Page 139 of Hot Lap
“Understood. Push three more laps, then we’ll box for mediums.”
He flies through the second DRS zone like the team stitched wings into the chassis, then adjusts the brake bias a tad and rolls into the turn 9 hairpin.
At lap 14, he pits. The stop’s smooth — two-point-three seconds. Clean and controlled.
“Outstanding pit, guys. Thanks for that.”
Back out in P4 with pit cycles underway.
By lap 20, he’s reclaimed the lead.
Mid-race, with air temperature holding steady and a five-second gap to Belmonte, Reece finds his rhythm. The car'ssinging beneath him. Setup is dialed in, tires are in their sweet spot, speed and precision have clicked into place.
And that’s when it hits him. Right on time. It’s been eight months since he felt this good in the car.
He hums first. Then, quietly, over the radio, barely audible: “You can dance… you can jive…”
Misho snorts. “Seriously, Reece?”
“…having the time of your life…” He grins as he slides through turn 3.
“I swear to God, if you don’t podium?—”
“Watch that girl,” Reece sings under his breath, “See that scene… diggin’ the dancing queen…”
“Focus, Dancing Queen. Nico is closing the gap. Mode 7. No more ABBA.”
“Yes, boss.”
He locks in, jaw setting.
Lap 49 brings a yellow flag in sector 3. Reece slows and passes where Sartelli’s purple and orange car is half buried in the TECPRO barrier. Replays on the giant screens around the track show the Jove Morrison car’s rear stepping out under braking, a snap oversteer and it’s straight into the wall. The safety car comes out.
“Misho, he okay?”
“Yeah, Sartelli’s out of the car.”
“Good. What’s the plan?”
“Box. Box. Everyone’s coming in. We’ll switch to softs. Going to be a sprint to the end.”
Reece dives into the pit. The Nitro crew is flawless — tires swapped, lollipop up, clean release, but the safety car means the gap he built is now gone. Nico’s blue and gold machine has returned to crawl right up his arse. And they’re both on fresh tires.
Reece exhales. “Right, we're doing this the hard way then, aren't we?”
Misho’s in his ear. “Don’t give him space.”
The safety car pulls in after two laps.
Green flag.
The field bunches and releases like a slingshot. Nico gets heat into his softs just a second faster. Reece fights wheel spin. He holds the racing line, but in the chicane of turns 11 to 12, there's a flicker, a fraction of a second too long on the brake pedal. A lockup. Minimal, but enough to change the game when he’s playing against the world champion.
In that split second, he knows. The race isn't lost, but the win is. One moment of imperfection, one slight miscalculation, and Nico's through the tightest possible gap. That's F1. Razor-thin margins mean the difference between victory and second place.
"Bloody hell," Reece mutters. "El Conejo'sthrough."
"Keep pressure on. DRS coming. Mode push."
