Chapter 16
CHAPTER 16
Nash
T he Silvercrest track sprawls before me like a coiled serpent, its twists and turns a classic symbol of British motorsport history. It’s one of the oldest circuits, built in 1948, known for being a unique testing ground for drivers and engineers alike. Its balance of high-speed straights and demanding technical corners, along with subtle elevation changes, challenge even the most skilled drivers. It’s a place where precision and bravery collide, and today is my day to show the team—the world—that I can handle it.
Track time to test the cars is limited to make it fair to all teams across the board, so there’s no room today for hesitation or mistakes. This is my one shot before the practice rounds in Melbourne next week.
The early-morning fog has lifted, leaving a sheen of moisture on the tarmac. It’s typical for England and I’ll have to balance pushing the speed boundaries while trying like hell not to slide into the wall. My hands tighten in my gloves, flexing and stretching with a slight tugging sensation from my scars.
This is the moment I’ve been waiting for and dreading in equal measure.
I haven’t been behind the wheel of a formula car at full throttle since the crash. Even thinking about it sends a sharp pang through my chest. But I don’t question if I’m mentally ready for this moment because to let in just a sliver of doubt could be deadly. I’m here to prove I can do this… to the team.
To Bex.
To myself.
Mechanics and engineers bustle around me, fine-tuning the car. I spot Bex by the monitors, her headset on as she reviews the data. She’s been the calm voice in the storm of my nerves lately and seeing her so focused reassures me.
I let myself fall back into memories of last night. Not sure I’ll ever be able to look at that simulator in Guildford the same way after what I did to Bex on it, but fuck… I had one of the strongest orgasms I’ve ever experienced. Maybe it was the setting and the risk of getting caught, but I’m thinking most of it had to do with the woman beneath me. I watch her doing her thing, completely oblivious to me and the rest of the world, and I admire her focus.
Here I am… getting ready to get into a car that can cost upward of twenty million dollars, and I’m thinking of fucking Bex last night.
I shake my head and turn away from her, instead admiring the gleaming vehicle before me. The new team colors of purple and silver with black edging looks amazing. But it’s more than just pretty packaging. The hybrid engine alone can cost ten million dollars, making this sport widely considered the most expensive in the world.
Matthieu’s voice cuts through the hum of the garage like nails on a chalkboard. “Let’s see if the comeback king can handle more than a straight line.”
I glance his way, catching the smirk on his face. It’s tempting to fire back, but I won’t stoop to his level of immaturity. Instead, I let my silence be the answer.
“Don’t mind him,” Bex says as she comes up behind me, her voice low but steady. “Focus on the track. You’ve got this.”
“I got this,” I repeat, warmed that she left her position on the wall to come wish me good luck.
I give her a smile and watch as she walks back to her post.
“You’re up,” Hendrik says, and I nod, pulling my helmet over my head and sliding into the cockpit. The familiar smell of fuel and rubber greets me, and the seat molds to me like a long-lost friend. The team secures me, the belts tightening across my chest, and for a moment, the weight of it all presses down.
“Engine on in five,” comes Alex’s voice through the radio.
The car roars to life beneath me, vibrations humming through my body. It’s a sound that used to feel like home. Now, it’s a challenge—a dare.
I roll out of the garage, the sunlight hitting the sleek nose of the car as I make my way down the pit lane. Bex’s voice comes through the radio, calm and clinical. “Out-lap, Nash. Take your time, check grip levels.”
My first turn around the track is cautious. The car feels taut, responsive and alive under me. I ease into the turns, letting the tires warm up, feeling for the edges of grip.
By the third lap, my confidence builds. I push harder, braking later, carrying more speed through the corners. The car responds beautifully, its rear sticking to the track like glue.
“Nash, your sector times are solid,” Bex’s voice crackles in my ear. “Let’s try a hot lap. DRS is enabled.”
DRS, or drag reduction system, is one of those tools in formula racing that can make or break a race. It’s a mechanism on the rear wing of the car that opens a flap to reduce drag, giving you a speed boost on the straights. The trick is, you can’t just use it whenever you want. There are designated DRS zones on the track, and you have to be within one second of the car ahead of you to activate it. It’s like a slingshot—you hit the button, the flap opens, and you gain those crucial extra kilometers per hour to close the gap or attempt an overtake. It’s a brilliant piece of engineering, but timing is everything, and if you don’t get it right, it can just as easily work against you.
I press the DRS button and the car surges as the rear wing opens. The straightaway stretches out like an invitation, and I don’t hold back. The g-forces slam me into the seat as I hurtle toward Turn 1, braking hard and late, the tires squealing but holding.
“Nice,” Bex says, a hint of warmth in her tone.
I grin behind the visor, the adrenaline coursing through me like a drug. This—this is what I missed.
I focus on Bex’s next set of instructions. “Next lap, try a different line through Turn 8. You’re losing a fraction of a second there.”
