Chapter 24
Francesca
By the time I roll down pit lane and cut the engine, my jaw aches from how hard I’ve been clenching it.
I yank off my gloves, rip my helmet free, and shove it at one of the crew who takes it with wide eyes.
My pulse is still thrumming in my throat when Bex leans over the car, already braced for my mood.
I already know it but hearing it from my race engineer drives the sting home. That red flag ruined everything.
One of the rookies ahead of me—God, I think it was Mendoza—lost the rear coming through the chicane and spun it straight into the barrier.
His car’s wedged at an angle with carbon fiber scattered like shrapnel, and that’s an automatic red flag.
No exceptions. The marshals need the track clear and safe before anyone else can run, so every car has to pit immediately.
Completed lap times are recorded and laps still in progress are scrubbed.
Which would’ve been fine if I’d already gotten a decent lap in. But I hadn’t. I’d been holding back, waiting for space, nursing my tires until the last possible moment so I could put in one big, perfect flyer. And I was seconds away from completing it when the flag went up. Session suspended.
Once race control restarted the session, I just couldn’t seem to get that speed back. My earlier lap, scrappy with traffic, was good, but not anywhere near quick enough. So that’s it. I’m stuck in P14 and won’t be starting in the top ten at Silvercrest.
It’s brutal how little control you really have sometimes. One guy crashes, and half the grid pays the price.
When I exit the car, it hits me all at once. P14. Mid-pack purgatory and not how I envisioned things would go. I know my talent. I know my skill. I thought with the right car, I could come in and hit podiums right away, but it’s just not happening.
The big screen at the front of the garage confirms what Bex said.
My number blinks red on the cutoff line, Carlos sitting three places ahead in P11.
He got caught up in the red flag backlog too.
Nash made it easily into Q3 at P2 behind Lex at P1.
And I can’t help the smile that breaks through the haze.
No matter how frustrated I am with my performance, a pop of joy bubbles throughout as I see Ronan’s name glowing near the top—P4, right behind Reid Hemsworth.
“You had traffic in the esses,” Bex adds, softer now, coming up behind me. “It compromised the whole run. Nothing you could’ve done.”
I manage a stiff nod, though the sting doesn’t fade. Because the truth is, in racing no one cares about traffic. All they’ll see is that I didn’t make it through to the third round.
Our media liaison comes over, tapping me on the shoulder. “Let’s get your interview done.”
I suck in a breath, trying to control my face. We always have post-track interviews standing in front of an FI banner with some posh British journalist asking me to analyze how poorly I did.
Helmet hair plastered to my forehead, fireproof still zipped up to my neck—I don’t have the luxury of a shower and a smile before facing them, but this is part of the game. “Let’s do it,” I tell her.
Stefan Wagner of Rosso Corsa GTX is just finishing his interview. He also got caught behind the red flag and based on his pinched expression, he feels as bad as I do.
Stefan finishes the last question and walks off after a half-hearted wave to some of the fans behind barricades.
The reporter turns to me, and I’m struck with a case of nerves. We do these all the time down in FI3 and FI2, but it’s more pressurized here. I know there are certainly many more people around the world who will be watching me.
I inhale deeply and let it out just as fast, moving in front of the banner as someone shoves a microphone into my hand.
“Francesca, there’s a photo circulating of you and Ronan Barnes holding hands in the paddock. Are the rumors true?”
I blink at him in stunned silence. I expected this to come, but not as the first question following my qualifier. Luckily, Ronan and I agreed on the answer last night, so I plaster on a polite smile. “We’re good friends. But we’re also competitors, and that’s where our focus is this weekend.”
It should end there, but he hits me with a blindside. “Speaking of Barnes, what about the scene earlier with his mother? There seemed to be a very loud argument between them. He left and you ended up handling her. Should fans be concerned about his focus?”
Heat flashes across my chest. My mouth is moving before my brain can stop it. Instinct. Loyalty. “That was a private family matter,” I snap. “And shame on you for trying to exploit it. Maybe you should do your job and ask about the race instead.”
A ripple of surprise moves through the little crowd. The reporter looks as if I just slapped him in the face, which I would, if I could.
“Um,” he stutters, looking down at his notes to regroup. I don’t feel sorry for him at all. “Um… can you talk us through your qualifying session? The red flag was a spot of bad luck.”
I exhale, forcing myself back into neutral. “We had traffic at the wrong time. It happens. Frustrating, but tomorrow’s another chance. That’s racing.”
