Page 17 of Racing for Redemption
Her confidence in me is like oxygen—something I didn't realize I was starving for until it filled my lungs. Here, removed from the paddock's politics and pressure, I almost believe her.
The sun climbs higher as we sit, talking more about our respective worlds—the challenges and triumphs, themundane details that make up daily life. Anna describes the view from her apartment, the routine of going to her favorite coffee shop, the way Tokyo transforms during cherry blossom season. I tell her about Blake's unwavering support, and how he's almost like the team's "dad", the engineering team's dedication despite our results, and the rare, perfect moments when a strategy call doesn’t leave us in last place by the end of a race.
Eventually, we check the time and realize we should head back to meet our driver. As we walk along the shore one last time, Anna links her arm through mine.
"Thank you for today," she says. "For agreeing to come to Bali, for getting up at dawn for this adventure."
"Thank you for kidnapping me," I reply with a smile. "I needed this more than I realized."
And it's true. Away from the constant noise of the paddock—the media questions, the technical debates, the political maneuvering—I’m aware of my own thoughts again. I remember why I took on this challenge in the first place: not just to preserve my father's legacy, but because I love the sport, the strategy, the constant push to improve and innovate.
As we approach the village center where our driver will be waiting, I take one last look at the peaceful bay with its colorful fishing boats and clear waters. No cameras here, no microphones thrust toward my face, no analysts dissecting my every decision. Just me, my oldest friend, and the simple pleasure of exploring something new together.
In the last couple of days, I've been receiving tons of notifications. The Bali sun beats down on my bare shoulders as I stretch out on the lounger, waves lapping at the shore just feet away. But I'm no longer relaxed. Instead, my mind races, wondering what those notifications say. My phone buzzes for the third time in twenty minutes. Another email from Blake. I ignore it, tossing the device aside with more force than necessary. "Vi, you promised," Anna chides, lowering her sunglasses to fix me with a pointed look. "No work, remember?"
I sigh, forcing a smile. "You're right. Sorry." God, I need help.
"You're such a workaholic. Honestly, just enjoy the nice weather, and the fact that there are no cameras judging you, okay?" Anna's tone is light but carries the weight of genuine concern.
Anna returns to her romance novel—one with a shirtless man and swooning woman on the cover—but I can't seem to quiet my mind. Behind my own sunglasses, I close my eyes, trying to focus on physical sensations: the warmth on my skin, the distant crash of waves, the occasional burst of laughter from other beachgoers.
It works for approximately thirty seconds.
My fingers twitch with the urge to check my phone again. Just one quick look at the latest testing data Blake promised to send. Just a brief scan of the motorsport news to see what our competitors are saying.
I resist, focusing instead on the horizon where blue meets blue in a perfect, unbroken line. This is ridiculous. I'm in paradise with my best friend, and all I can think about is whether our front wing modification will deliver the promised two-tenths per lap.
My phone buzzes again.
"I swear to god, Vi," Anna mutters without looking up from her book. "I'm going to throw that phone into the water if you touch it."
"I'm not touching it," I protest, raising both hands in surrender. "See? Hands phone-free."
But as Anna returns to her book, my thoughts drift back to the paddock, to Dominic's smug face on the TV, to the media tearing us apart, piece by piece. I can pretend I'm okay, but that eats me up inside.
Everything is coming back. I want to enjoy the nice weather, all the massages Anna took me to, forcing me to relax, the nice lunches with a view of beautiful turquoise waters, the good vibes at the lounge parties we've been attending. My body may be here, but my head is somewhere else—working, strategizing, worrying.
A waiter approaches with a tray of drinks—something fruity and tropical with tiny umbrellas that Anna ordered earlier. AsI reach for one, my phone buzzesagain; a text this time, not an email. Unable to resist, I glance at the screen.
An unknown number:Miss Colton, this is James Pierce, William Foster's manager. We'd like to schedule a meeting upon your return. We've got a matter we'd like to discuss with you. Please let me know your availability. Thank you.
I blink, reading the message twice. William Foster? The hot-headed F2 driver I'd nearly come to blows with in the paddock? The same William Foster who'd dismissed me as "not having the credibility to give him tips"?
"Everything okay?" Anna asks, noticing my frown.
I nod absently, my mind whirling. What could Foster possibly want? To apologize? Unlikely. To gloat? Even less likely, given his own disastrous season finale in F2.
Unless...
The pieces click into place with an almost audible snap. My breath catches.Oh. Oh, no.Is he actually considering joining Colton Racing?
"Anna," I say, sitting up abruptly, my drink forgotten. "I need to cut this trip short."
"No way." She lowers her book completely this time, pushing her sunglasses up into her hair. "We've got three more days. Whatever it is can wait."
"It's William Foster's manager," I explain, showing her the text. "He wants a meeting."
"So? Tell him you'll see him next week when you're back. That's what out-of-office messages are for." She gives me a pointed look. "The one you were supposed to set up before we left."
