Page 3 of Formula Dreams
She nods.“Trust yourself the way this team trusts you, and the rest will come.”She touches my arm briefly, then turns to go.When the door shuts, I let out a relieved breath.
Then I grab my helmet from the shelf and walk out.
Time to qualify.
♦
The garage smellslike rubber and people move in a well-choreographed dance.Mechanics do their thing—adjusting, checking, tightening.Engineers peer at telemetry on data screens.The strategists huddle, discussing contingencies.It’s incredible how many people are on this team and how each role is completely necessary for our success.
I cross the threshold and Bex Toliver, our chief race strategy engineer, is the first to meet my eye.She breaks into a grin.“You ready to knock the paddock on its ass?”
I smirk.“Wasn’t planning to ease into it.”
Bex hasn’t been with this team long, but she’s already made her presence known.Like me, she came up through FI2, where she earned a reputation for being calm under pressure and impossible to intimidate, even in the roughest pit lanes.When Brienne Norcross overhauled the team mid-season, Bex’s hire was a bold move that raised more than a few eyebrows given her lack of FI experience.
But no one questions her now.
Normally, a chief strategy engineer oversees the bigger picture—race strategy, data management, team coordination.They don’t usually handle one-on-one driver comms.But for my debut, Bex made it clear she’d be the one on my radio.She said it was important to her and I know this has everything to do with me being a woman.We’re both breaking new ground and she wants to be in the trenches with me.
She strides over, all quick confidence and utility boots, tablet in hand.“Track temps are holding, so as of now, we’re going soft tires for all three runs unless the skies do something stupid.”
“Copy,” I say.While I might have input on any strategy decisions, the final call is up to Bex.Good thing I trust her implicitly.
“We adjusted the front wing angle based on your feedback from yesterday’s free practice.I think you’ll notice less understeer into the Degner turns.”
“Awesome.”
The Degner turns are a brutal pair of corners—two sharp, back-to-back right-handers.The first one hits fast and if your line’s off by even a hair, the second will chew you up and spit you out.There’s no room for hesitation—brake too late and you’re gone, brake too early and you’re eating gravel.
“Also,” she adds, lowering her voice as she glances at her tablet, “you’re about to make history, so maybe try to have a little fun.”
A sound escapes me—half laugh, half scoff.“Right.I’ll do that while threading through Sector 1 at 280 kph.”
Bex just winks and steps aside as our team principal, Lorenzo Moretti, appears.Tall, broad-shouldered, always in a perfectly ironed shirt with the Titans’ logo on the breast pocket.He’s the kind of man who doesn’t need to shout because his words are so revered.
“Francesca,” he says, nodding once.“No pressure from us.Run your laps, do what you’ve trained for.You’re here because you earned it.”
I nod.“Thank you.I won’t let you down.”
Behind him, Zach Lauren—our new chief engineer—offers a two-finger salute and a dry, “Let’s give ’em something to talk about.”
Zach came aboard at the same time as I did, after Brienne fired Hendrik Voss.While I only heard rumors, apparently, he was quite the misogynist and made Bex’s life a living hell.I’m glad I don’t have to put up with that bullshit.Zach oversees every layer of car performance across both garages, perhaps one of the most stressful jobs on the team.I swear, every time I climb into the car, the precision of a dozen engineering decisions stitched into every panel, every bolt, is palpable.
I spot Nash Sinclair, the team’s first driver, leaning against the pit wall divider, arms crossed over his chest.When our eyes meet, he pushes off the barrier and steps closer.“You got this.Just do what you do best.”
Nash is one of the most respected drivers on the grid and also happens to be dating Bex.He drives with a steady hand that doesn’t shake under pressure.
Three years ago, he was involved in a crash that left his car in flames.Another driver didn’t survive and Nash barely did—burns, surgeries, months in recovery.He walked away from FI after that, went to Open Wheel and tried to outrun his demons.
People thought he’d retire and frankly, most would have.But here he is, faster than ever, now sitting at the front of the grid.
“Thanks for the faith,” I say with a smile.“Good luck to you.”
We bump fists and then it’s game on.
I climb into the cockpit and harness myself in.One of the engineers gives it a tug.“Harness secure.We’re sending you out soon and it’s pretty open, so take advantage of the clean air.”
Just the asphalt and a shot at a clean flyer.“Copy.”My gloved hands wrap around the grips of my steering wheel, fingers checking the paddles, thumb testing radio and mode toggles.
