Chapter 4
Francesca
This is it.
The moment I’ve been waiting for since I was seven years old.
The car growls beneath me, alive with controlled fury as I wind through the final section of the formation lap.
The engine tone changes with each subtle shift of my throttle, and the power vibrates through the carbon shell and into my spine.
The Suzuka Circuit curves ahead like a ribbon of gray silk draped across manicured grass.
Every corner is etched into my memory. Every straight will dare me to take more.
My pulse thuds in my ears, faster than it should be, a perfect storm of nerves and adrenaline.
My gloves are tight, snug against my fingers as they flick the wheel toggles.
The crowd is a blur of color beyond the fencing, flags waving, noise rising like a collective storm that stretches across the circuit.
It’s deafening and distant all at once, like I’m underwater and the world above is erupting.
I spy a pocket of purple and white Titans’ fans standing out like a beacon against the sea of color. They’re on their feet, waving, shouting… for me, I realize. And Nash too.
A lump rises unexpectedly in my throat, and a strange, sudden warmth in my blooms within me. It’s not pride, but perhaps closer to awe.
They believe I belong here and now I have to prove them right.
Bex’s voice crackles over comms. “Tire temps in optimal window. Front left a little hot—bring it back down with a gentle scrub before the line.”
“Copy,” I say, rolling the car through the last turn and onto the start-finish straight.
The cars stagger into their slots ahead.
I follow Carlos through the left side of the grid, weaving side to side to keep the heat alive in the tires, the front grip responding with the delicious bite that only happens on softs when they’re just right.
P7… my final position after qualifying, but it’s not where I plan to finish.
I swing into my box and stop on the mark, perfectly aligned. I can see the red LED lights overhead out of the top of my visor. My breathing slows deliberately, one beat at a time.
Inhale. Hold. Exhale.
Bex’s instructions are steady. “Clutch setting two. Torque map is set. ERS full deploy on launch.”
“Got it.”
“Francesca,” she adds, quieter now, “go do what you do.”
I watch as the five red lights illuminate above the grid.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Each one clicks on with metronome precision, suspended in the silence.
My fingers tense on the clutch paddle and the taut line between stillness and velocity settles over me. My heartbeat pounds.
This is it. Not just the start of a race, but the race. The one I’ve dreamed about since the first time I sat in a kart. Back then I didn’t know what oversteer meant, but I knew that whatever this was—I wanted it.
I whisper it inside my helmet, a breath only I can hear. Lights out and away we go.
Then all the lights extinguish and I release everything.
I dump the clutch and the car explodes forward.
The rear tires bite into the tarmac with a snarl, engine screaming as I shift into second before we even reach the fifty-meter board.
Nash jumps out cleanly from pole. Lex pulls hard left.
Carlos spins his wheels—slow off the mark.
I dart toward the inside, box out the Bauer car and claim his space before the entry to Turn 1.
P6.
The car sticks beautifully through the right-hander. The steering is responsive—like it knows what I want before I do. I feather the throttle and carry more speed into Turn 2.
I fly into the S-curves, a flow of rapid left-right switchbacks.
It’s a dance of precision and nerve, and I’m in the zone.
The g-forces punch through my body as I whip the car back and forth, tires skimming the curbing.
My stomach tightens against the belts with each snap of direction.
My neck screams under the load, but I don’t back off.
I can’t.
Not now, because I’m on the hunt.
I’m closing in on Stefan Wagner’s Rossa Corsa GTX. His red machine flashes ahead and I track his line, searching for weak spots.
“Purple Sector 1,” Bex crackles through the comm. Her tone is calm but thrilled over the news.
Fastest of anyone in that sector.
“Gap to Wagner, point-seven.”
I narrow my focus as the circuit unwinds into Degner, Wagner just a few car lengths up. And beyond him—the black-and-green livery of Ronan Barnes, sitting pretty at P4.
He’s my true target.
Barnes is two car lengths ahead of Wagner, slicing through the drag with surgical precision. I hate how smooth he looks… like he’s gliding when the rest of us are clawing.
I stay tight through the first curve, my car dancing slightly when I brake. I kiss the apex in the second curve, managing to keep the throttle pinned. A tease of gravel at the edge of the track causes my front end to wash out slightly, which I correct, but I can feel the loss of momentum.
“Hold your line,” Bex calls. “Wagner’s faster in Sector 2. Stick close and we’ll find the timing.”
“Copy,” I say.
“Temps still solid. You’re clean.”
Conversation during the race is kept to a minimum. Information is passed onto me, which I digest and use as necessary. I conserve my words because they take energy and focus.
Down the back straight, my car flattens out and I slam through the gears.
I keep an eye on the DRS board flashing green as we dive into the 130R—one of the most dangerous curves in the sport.
The g-forces are maxed at five times my body weight and I feel like my guts are getting sucked out through my ribs.
I cannot afford a mistake, and this is where I funnel all my instinct and trust in my team to get me out alive.
My wrists ache as I fight the feedback in the wheel, slingshotting myself out of the curve and no closer to Wagner ahead of me.
And so it goes, another lap.
Another shot.
My race is a back-and-forth of me tightening the gap and then losing it. Frustration, then elation, back to frustration.
That’s the nature of racing.
“We’re going to have you box this lap,” Bex cuts in over my comms. “Going to undercut.”
“Copy,” I say and seconds later, I’m pulling into the pit entry.
