Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
I find a certain peace here. One of the few places I can hide. The feeling inside the simulator is almost identical to being in the car on a real circuit, but there’s a safety net here. If I screw it up, if I crash spectacularly, I can reset. No twisted wreckage. No fire. No funeral.
It’s like living a perfect version of my life, allowing me to take risks without the fear of consequences. Which means I can push harder. Try bolder moves. Throw the car into a corner I’d never dare attempt on race day, just to see if it sticks.
And maybe that’s why Francesca’s getting under my skin. With her, I’ve been acting like I’m in the sim—leaning into moments I’d normally avoid, saying things I wouldn’t, kissing her like there’s no price to pay. But outside of here, there’s no reset button. No safe restart if I crash. Out there, a mistake doesn’t just ruin a lap—it wrecks everything.
And I’m not convinced I have the courage to test it out.
The door hisses open and Lex steps inside like he owns the place—team quarter zip, joggers, hair still damp from a morning workout. He offers me a smile and it’s not cocky or taunting.
It’s… genuine.
I’m not sure what we are to each other past teammates. After admitting my regret to him, it definitely changed things, but it’s not defined. It’s more like a truce—still rivals with a polite handshake in the middle. Or maybe the faintest possibility of a repaired friendship.
One could hope but right now, I’m not about to burn mental fuel on it. My focus has to be on the track.
“I’ll go first,” I say to no one in particular, already striding for the sim rig. Lex doesn’t object and veers toward the engineers’ corner, settling near the main display screen to watch the data stream.
One of the engineers—Bea Sutherland, short, sharp-bobbed hair, tablet tucked under her arm—peels away from the group and approaches me. “We’re focusing on Sector 3 today—your cornering speed was a tenth off in the last data haul and we want to nip that.”
“Got it,” I reply, already envisioning those corners. I’ve driven this track hundreds of times between actual practices, qualifying, races and sim work. I could probably run it with my eyes closed.
She taps her stylus against the tablet. “Let’s see if we can get you later on the brakes without compromising traction on exit. The wind’s supposed to shift race weekend, so keep that in mind.”
“Understood,” I say with a nod. “If I can take a bit more curb on the apex, I can open the wheel earlier and carry the speed through, but I’ll need the front to bite better.”
Bea’s mouth curves—approval. “We’ve adjusted the virtual setup accordingly. Let’s see how it feels.”
I climb into the pod, lowering myself into the carbon fiber seat. The harness clicks home across my chest. The rig sits on a motion platform, hydraulics ready to mimic every pitch, roll and surge of the car. Surround screens wrap my vision in the circuit—Silvercrest loading in crisp detail, its elevation changes and tricky corners gleaming under a pale virtual sky.
As I settle my gloves on the wheel, Lex calls from across the room, “Good luck, mate.”
It’s enough to tighten my grip. Friendly encouragement from him? Not normal as of late and I hate inconsistency, but I need to remember… not too long ago, his friendship was part of the consistency. I just have to get used to it again.
I roll my neck and fire up the run. The sim roars to life, the platform tilting forward ever so slightly as the lights go green. I launch down the starting straight, my pulse syncing with the RPMs. Curves come at me fast—flick left, right, left, weight shifting with the hydraulics—and for a few corners, it’s just me and the track.
Then my head fills with other things. Francesca’s laugh last night. Her skin under my hands. The look on her face when she orgasmed that second time and called my name. Lex standing five meters away, probably reading every data point and every mistake.
I miss my braking mark into the Sector 3 curve by a fraction—enough to send the rear end whipping out. I correct, but I’m late on the throttle, the tires locking before the sim screen explodes into a gravel trap.
“Reset,” Bea says, flat and calm in my headset. “Let’s start again.”
“Fuck,” I growl and rip open the harness instead.
Sliding out of the pod, I yank off my gloves. The engineers step back, giving me space as I stalk past Lex without a word. It’s not Francesca’s fault. It’s not Lex’s either. But right now, I’m pissed at them both for being in my head.
The door hisses shut behind me, and I take the corridor fast. The air outside the sim lab is cooler, but it doesn’t do a damn thing to cut through the frustration buzzing under my skin. I’m halfway to the stairwell when I hear the steady rhythm of another set of footsteps closing the gap.