Page 127 of Racing for Redemption
“Which is exactly why he needs a team that cares.” I reach for my phone as it buzzes with a message. Belforte, catching up. Might as well tell him I have my eyes on the replacement for Nicholas I'd promised him.
One conversation. Sometimes, that’s all it takes to change the trajectory of a team. Of a career. Of a legacy.
I hope I just had that conversation.
Chapter 37
Off the grid
William
Ipush the front door shut behind me with my foot, drop my duffel bag on the floor, and stand still. Silence. Beautiful, complete silence. No engines screaming, no press shouting questions, no team radio crackling in my ear. Just the distant chirp of birds, and the soft ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall. I breathe in the familiar scent of my countryside house—wood polish, the faint tang of the lemon cleaning products my housekeeper uses, and something indefinably mine. Home.
I shuffle to my living room, a sprawling space with exposed wooden beams, and windows that frame the rolling hills beyond. The sofa—oversized, overstuffed, ridiculously comfortable—calls to me. I answer by collapsing onto it face-first, letting my body sink into its familiar embrace.
Four weeks. Four glorious weeks of summer break stretch before me like an empty road. Not entirely empty, ofcourse—there’s sim work, training, meetings at Colton HQ—but no races. No hotels. No airports.
And Violet is coming here. This weekend.
The thought cuts through my exhaustion like a shot of espresso. Violet, here, in my space. Not in some hotel room with the knowledge that we’ll both be gone by morning. Here, where we can justbe.
I roll onto my back, staring at the ceiling, a grin spreading across my face that would make me look deranged if anyone saw it. Three whole days with her. Friday to Sunday.
My phone pings with a notification, dragging me back to the present. The team group chat is buzzing with post-race analysis. Johnson is already talking modifications for Hungary. Tom wants to review telemetry data from my car before the engine failure.
I ignore it all and open a new browser tab. “Sex in a Pan dessert recipe,” I type, then immediately feel ridiculous. It sounds like something you’d find in a sketchy corner of the internet, not something you’d serve a woman you’re trying to impress.
But it’s what she mentioned in passing during that late-night conversation in Barcelona. Her favorite dessert.
The recipe looks straightforward enough: vanilla custard, cream cheese, chocolate pudding, whipped cream, all layered on a pecan crust. I scan the ingredients, mentally cataloging what I’ll need to buy. I’ve never been much of a baker, but I can follow directions. How hard can it be?
I save the recipe and flip back to the team chat. Tom’s tagged me three times. With a sigh, I tap out a quick response about the engine temperature readings before the failure, promising more details tomorrow.
The words blur as exhaustion catches up with me. My eyelids grow heavy, the phone slipping from my fingers onto the cushion beside me. Just a quick nap, then I’ll unpack…
I wake to darkness, and the disorienting awareness that I’ve slept longer than intended. My neck aches from the awkward position on the sofa. Outside, stars pepper the country sky. According to my phone, it’s just past midnight.
I drag myself upstairs, undress in the dark, and fall into bed.
Morning brings clarity, and a renewed sense of purpose. I spend an hour in my home gym, running through the strength training routine my physio prescribed. After a shower and breakfast, I head to Colton Racing’s headquarters. Then, to my therapist.
The week passes in a blur of activity. Mornings in the simulator, afternoons in meetings with Johnson about car development, evenings with Tom reviewing race strategy for Hungary. The car is improving—incrementally, frustratingly slowly, but improvingnonetheless.
By Friday, I’ve accumulated a comprehensive mental list of Violet-related preparations. I’ve cleaned my already-clean house. I’ve shopped for ingredients for multiple meals, including that ridiculous dessert. I’ve even changed my bedsheets twice, unsatisfied with my first color choice.
It’s pathetic.I’mpathetic. And I can’t stop smiling about it.
At headquarters, I spot Violet through the slightly open door in her office. Her head is bent over a stack of papers, a furrow of concentration between her brows. She’s wearing one of her power suits—charcoal-gray today, with a violet-colored blouse that can’t be a coincidence. Her hair falls in a black curtain around her face as she makes notes in the margin of whatever she’s reading.
I detour to the break room and pour a cup of coffee—black, no sugar, just how she likes it. The machine gurgles and steams, producing a dark liquid that smells strong enough to wake the dead. Why she likes her coffee bitter, and her pastries super sweet, beats me.
Cup in hand, I approach her office door and knock softly.
She looks up, and for a split second before she schools her expression, a flash of genuine pleasure escapes at the sight of me. It hits me like a qualifying lap—fast, exhilarating, over too quickly.
“William,” she says, her voice neutral but her eyes warm. “Come in.”
I enter, closing the door behind me with my foot. “Brought you fuel,” I say, setting the coffee on her desk. “You look like you haven’t slept.”
