Page 94 of Break My Heart

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PREDICTIVE MODELING ERROR: SOFTWARE MISJUDGING DRIVER BEHAVIOR

Ifelt Leo pass through earlier. He’s likely outside running through some last-minute checks with Dario, which is good. As it is, I’m anxious about this race for both of us, even though I refuse to let it show.

I tell myself everything is going to be fine as I stand in the garage, tablet in hand. The team’s engineers are gathered around me like I’m about to hand them something definitive. Something clean. Something repeatable. Something that removes the most unpredictable variable from the equation—the driver.

They wish.

Because there isn’t a system in the world that can eliminate a driver’s instinct or doubt. Nor the moment when a decision has to be made faster than logic can catch up.

Still, they’re looking at me like I already have.

“All right,” I say, forcing my voice into something steady. “Sector One is where we’re still going to see instability under load. Not failure—instability.”

After all this time, it still strikes me how important words are. It mattered that morning in Saratoga Springs. It has mattered all throughout the circuit as Leo and I rebuilt ourselves into something stronger. Even here, in this room, words matter. “Failure” makes people give up. “Instability” reminds them there’s still something worth fighting to fix. Something that can be anticipated and controlled if the right decisions are made.

Their attention sharpens immediately. I continue, pacing slowly in front of them. “Red Bull is going to tempt him to push out of Turn Two. If he feels the car is slipping, his instinct will be to correct early.”

“That’s what we’re hoping to avoid,” one of the engineers says.

“Yes,” I reply, tapping the tablet to bring up the telemetry from Barcelona. “Because the system is already compensating. If he intervenes, he’s fighting it instead of working with it.”

I zoom in on the data, letting the numbers speak where words fall short.

“Here,” I point out. “This is the correction point from Barcelona. Too early. It creates drag, reduces exit speed, and compromises the next straight.”

“Do you think he’s going to do the same today?” Mike asks.

“Today, he has to trust the system to get him through the finish line.”

“If he doesn’t?”

“He loses time on the corner and potentially the race.”

Silence settles over the group as they absorb my words because I’m not here to offer pats on the back or comfort. I’m committed to ensuring Apex Orion—Leo especially—comes out a winner today.

Because here, coming in first matters more than any of them could ever speculate.

Lowering the tablet slightly, I study their faces, making sure they understand the impact of my next statement. “No last-minute tweaks. No late changes unless they’re cleared through me first. We have to trust the system and more than that, he needs to know we trust him.”

The words settle in my soul differently than they would have months ago. I believe in Leo, in what he can accomplish on his own and what we forged together.

The engineers nod before dispersing to their stations. Radios crackle to life. Tires are checked. Final adjustments are made—not to the system, but around it.

I stand there for a second longer than necessary because this is the part I need to absorb.

It’s the moment where my work ends and trust begins. Truth be told, all I did was build better software. Still, no matter how precise I wrote it, no matter how refined it has become, the outcome rests with Leo.

I exhale slowly, preparing myself before stepping out of the garage and into the paddock. It’s alive with controlled chaos, with everything being prepared for two distinct moments: the start and the finish. One will determine if we have a chance to win. The other will determine how Leo evaluates his past. Neither is something I can control.

I move farther into the chaos when I hear him. “I love Christin.”

I stumble as I come to an abrupt stop, struggling to believe how easily the words leave his lips. Then I hear him declare, “I know I got it wrong before, but I’m not uncertain about how much I love her. I’m not walking away from her again.”

I’m shocked when I hear a second voice—one I could pick out anywhere in any crowd. My father orders Leo, “Make it count.”

I know the last part is an instruction from Lewis Porter, not from my dad. My heart swells when I realize that by saying what his former team director once said to him, he’s accepting Leo.