Page 83 of Formula Dreams
I clear my throat and glance at her plate again, anything to ground myself, then back at her.“How are you?Nervous?”
“Of course,” she admits without shame, the honesty refreshing.“It’s Silvercrest.”
I nod, leaning forward, elbows braced on my knees.“You’ve raced here in FI2, so you know this track well.But a few important things to remember… the braking zone into Turn 1 is trickier than it looks.If you lock, you’ll lose half a second minimum.”My hands mimic the motion without me realizing, carving the air like I’m steering.“Watch the wind on the back straight… it shifts more than people think, can destabilize you if you’re tucked close.And out of the last corner, don’t over-rotate the rear or you’ll kill your run onto the main straight.Trust yourself.”
She doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t roll her eyes—just listens, quiet and focused, tracking every word.Then she tilts her head, the smallest smile tugging at her lips, and I know I’ve walked right into something.
“What?”I ask warily.
“You’re adorable.”
I blink at her, caught off guard.“Adorable?”I repeat, incredulous.No one’s ever called me that in my life, and I’m not sure I like it—except when it comes from her.
“For giving me a track walk like I haven’t been doing this for years.”Her eyes sparkle, mischief threaded through the sincerity.“And for forgetting I’m your competitor.”
Heat creeps into my face, burning the tips of my ears.I chuckle, shaking my head like I can play it off.“Stupid of me.”
“No,” she says firmly, leaning in enough that her shoulder brushes mine.“It’s sweet that you care.It’s why I’m crazy about you.”
And fuck me if that admission doesn’t undo me more than any podium ever could.
I swallow, watching her, the energy between us humming.Then, before I can say anything else, I push back my chair.“I should let you focus.I’ll see you out there.”
I leave the suite with my pulse hammering, lighter than I’ve felt in years.The roar of the crowd filters in from the grandstands as I head back down, but all I can think about is Francesca—her smile, her faith in me.It graces me with the realization that the future isn’t an unknown to outrun.It’s an opportunity worth racing toward.
CHAPTER 26
Francesca
Engines snarl aroundme, a chorus of fury vibrating up through the chassis and into my bones.Fourteenth on the grid—row seven, middle slot.The air is thick and my nerves thrum.My hands flex on the wheel, gloves squeaking against leather, pulse skittering.
P14 isn’t where I wanted to be, but Carlos’s words about fighting on and aiming high hold space within my heart.I have a job to do and until someone tells me different, I’m aiming for the podium.
I close my eyes for one steadying breath through the helmet.My parents’ voices echo in my memory—Be brave, piccolina, always be brave.Carlos’s steady calm—You aim for it every time, one day it works.And Ronan’s this morning, quiet but certain, weaving through all of it:Don’t over-rotate the rear out of the last corner.Trust yourself.
So many people who have my back and want me to succeed.I’m a lucky woman.
“Radio check,” Bex’s words crackles in my ear, grounding me.
“Check,” I reply, heart pounding.
“Give ’em hell, Accardi,” she says and then it goes quiet.
All the noise—engines, screaming fans, my own heartbeat—gone.
Then the lights blink on, one by one.Red.Red.Red.Red.Red.
Pause.Everything goes still, then—lights out.
Go!
Adrenaline streaks through me and engines scream as we launch.The surge pins me into the seat, tires spinning for a half breath before they bite, and I shoot forward into the havoc.A Bauer jolts across my nose and I snap left, thread between a Corsa and a Union Jack, every nerve tuned to survival.So much of this is knowledge and hours of training, but right now I call on instinct to push me forward.
“Good start, good start,” Bex encourages.“Hold your line into Turn 1.”
I do, braking hard, my body lurching.I feather the pedal, dive inside and snatch a single position, which is a victory in and of itself.The car twitches but I straighten it and floor it out of the corner.
Two laps in and I’ve clawed up to P12.The pack is thick, every car ahead a driver in the seat that wants it as much as I do.Sweat slicks down my spine and my throat is raw from the breezing in through the duct in my helmet.The straw of my hydration system brushes against my lips and I catch it long enough for a sip.The water’s lukewarm, but it cuts the sandpaper edge.