Her advice is spot-on. I adjust, and the car flows through the corner like water over smooth stone.
By the time I return to the pit lane, my heart is pounding in the best way. The crew swarms the car, checking tire wear and making adjustments, while I climb out, pulling off my helmet.
Bex approaches, her expression guarded but pleased. “That was solid. Better than I expected for your first run back.”
“High praise,” I say with a smirk, pulling the protective balaclava off. I know she’s tempering her kudos for those standing around listening. She doesn’t want the personal nature of our relationship to bleed into work, but I can’t resist teasing her.
She shakes her head, but there’s a glimmer of amusement on her face. “Don’t get cocky. There’s still room for improvement.”
“Always is,” I reply, accepting the water bottle someone hands me.
Matthieu strolls over, clapping slowly. “Not bad, Sinclair. But let’s see if you can keep it up in Melbourne when the stakes are real.”
“Looking forward to it,” I say evenly, refusing to rise to his bait.
Bex steps in before Matthieu can say more. “Why don’t you focus on your own laps, Matthieu? Nash isn’t your competition.”
The look of annoyance on Matthieu’s face is priceless. He mutters something under his breath before walking off.
“That dude is such a tool,” I say to Bex once he’s out of earshot.
“He’s jealous of you,” she replies knowingly. “You did well out there, Nash. Really well.”
The surety in her voice settles something in me, something that’s been uneasy for a long time. Maybe I can do this. Maybe I’m not just a shadow of who I used to be.
“Couldn’t have done it without you,” I say honestly. I glance around and no one is paying any attention to us. I step in closer and lower my voice. “Especially the way you helped me last night.”
“In the simulator, you mean?” she asks coyly.
“In the simulator, on the simulator.”
Bex flushes, her head ducking to hide her smile. And that feels like a victory all its own.
“I have to get ready for Matthieu’s session,” she says and turns her back on me, hurrying over to the pit wall.
As the crew preps the other car, I glance at the track, my pulse steady, my mind clear. This isn’t just a comeback. It’s a beginning.
And for the first time in a long time, I’m ready to face whatever comes next without any doubt.
?
I sit on a stool next to Bex, sipping water and cooling down from my session as Matthieu takes to the track. Bex is back at the monitors, headset on, her sharp eyes glued to the telemetry. The team around her moves with quiet efficiency, but the tension in the air is thick enough to cut with a knife.
I have my own headset on to listen to the chatter, watching Matthieu’s telemetry data, which looks like a foreign language to me, but Bex’s big brain understands it just fine. I look to another screen that shows the car from multiple camera angles as Matthieu takes off.
His out-lap starts smoothly enough. The guy’s quick—there’s no denying that—but he’s also known for being reckless, always pushing just a little too hard when it’s not necessary.
“Matthieu,” Bex says over the comms, her voice calm but firm. “The rear tires are still warming up. Keep it smooth through Sector 1.”
His response crackles back, dripping with irritation. “I know how to drive. Stop micromanaging.”
I watch her jaw tighten, but she doesn’t bite back. Instead, she adjusts the monitor in front of her and switches to a new data feed. “Your tire temps are low on the left rear. If you push too hard, you’ll lose grip in Turn 4. Ease off a fraction.”
Matthieu doesn’t respond this time, but his lap data speaks for him. He carries too much speed into Turn 4, and the rear end of the car twitches. He catches it, but not without losing a few tenths.
“Perfect example,” I mutter under my breath.
I glance back at Hendrik and Luca, standing off to the side to watch the session. Luca’s arms are crossed, his expression unreadable, while Hendrik’s glance flits between Matthieu on the track and the monitors.
Bex presses on, her tone professional but firmer now. “Matthieu, you’re losing time in Sector 1. Adjust your line through Turn 3 to set up better for Turn 4.”
“Maybe the setup isn’t as perfect as you think,” Matthieu snaps back, thick with disdain.
Bex doesn’t flinch, her voice calm and steady. “The setup is fine. It’s your line that’s the problem. Adjust it.”
There’s a pulse of admiration, watching her hold her ground. Matthieu is like a wild horse that needs breaking, and Bex has the reins firmly in hand. Whether he’ll ever admit it or not, she’s his best shot at consistent success.
Matthieu completes another lap, his sector times improving marginally but still far from what the car is capable of.
“Better,” Bex praises, and it’s genuine, showing just how much she’s his champion if he will let her. “Now focus on your braking into Turn 8. You’re too deep, losing time on exit.”
“You want to drive the car too?” Matthieu quips, his sarcasm disrespectful enough to make Luca drop his head, shaking it with disappointment. Hendrik, on the other hand, smirks faintly, like he’s enjoying the show.
Bex leans closer to the mic, her voice lowering but hardening. “Matthieu, this isn’t about me. It’s about you. Do you want to maximize your lap time or waste everyone’s effort?”
