Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 77816 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77816 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
“Tell Bernie to maintain pace for now,” Bex says to Petr Arboldt, a newly acquired race engineer who joined the team just last week. He’s Bernie’s point of contact over the comms.
“All right, Bernie,” Petr radios, his German accent thick but clear. “We’re going to play the long game here. Tires are looking good, but we need to conserve. You’ve got P10 within reach. Maintain pace, and we’ll box for fresh softs later.”
Bernie’s voice crackles through, calm but with a hint of that competitive edge. “Understood. Just let me know when.”
I watch Bex nod slightly, staring intently on the screen. She’s already calculating every possible scenario, every move the cars ahead might make. It’s fascinating to watch, even if the night is unraveling faster than a cheap suit.
But then Bernie throws a wrench in the works.
“Car in front is slow through Sector 2,” he says, the excitement creeping into his tone. “I can take him.”
Bex straightens, and she does something that a chief strategy engineer rarely does. She takes over the comms, her tone sharp but calm. “Not yet, Bernie. Maintain your pace. Their tires are degrading faster than yours. We’ll get them later.”
There’s a pause, and I can almost hear the wheels turning in Bernie’s head. Then, defiance. “I’m going for it.”
“Maintain pace!” Bex snaps, but it’s too late. His car darts out of line, diving into the corner on the inside. The move is aggressive, too aggressive, and my gut clenches as I watch it unfold on the monitor.
The rear end of the car in front slides, and there’s contact. The carbon fiber—renowned for its strength—shreds like paper and the front wing crumples, scattering debris across the track.
“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath, gripping the edge of the console as the replay shows the tangle from multiple angles.
Bernie lets out a string of curses and starts accusing the other driver of coming over on him, but when the officials replay the contact, no doubt they’ll find Bernie at fault.
Bernie’s car limps through the corner, his voice crackling through the radio. “My fucking wing is gone.”
Bex exhales sharply, her lips pressed into a thin line. Petr relays the message to Bernie, his own frustration barely concealed. “Understood. Box this lap.”
We all watch as Bernie crawls into the pit lane, the front wing flapping and bouncing on the asphalt. The pit crew is ready, but the damage is bad. Really bad.
We wait for what seems like hours but is only seconds while the aerodynamics and mechanics crews undertake a quick evaluation. The message is relayed to Hendrik on the other side of Luca, and he shakes his head with a grim expression. “Car’s toast. We’ve got suspension damage from the collision. We have to retire it.”
The words hang in the air and Bex slumps, her shoulders sagging as the weight of the night bears down on her. Her first race has gone horribly, but none of it’s her fault.
Luca doesn’t take it as well. He rips off his headset and slams it onto the console, the sound loud enough to turn a few heads.
“Fucking hell,” he growls, stalking off toward the back of the pit wall, his frustration palpable.
I glance at Bex, who looks like she’s about to fall apart but refuses to show it. Her hands rest on the console, fingers trembling slightly. She’s blaming herself—I know that look all too well.
“You did everything right,” I tell her, leaning close so only she can hear. She turns her head, unsure. “This one’s not on you, Bex. It’s on them. Matthieu ignoring the strategy, Bernie not listening to your call… that’s on them, not you.”
Her lips part, but no words come out. She nods once, sharp and quick, and turns back to the monitors. I see her pulling herself together, the cracks sealing as she compartmentalizes the mess.
This is the best example of the weight Bex has to carry. It’s not just data and strategy—it’s people. Drivers who think they’re invincible. Team principals who demand perfection. Engineers who rely on her to call the right shots.
She sits a little straighter, adjusting her headset and turning her focus back to Matthieu’s car. There’s still a race to finish, and Bex? She doesn’t quit, even when the odds are stacked against her.
“Time to move forward,” she murmurs, and I feel a strange sense of pride in her resilience.
She’s stronger than she gives herself credit for, and maybe—just maybe—she’ll believe it one day.
CHAPTER 10
Bex
I’ve spent the entire day unpacking, arranging and then rearranging the contents of my new flat in Guildford. We flew back from Jeddah this morning and I didn’t even consider resting. I jumped right into getting my new home organized because tomorrow, we start preparing for the Melbourne race. My father was a workaholic and used to say, “I’ll rest when I’m dead.”