I press the limiter button on my wheel, which automatically keeps my speed to only 80 kph as a safety mechanism. The garage looms ahead, purple and gray suits moving with mechanical grace.
I hit the marks with precision, a maneuver I’ve practiced hundreds of times.
Tires off.
Tires on.
“Go, go, go!”
I tear out of the box with cold mediums and a target in sight. Now we wait to see if the gamble pays off.
If Wagner stays out one lap too long, I can gain the lead over him and that puts me one step closer to Barnes. I overtake Barnes and I’m on the podium.
It’s almost too much for a rookie to hope for in her debut race, but I’m aiming high.
?
The noise is muted from here, buffered by the hospitality trailers and the scaffolding of temporary awnings. I lean against the metal barricade at the paddock’s edge. I rub at the side of my face, still indented from my helmet’s chin straps.
Up on the platform above the garages, the podium ceremony blares from speakers and screens. I don’t need a close-up to know what’s happening. Nash stands center, victorious and basking in the win he deserves. He was flawless today—fast, calm, ruthless.
He drove like a world champion and is positioning Titans Racing to win it all at the end of the season.
Crown Velocity always finds a way to the front and Lex Hamilton took second.
And after him, Ronan Barnes came in third, just edging Reid Hemsworth out in the last lap.
He shouldn’t have made it there, not with that tire call. Not with that sector time. Not with that risk into 130R.
But he did.
He took the outside line with a half-second window and made it stick, flying by Hemsworth in a way that had everyone’s hearts in their throats.
Or so I’ve been told.
I was too far back to see any of it.
I shift my weight, thumb worrying a seam in the palm of my glove.
P13.
That’s what they’ll write next to my name. A completely forgettable number and completely out of the points.
There was no major mistake that had me dropping a total of six places from my start. Just a slow bleed of everything I should’ve done better. After that first lap, maybe I was too careful. Maybe I didn’t push hard enough through traffic. All I know is that when it counted most, I couldn’t close.
Not a failure. Just… not good enough.
Christ, it burns in a way I’ve never felt. What in the hell ever made me think I could compete at this level?
“Hey.” Carlos’s voice cuts through my thoughts, calm and familiar.
I turn to find him standing there, suit half-unzipped and a bottle of water in hand. His hair is damp at the temples, face flushed from the helmet.
“Didn’t mean to interrupt the pity party,” he says gently.
“I’m not having a pity party,” I mutter.
“Sure. Just standing dramatically in the shadows with your race suit on like you’re about to go hide in a closet to suck your thumb.”
Ouch… am I really conveying that?
That earns a dry exhale from me… almost a laugh.
He steps up beside me, resting his elbows on the barricade. We both watch the podium in silence as Nash raises his trophy.
“You did fine, Frankie.”
I cock an eyebrow. “Frankie?”
He nudges my shoulder. “My new nickname for you. Do you like it?”
“I hate it,” I reply truthfully. “And for the record, fine isn’t good enough for me.”
Carlos doesn’t argue and I’m grateful as I don’t have the energy to defend my disappointment.
“I know how much this meant,” he says carefully, perhaps afraid I might explode.
“First race. All the pressure. You wanted to prove you belong.” I swallow hard, keeping my eyes pinned on Nash as he presses a kiss to the trophy in his hands.
“Starting in the top ten and finishing thirteenth doesn’t exactly scream belonging. ”
I turn to look at Carlos. “Is this supposed to make me feel better?”
He grins. “You made it through the whole race. A clean run on an incredibly difficult track. You brought the car home in one piece and from what I can tell, you did everything the team asked. And you did that all in your debut race. That’s a win, Frankie.”
“Stop calling me Frankie,” I mutter, even though I know he’s doing it to take my misery off the race. “I didn’t do what I asked of myself.”
Carlos looks over at me then, his expression thoughtful. “Francesca, this sport isn’t about one race. It’s not even about one season. It’s about learning and adjusting. Every lap, every call, every moment. You think Nash won today because he’s faster than everyone?”
I raise a brow. “Don’t you dare tell me it was luck.”
“No. Experience. That guy’s been through every kind of scenario and mistake. He didn’t just show up like this. Trust me… you’ll get there.”
I look back at the podium. Ronan’s uncorking his champagne but he’s not smiling the way Nash and Lex are. I wonder if he even cares that he’s on the podium, or maybe he’s already thinking about the next race.
I hate that he’s good. I hate that I care. But mostly, I hate that I wanted more—and didn’t get it.
Carlos nudges my elbow gently. “Come on. I guarantee your debrief will give you good insight. I can also guarantee everyone is going to be happy with your performance.”
I appreciate Carlos’s words and then it hits me with a wave of guilt. Carlos finished in the points, and I didn’t even bother to congratulate him.
“P5,” I say, bumping my shoulder into his. “You had a hell of a drive and I should have said congrats before I dumped on you.”
He shrugs, but I catch the flicker of pride he tries to hide. “Could’ve been worse.”
I turn toward him, sincere. “I mean it, Carlos. You were brilliant out there. And I’m really proud of you.”
“Thanks, chica.”
I hesitate. “And thank you—for having my back. Not just today. You’ve always been a good friend, but this? Being in my corner like this?” My voice dips. “It means more than you know. I won’t forget it.”
Carlos gives me a look that says I never have to ask for his support. “Always,” he says simply. Then, “But if you do forget, I’ll remind you to stop being a big baby and put your focus on the next race.”
A laugh escapes me, watery but real. “Deal.”
Not the debut I imagined.
But not the end either.