesitate and I’m already threading the needle between them, claiming the inside line into Turn 1.
This is what I needed. This clarity. This absolute focus where nothing exists except me and the machine and the track ahead.
The hum of the engine behind my head is a physical thing, vibrating through my chest, through my bones.
The tachometer climbs and climbs as I push through the gears, the speed building until everything else becomes a blur of light and sound.
I’m one with the car. Every input translates perfectly—steering, braking, throttle. It responds like an extension of my body, doing exactly what I ask before I even finish the thought.
P17 already. Then P16 as I out-brake someone into Turn 3.
Lap after lap, I pick them off. The Haas on lap 3 with DRS down the main straight. An Alpine that makes a mistake in Turn 7 on lap 5, running wide and giving me the inside line. A Williams that I out-brake into the hairpin on lap 8, taking the position before they even know I’m there.
P14. P13. P12. P11.
“Brilliant driving, Jack,” Marco says through the radio. “One more for points. This is wild, mate. Keep it up.”
One more car between me and the points. But I don’t want P10. I want more. Fuck finishing in the points. I want the podium. I want to win.
I push. Every corner on the absolute edge. Every straight with the throttle pinned. The car is responding perfectly, every adjustment I’ve made clicking into place.
Lap after lap, I keep climbing. Everything I’ve learned in all my years in Formula One, in eighteen months of watching from the sidelines, all the simulator work, all the training—it’s all clicking right now. Every instinct sharp. Every decision instant.
On lap 28, I catch up to Luca. He’s fighting his brakes, I can see it in the way he’s braking early into corners. I get a run on him out of Turn 9 and pull alongside down the straight.
“Sorry, amico,” I mutter as I take the inside line and pass him cleanly.
P6.
I keep pushing. On lap 35, the car in P5 makes a mistake in Turn 14, runs wide over the curb. I’m there immediately, diving to the inside, taking the position before he can recover.
P5. Then P4 as someone ahead pits for tires.
“Jack, you’re P4,” Marco says, disbelief clear in his voice. “The Mercedes is leading. Two cars between you. Be careful with your tires.”
Careful isn’t in my vocabulary right now.
The cars ahead pit and suddenly I’m P2. The Mercedes is right there in front of me, close enough I can see every twitch of his rear wing.
Five laps to go. Four laps. Three.
I’m faster. I can see him struggling with grip in the high-speed corners, the rear of his car sliding slightly. My tires are newer. I have the advantage.
Two laps to go.
The long straight approaches and I get a perfect exit out of Turn 10. DRS opens up and I pull alongside him, the engines screaming as we hurtle toward Turn 11 side by side. The braking zone approaches fast. Too fast.
I brake later than I should, later than is smart, riding the absolute edge of what’s physically possible. The Mercedes has to back out or we both crash into the barriers.
He backs out.
I’m ahead.
P1.
“FUCK YES!” Marco shouts over the radio. “P1, Jack! One lap to go! Bring it home!”
The final lap is the longest of my life.
Every corner precise. Every input perfect.
No mistakes. No giving the Mercedes a chance to come back at me.
I can hear the roar of the crowd even over my engine, this wall of sound that rises as I pass each grandstand.
It burns through me, this electric energy that makes every nerve ending feel alive.
I cross the finish line and the emotion hits me like a physical force, crashing over me in waves.
I won. From P18 to P1. I fucking won.
“THAT’S P1!” Marco’s screaming. “THAT’S A WIN! INCREDIBLE DRIVE, JACK! INCREDIBLE!”
The team principal comes on the radio, his voice breaking. “Jack! Magnificent! Absolutely magnificent! Welcome back!”
I’m shouting into my helmet, adrenaline and relief and pure fucking joy coursing through every cell in my body.
I pump my fist as I do the cool-down lap, the crowd in the grandstands on their feet, fireworks exploding over the Strip in bursts of red and gold.
The cheers are deafening even through my helmet, thousands of people losing their minds.
I pull into parc fermé and kill the engine. The sounds of celebration hit immediately. Mechanics running toward me, cameras flashing everywhere, the crowd roaring so loud it’s like standing inside thunder.
I pull myself out of the car and stand on it, raising my fists to the crowd. The team swarms me, everyone screaming and hugging and clapping me on the back.
Thomas appears through the crowd, grinning so wide his face might split. “You just fucking landed your seat!” he yells over the noise. “That was incredible! Ferrari can’t say no to that drive! Jack, that was the drive of a lifetime!”
I’m grinning back, still trying to process what just happened. “I told you I could do it.”
“Yeah you did!” Thomas pulls me into a hug, then pushes me toward the podium.
Luca appears, pulling me into a back-slapping hug. “Bravo, amico! Fantastico! That was incredible!”
The crowd is screaming, fireworks bursting overhead in cascade after cascade of light and color.
This is everything I’ve worked for. Everything I’ve sacrificed for. The vindication, the proof that I’m still one of the best drivers in the world, that eighteen months on the sidelines didn’t dull my edge.
But as I stand there soaked in champagne with a trophy in my hands and the crowd cheering, there’s one face that won’t leave my mind.
Lark’s.
She’s somewhere in this circuit. She performed tonight. She sang that song.
And I need to find her.