Page 107 of Racing for Redemption
He leans in, voice low. “Poor William. Fallen for the ice queen? Do you think you’re the first driver she’s manipulated? Frederick Colton’s daughter knows how to keep her pets loyal—”
"Lies!" The crack of my fist against his face echoes in the narrow space between motorhomes.
Harrington staggers back, blood streaming from his nose. For a split second, shock registers on his face—then something worse. Satisfaction. He's grinning. The son of a bitch is grinning, and only then do I realize what I just did. I fell into his fucking trap.
“William!” Tom’s voice breaks through the red haze as my engineer rushes toward us. “What the hell—”
But it’s too late. The sound has drawn attention. Phones are out, cameras flashing. A cluster of journalists rounds the corner, capturing the tableau: Dominic Harrington, blood streaming down his designer suit, and me, fist still clenched, body humming with rage, trying to rein in my desire to throttle him so badly, no one would recognize his face again.
Harrington dabs at his nose, examining the blood with an almost clinical detachment. Then he looks at me and—unbelievably—smiles.
“Thank you, William,” he says, voice carrying just enough to be heard by the gathering crowd. “That will do nicely.”
Tom grabs my arm, pulling me away. “What were you thinking?”
I wasn’t thinking. That’s the problem. All I could see was Violet’s face, hear her name on Harrington’s sneering lips.
“The stewards will have your head for this,” Tom mutters as he hustles me toward our garage. “Assaulting a Team Principal? You’ll be lucky if they don’t ban you.”
Around us, phones buzz with notifications. The paddock’s fastest product has always been gossip, traveling at speeds that make F1 cars seem sluggish. By the time we reach the garage, everyone knows.
I glance at my throbbing hand, knuckles already swelling. Tom hands me an ice pack. The momentary satisfaction of feeling Harrington’s face give way beneath my fist evaporates, replaced by cold dread.What have I done? I'm back to square one.
My phone vibrates endlessly in my pocket. Messages from my manager. From other drivers. From journalists seeking comment.
Nothing from Violet.
An official in an FIA jacket approaches, expression grave. “Mr. Foster, you’re requested to report to the stewards immediately regarding the incident with Mr. Harrington.”
Tom squeezes my shoulder. “Go. Be respectful. Apologize. We’ll sort this out.”
But as I follow the official, I glimpse a headline already circulating on a nearby screen:
“FOSTER PUNCHES VORTEX BOSS, DISGRACES STRUGGLING COLTON RACING.”
And beneath it, a subheading that makes my stomach lurch: “Team Principal Violet Colton Unavailable for Comment as Crisis Deepens.”
I’ve made everything worse. The team. My career. Might as well say goodbye to any chance with Violet.
In the stewards’ office, I sit stiffly, admitting fault, offering no excuses. Yes, I struck Mr. Harrington. No, there was no physical provocation. Yes, I understand the seriousness of my actions.
Their verdict is swift and merciless—a substantial fine, official reprimand, and worst of all, the removal of all championship points I’ve scored this season; the ten precious points of mine from Melbourne that had given Colton Racing their first taste of success in a decade.
Back to zero. As if Melbourne never happened.
I trudge back to my driver's room, ignoring the stares and whispers that follow me through the paddock. Inside, I collapse into a chair, head in my hands.
My phone buzzes again. James.
“What the hell were you thinking?” he demands without preamble.
“I wasn’t,” I admit.
“Clearly. Do you have any idea what you’ve done? What you just did, my friend, is beyond stupid. The board will be furious. Sponsors will be reconsidering. AndViolet—”
“Don’t.” I can’t bear to hear her name right now. It hurts, because I'm ashamed of what I did, and of the repercussions for the team. It hurts, because I miss her so much, I'd punch a hundred guys in the paddock just to see her again.
“This could end your career at Colton Racing before it’s properly begun, William. Harrington baited you, and you bit like an amateur. Playing mind games is that guy's modus operandi. You should know that he was the reason you were screwed last year. He doesn't play fair in any capacity. And he has a grudge with Colton Racing!”