I watch as Hendrik leaves Luca’s side, struts across pit lane and approaches Bex. He taps her on the shoulder and motions for her headset. “I’ll handle Matthieu,” he says, his voice leaving no room for argument.
Her face pales at the insinuation that she can’t do her job. “I’ve got it under control.” Her voice is even, but I can see her anger.
Hendrik merely motions with his hand, indicating he wants her headset. They have a bit of a staring war, but she eventually gives it to him. She turns back to the screen, her lips pressed in a flat line.
Looking over Bex’s shoulder at the numbers, Hendrik relays instructions. “Matthieu… focus on Sector 3—we need clean exits through Turns 11 and 12.”
“Copy,” he replies and executes Hendrik’s commands without a single deviation.
I glance down to Bex’s hands, noting that they’re curled into tight fists.
It’s with complete frustration that she watches Matthieu obediently following Hendrik’s instructions—the same ones that Bex would be relaying—without a single note of disagreement. His lap times get faster and in the end his run is slightly better than mine.
My stomach churns over this blatant lack of respect to Bex. Not just Matthieu, but more so Hendrik for stepping into her shoes, implying to every single person watching that he doesn’t have confidence in her abilities.
When the session is finished, Matthieu pulls into the pit lane with a flourish, tires squealing slightly as he brakes hard in front of the garage. He climbs out of the car, his body language screaming defiance.
I watch as he saunters into the garage, accepting high fives and backslaps from his pit crew.
Hendrik takes off the headset, hands it to Bex without a word and starts to turn away.
“A word, Hendrik?” she asks, keeping her voice steady despite the anger clearly bubbling beneath the surface.
He turns to her, raising an eyebrow. “What is it?”
She inhales deeply and it’s obvious she’s struggling to find the right tone. “Undermining my authority like that doesn’t help the team. If Matthieu has an issue with me, he needs to address it directly, not through you. And you have to let me do my job.”
Hendrik’s expression hardens. “Matthieu responds better to me. And in case you’ve forgotten, I’m the chief engineer for this team. I make the decisions on how things are handled, not you.”
“And what about what’s best for the strategy department?” she counters, her voice rising slightly. “You’re making it harder for me to do my job when you step in like that.”
The German smirks, crossing his arms. “If you don’t like it, go complain to Luca.”
I can practically hear Bex gritting her teeth, keeping an outburst stuffed down deep to avoid escalating a situation. Instead, she asks, “Do you intend to run the strategy for Melbourne?”
“Not at this time, I don’t,” he replies smoothly, with just enough innuendo to infer he’s not above doing it. “Is there anything else you want to discuss?”
“No, that’s it,” she clips out.
When Hendrik is far enough across the space, I tug on her sleeve. “You okay?”
Bex glares at me, but I know her ire is for someone else. “Do I look okay?”
“You look like someone who just got shit on. What Hendrik did was wrong, and we both know it. Hell, everyone watching knows it.”
Rubbing her hands over her face, she huffs out a sigh of irritation. “I don’t know what to do,” she admits.
“You should talk to Luca,” I advise, because what little I’ve seen, she has his respect and he’s the boss of it all.
She shakes her head, hopping off the stool. “I’ll handle it myself. I’m not running to Luca every time Hendrik or Matthieu undermine me.”
“Bex…” But she holds up a hand to stop me.
“I’m fine, Nash.” I’d believe her if I didn’t hear the slight waver in her voice.
I step closer, put my hands on her shoulders. “You’re not fine and it’s okay to admit that. You’re carrying a lot and running into walls. But you’re stronger than they’ll ever know. Don’t let them make you feel like you can’t do this, and more importantly, don’t let them make you feel like you have to do it alone.”
Her wide eyes hold mine for a long moment. “What if I can’t hack it?”
I don’t care who’s watching or what they think of it, but I pull her in and press my lips to her forehead. When I pull back, I tell her a truth I learned long ago. “This sport might be all about the speed, but it’s a long-haul career. This is just one test track run of hundreds you’ll face in your career. Melbourne will be just one race out of hundreds you’ll manage. You’re going to win some and you’re going to lose some. You’re going to have drivers like Matthieu with massive egos, and others who are perfect like me.”
To my relief, Bex barks a laugh. “The point is, you keep your chin up and your backbone steady, no matter what. You would have never been offered this position if you weren’t qualified.”
Bex’s entire face relaxes and I can see gratitude in her expression. “You really mean that?”
“One thing you know about me is I don’t lie. I call it like I see it.”
Her smile is warm, tender. “That you do. Thank you.”
I pull her into a brief hug, my arms tight and offering reassurance. “You’re going to figure this out,” I promise. “And I’ll be cheering you on all the way.”
She nods against my chest, her arms squeezing me briefly before we pull apart.
The session might be over, but the real work—the battles behind the scenes—is just beginning. Bex isn’t just fighting for respect, she’s fighting to prove she belongs here.
And from where I’m standing, she’s going to win.