Chapter 1 #2
The garage smells like rubber and people move in a well-choreographed dance.
Mechanics do their thing—adjusting, checking, tightening.
Engineers peer at telemetry on data screens.
The strategists huddle, discussing contingencies.
It’s incredible how many people are on this team and how each role is completely necessary for our success.
I cross the threshold and Bex Toliver, our chief race strategy engineer, is the first to meet my eye. She breaks into a grin. “You ready to knock the paddock on its ass?”
I smirk. “Wasn’t planning to ease into it.”
Bex hasn’t been with this team long, but she’s already made her presence known.
Like me, she came up through FI2, where she earned a reputation for being calm under pressure and impossible to intimidate, even in the roughest pit lanes.
When Brienne Norcross overhauled the team mid-season, Bex’s hire was a bold move that raised more than a few eyebrows given her lack of FI experience.
But no one questions her now.
Normally, a chief strategy engineer oversees the bigger picture—race strategy, data management, team coordination.
They don’t usually handle one-on-one driver comms. But for my debut, Bex made it clear she’d be the one on my radio.
She said it was important to her and I know this has everything to do with me being a woman.
We’re both breaking new ground and she wants to be in the trenches with me.
She strides over, all quick confidence and utility boots, tablet in hand. “Track temps are holding, so as of now, we’re going soft tires for all three runs unless the skies do something stupid.”
“Copy,” I say. While I might have input on any strategy decisions, the final call is up to Bex. Good thing I trust her implicitly.
“We adjusted the front wing angle based on your feedback from yesterday’s free practice. I think you’ll notice less understeer into the Degner turns.”
“Awesome.”
The Degner turns are a brutal pair of corners—two sharp, back-to-back right-handers. The first one hits fast and if your line’s off by even a hair, the second will chew you up and spit you out. There’s no room for hesitation—brake too late and you’re gone, brake too early and you’re eating gravel.
“Also,” she adds, lowering her voice as she glances at her tablet, “you’re about to make history, so maybe try to have a little fun.”
A sound escapes me—half laugh, half scoff. “Right. I’ll do that while threading through Sector 1 at 280 kph.”
Bex just winks and steps aside as our team principal, Lorenzo Moretti, appears. Tall, broad-shouldered, always in a perfectly ironed shirt with the Titans’ logo on the breast pocket. He’s the kind of man who doesn’t need to shout because his words are so revered.
“Francesca,” he says, nodding once. “No pressure from us. Run your laps, do what you’ve trained for. You’re here because you earned it.”
I nod. “Thank you. I won’t let you down.”
Behind him, Zach Lauren—our new chief engineer—offers a two-finger salute and a dry, “Let’s give ’em something to talk about.”
Zach came aboard at the same time as I did, after Brienne fired Hendrik Voss.
While I only heard rumors, apparently, he was quite the misogynist and made Bex’s life a living hell.
I’m glad I don’t have to put up with that bullshit.
Zach oversees every layer of car performance across both garages, perhaps one of the most stressful jobs on the team.
I swear, every time I climb into the car, the precision of a dozen engineering decisions stitched into every panel, every bolt, is palpable.
I spot Nash Sinclair, the team’s first driver, leaning against the pit wall divider, arms crossed over his chest. When our eyes meet, he pushes off the barrier and steps closer. “You got this. Just do what you do best.”
Nash is one of the most respected drivers on the grid and also happens to be dating Bex. He drives with a steady hand that doesn’t shake under pressure.
Three years ago, he was involved in a crash that left his car in flames. Another driver didn’t survive and Nash barely did—burns, surgeries, months in recovery. He walked away from FI after that, went to Open Wheel and tried to outrun his demons.
People thought he’d retire and frankly, most would have. But here he is, faster than ever, now sitting at the front of the grid.
“Thanks for the faith,” I say with a smile. “Good luck to you.”
We bump fists and then it’s game on.
I climb into the cockpit and harness myself in. One of the engineers gives it a tug. “Harness secure. We’re sending you out soon and it’s pretty open, so take advantage of the clean air.”
Just the asphalt and a shot at a clean flyer. “Copy.” My gloved hands wrap around the grips of my steering wheel, fingers checking the paddles, thumb testing radio and mode toggles.
“Telemetry is green,” I hear Zach say over comms. “ERS and fuel mode set. Tire blankets coming off.”
In other words, the car’s systems are all checked and good to go for my first lap out.
ERS—my energy recovery system—is fully charged, fuel settings are optimized for a short, fast run, and once the tire blankets come off, I’ve got maybe thirty seconds to get rolling before the tires cool down. This lap has to count.
Outside, the team peels away the heaters. A tech plugs in the external starter and with a gruff cough, the engine kicks, rising to an angry idle. The wheel vibrates and the whole chassis pulses under my seat.
“All right,” Bex says. “Release when ready.”
I flick the clutch paddle, feel the brakes bite, and pull out into pit lane.
I trundle toward the exit, waiting for the green, and my pulse hammers in my veins.
Once released, I bury the throttle, the engine howls and I surge forward.
The pit wall blurs past, grandstands rise ahead, and then the first corner barrels toward me.
I hit Turn 1 clean and my Sector 1 time flashes purple—fastest of the session.
“Nice work,” Bex’s voice filters in, not excited, but calm and measured. “Keep pushing.”
I do. Through the turns, chicanes… faster than instinct should allow.
The car hums beneath me and everything I ask of it is returned in razor-sharp performance.
Into Degner, the first one fast, the second curve tighter.
I brake later than I ever would’ve dared in FI2, and the car sticks like it’s wired to the track.
Adrenaline surges, my confidence mounting.
Under the bridge now and everything feels good. It’s as if I’m part of the car, driving faster than I ever have before. I do this knowing that I must have better focus. Mistakes can be deadly.
I throttle out of a hairpin and let the car pull wide, ready to kick it up another notch.
But just ahead, a car drifts into my line and I recognize it as Ronan Barnes. He’s on an outlap and has to yield to me.
Except he doesn’t.
“Car ahead not moving!” I snap into the comm.
“He’s being shown blue flags,” Bex replies, clipped. “Hold pace if you can. You’re faster.”
Blue flags mean move. If you’re not on a timed lap and someone behind you is, you yield—simple as that. It’s not just etiquette, it’s a rule. But sometimes egos get in the way, and the flag might as well be invisible. No one has a bigger ego in FI than Ronan Barnes.
I close the gap but he’s too close, causing me to dip a tire into the grass to avoid kissing his gearbox. I throw the car wide, my entire rhythm taking a nosedive. My lap time is toast.
“Box, box,” Bex says, and I hear the frustration humming in her tone. “Abort the lap.”
As I swing left into pit entry, I mutter, “Unbelievable. Tell me you’re reporting that.”
“Already noted by Race Control,” Bex says. “We’ll reset and go again.”
Ronan Barnes.
Too gorgeous for his own good and the cocky attitude to match. I’ve known him for years—karting, FI3, FI2. Always the same swagger, the same smirk beneath dazzling blue eyes. He’s brilliant, fast and never plays nice.
He comes from serious money—the kind that shows up in tailored suits and headlines the tabloids. His reputation off-track is the cliched playboy, but on the track he’s a calculated tactician. The quality he has in both places—cold as ice.
And just now? He blocked me. On purpose or not, I don’t care. I’m not letting it slide.
Not today.
I coast into the garage, heart pounding.
And I’m already thinking about what I’ll say to him when I see him.