I don’t wait for the next question. I hand the microphone to someone and duck out of the pen, tugging the zipper of my suit down just far enough to breathe. My skin buzzes with anger.
“We have another interview,” our media girl says, but I shake my head and she goes quiet.
“Not now.”
“Okay,” she replies quietly, and I move through our garage and out the back side of the paddock.
All my frustration over my qualifying performance is now mixed with fury over that reporter’s audacity to attack Ronan, and I’m a hot mess of jumbled emotions. I walk with purpose, almost defying somebody to look at me wrong, but I have no clue where I’m going. Just walking.
“Hey, Accardi.”
I hear my name called and recognize Carlos’s voice instantly. I turn to see him perched on a low barrier outside his garage, helmet in his lap, looking like the calm to my storm. He grins when he sees me.
“You look pissed,” he says.
“Aren’t you?” I ask almost combatively as I lean against the barrier beside him. “You got caught up in the same bullshit I did and now we’re hugging the middle of the pack.”
He nudges me with his shoulder. “Some days it works against you. Some days it works for you. The key is not to let it mess with your cool. Let it go and figure out how to get from P14 to P1.”
I snort. “That’s impossible.”
“Nothing’s impossible.” His dark eyes gleam, steady and certain. “You aim for it every time. You give everything you’ve got. One day, it works.”
I shake my head, the sting of P14 still raw. “Come on, Carlos. You and I both know there are limits. Starting that far back? The numbers don’t lie. Strategy only gets you so far.”
He doesn’t flinch. If anything, his smile deepens, calm and sure.
“Numbers are only half the story. The other half is the race you haven’t driven yet.
Safety cars, weather, someone else’s mistake—it changes everything.
If you’ve already decided it’s impossible, you’ll never see the door when it cracks open. ”
I roll my eyes, but it doesn’t stick. Because the way he says it splits the tiniest fissure in my frustration. “Maybe that’s because you’re Carlos Moreno. You make impossible look easy.”
He laughs, but there’s no arrogance in it. “Nah. I just never stop trying.”
I know he’s right. Racing is chaos wrapped in precision, and sometimes it’s the chaos that gets you to the front.
“Thanks,” I murmur. “For always knowing what to say.”
He hooks an arm around my shoulders and pulls me into a quick, brotherly hug. “That’s what friends are for. But don’t thank me—prove me right tomorrow. Chase the impossible.”
When he lets go, his expression shifts—mischievous but curious. “So… how are things with Barnes?”
A flush creeps up my neck before I can stop it. “Good,” I admit. “Better than I expected.”
“That sounds like a story,” he prods with another playful nudge.
“I like him,” I say with a huff. “A lot. And I’m pretty sure he likes me.” I offer him a smirk. “Like, a lot. We’ve connected over some harsh things in his life.”
Carlos studies me for a long second. “I’m happy for you. Really. I’m happier for Ronan because he got the better end of the deal.”
The lump in my throat takes me by surprise. I glance away, trying to blink it back. “One of the reporters asked me about the photo today,” I tell him. “And about his mum. Made him sound like he ran while I cleaned up after him. I went after the reporter pretty hard.”
Carlos’s mouth hardens, but he nods. “You did right to shut that down. Protect your people. That’s what counts.”
“I’m sure the Titans PR team won’t like what I did, but Ronan wasn’t there to defend himself.”
“I expect this will blow up,” Carlos warns, but I already knew that. “People are going to want to know more about you two.”
“We talked about it last night and we know that we’ll have to acknowledge it. But this isn’t the weekend.”
“That’s right,” Carlos says, holding out his fist to me and I bump it. “Because we have Silvercrest to run and nothing’s getting in our way.”
“Except a red flag,” I quip, and we bust out laughing.
We push off the barrier together, starting the slow walk back down the paddock. Mechanics and engineers weave past, the noise of Q3 engines already humming from pit lane.
I glance at Carlos, his easy confidence lingering in the air between us, but as we split toward our garages, my thoughts shift where they probably shouldn’t. Rivals, competitors—we’re supposed to want to crush each other out there. Titans versus Crown. Nash versus Ronan.
Me versus Ronan.
And yet, I know where my heart’s already gone. Even if I’m supposed to want him behind me, some secret part of me will be rooting for Ronan to grab pole. Because he deserves it—after the week he’s had, after everything I’ve seen in him that the world doesn’t.
As I head back toward the garage, the roar of engines swells and the big screen displays the first Q3 times. Ronan’s name flashes near the top, glowing bright against the darkening sky, and there it is. A deep warmth taking over me.
I’ll be cheering for him, even if I have to do it in silence.