Page 132 of Racing for Redemption
The thought should terrify me. Instead, as I lie in his arms afterward, watching moonlight create patterns on the ceiling, I imagine what it would be like to have this all the time. This comfortable silence. This devotion and complicity. This sense of being exactly where I’m meant to be.
Meant to be.
It’s an impossible fantasy, of course. My life is meetings, and strategies, and fighting for the team’s survival. His is training,and races, and the constant push for better results. We exist in the same world, but occupy different orbits. We travel to the same places, but we’re on different paths and journeys.
Yet, as his breathing deepens, and he drifts into sleep beside me, his arm heavy and secure across my waist, I can’t help but think: in some alternate universe, this is our life. This quiet, this care, this connection that feels so natural, it’s like we’ve been doing it for years.
In that universe, we’re just William and Violet. Not driver and Team Principal. Not a complication, a forbidden relationship, or a scandal waiting to happen.
Just us.
And it’s perfect.
Chapter 39
Come and get it
William
Recharged from the summer break, we’re back to the fight to get that P8 in the Constructors’ Championship. However, the next couple of races proved to be challenging. I get points finishes in Hungary and Japan in P10, but Baku, Zandvoort, and Monza are an absolute disaster as I end up P14 in all three.
We're slowly showing some promise on some tracks better suited for my late breaking driving style. Nicholas continues to be super consistent… in last place.
A week later, I spot Violet the moment she enters the Silverstone paddock. Her black curls frame her face, caught by the English breeze as she speaks with Johnson. As he goes away, I jog to catch up, falling into step beside her. “Look who finally remembered where the paddock is.”
She turns, her expression transforming from intense focus to a smile that wraps my heart with a vice-like grip. While this feelingfelt foreign a couple of months ago, it’s getting increasingly stronger, and more frequent the more we’re together.
“William. Surprised you recognize me after so long.”
“Hard to forget the woman who signs my paychecks.” I whisper, “And is in my dreams all the time.” I match her stride, our shoulders occasionally brushing. “Though, you might want to fire your travel agent. They’ve been sending you everywhere except race weekend locations.”
She laughs, the sound racing through me, lighting my body on fire. “Believe me, I’d rather be trackside than in stuffy boardrooms explaining why potential sponsors should invest in a team that’s—”
“—currently P9 in the Constructors’, and improving every race?” I finish for her.
“Exactly.” She studies me for a moment. “You seem especially chipper for someone who just had four tough races.”
“It’s Silverstone.” I spread my arms wide, gesturing to the historic circuit around us. “My favorite track, guaranteed rain this weekend according to forecasts, and—” I drop my voice, leaning slightly closer. “You’re here. Can’t be more perfect. Well, getting a podium would be nice, but I’m already happy with what I have.”
Something flickers across her face—surprise, perhaps pleasure, after seeing my enthusiasm—before she schools her features back to professional composure. I can’t get enough seeing her make that slight shift in behavior.
“Focus on the racing first, Foster. Weather looks challenging.”
“Challenging for them.” I nod toward the other teams’ garages. “Perfect for me.” Wet racing has been my expertise since my karting days. When people start being cautious, afraid of crashing, I immediately capitalize as I find grip, and navigate the track with an ease that even for me feels surreal at times. I’m still not the biggest fan of driving in inters, though. I much prefer when the track is fully wet, and I can show what I’m made of in wet tires.
“You’re crazy.” She rolls her eyes but can’t quite hide her smile. “FP1 in an hour. Don’t be late.”
“Yes, boss.” I watch her walk away, admiring how she commands attention from everyone she passes.
The practice sessions confirm what my instincts told me—the Colton Racing car likes Silverstone. The high-speed corners suit our downforce package, and the few slow sections aren’t punishing our traction weaknesses as much as expected. By FP3, I’m consistently in the top ten. Nicholas, in the other car, is struggling more with the setup, but even he’s closer to the points positions than usual.
Qualifying becomes a mission. Q1 passes easily, the car feeling balanced and responsive. Q2 requires a perfect lap, the tires delivering peak performance for exactly one flying circuit before fading. I make it through by two-tenths.
For the first time, we get into Q3. This is another feat in a season that could have been more. Well, let's try that rarified air of the top ten shootout. A place Colton Racing hasn’t visited in years.
“Okay, William.” Tom’s voice is steady in my ear as I prepare for my final flying lap. “Sector one looks good for us. Push hard throughCopseandMaggotts and Becketts, but be careful with the rear on exit. One lap, everything you’ve got.”
I take a deep breath. The garage silences in my mind. The crowds, the pressure, the championship—everything fades except the track ahead, and the car beneath me.
