Page 71 of Hot Lap
The first few laps are routine. Reece gets heat into the tires and cycles through the settings to be sure everything’s settled with the car. But his driving isn’t fluid. His timing’s off by fractions — brake points a hair late, throttle pickups a shade too aggressive. The rhythm’s there, but it’s uncoordinated.
In turn 6 he understeers.
Turn 11 he locks the front left.
Reece adjusts, resets, but he still doesn’t click with the car.
“Balance?” Misho’s voice cuts in.
“Rear’s skating in the mid-speed stuff.” Reece checks his mirrors and moves aside as Petra flashes past on a fast lap.
“Copy. Brake migration’s off too. You’re a tenth down in sector 2.”
“I see it.” It’s not absolute shit. He’s not in the gravel, but he’s not sharp and everyone knows it.
Two more laps, then Misho says, “Asuka wants you to come in. She’s seen enough.”
Bollocks.
Reece pulls into the pit, kills the engine, and climbs out as the fans start to whir around the car and the mechanics wheel it into the garage.
For the first time in a long while, he feels like he’s just driven to drive, not to win. He yanks off his helmet and balaclava. This feels too much like how he drove when he was struggling under his father’s unforgiving thumb.
He’s barely set the helmet down when Asuka appears.
“You’re driving like you’ve got a shadow in your mirrors.” Her gaze is sharp, but her tone is quiet. “Whatever it is, deal with it before qualies.”
“Right. Got it.”
The thing is, he left Maiken behind so he could focus, but he hasn’t stopped thinking about her since he walked out of his room.
Reece heads to the back of the garage where the team's cooling fans create a pocket of bearable air. He downs half a bottle of water, the liquid barely touching his parched throat. The digital clock on the wall shows hours still to go before qualifying.
An engineer approaches with fresh telemetry printouts, then thinks better of it when he sees Reece's expression and retreats.
Good call.
Reece knows exactly what those sheets will show. Milliseconds bleeding away in corners where his mind wandered, where he braked a fraction too early or turned in a heartbeat too late. The data never lies, and today it tells a story of distraction written in lap times.
He rolls his shoulders. Tension always settles there on race weekends, but today it's not the productive tension of focus, but the knot of something unresolved. Something he left behind in a hotel room with an unlocked connecting door because he’s a fucking prat.
Petra strolls over from her side of the Nitro garage, helmet tucked under one arm, her race suit unzipped to the waist and tied off like his. She’s grinning, which means he’s about to get roasted.
“Well, well.” She drops to the bench and elbows his arm. “Didn’t expect you to let me top the charts on a Friday. Feeling generous?”
He huffs a dry breath. “Enjoy it while it lasts, mate.”
“Oh, I will.” She rests her helmet on the bench between them. “That car felt buttery as hell out there.”
Reece tips his head. “You looked good.”
She nods. “You didn’t.”
He doesn’t flinch. “Figured that was coming.”
“Yeah, well.” She leans back against the wall, eyes scanning the garage. “You’re usually locked in by turn 2. Today you didn’t look it until the lap counter hit double digits.”
Reece says nothing.
