Page 53 of Racing for Redemption
“You know I will.”
“And remember—first tests can be deceiving. Don’t get too high with good results, or too low with bad ones.”
“Balanced perspective. Got it.”
James glances at his watch. “What time’s your show?”
“Doors open at eight. But I like to get there early, watch the opening acts as there are some cool underground bands in these types of shows.”
“Always studying, even at concerts.” James shakes his head, amused. “Some things never change.”
I stand, setting my half-finished coffee aside. “I should get going. Traffic will be a nightmare.”
James rises, too, his bulk making the couch groan in relief. “Enjoy the show. And Liam?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m proud of you. Not just for making it to F1. For how you’ve handled everything—the setbacks, the criticism, the anger management, the… trauma, and the doubts. You’ve grown.”
The simple words hit me with unexpected force. I swallow hard, nodding.
“Thanks to you,” I manage.
James waves this away. “You did the work. I just pointed in the right direction.”
We shake hands, then embrace briefly—the kind of hug between people who don’t need words to express what matters.Fuck, he’s going to make me go to the show with bloodshot eyes.
As I head for the door, James calls after me. “Oh, and Liam? Try not to break your neck in the mosh pit. Barcelona starts Monday, and I can’t market a driver in a cervical collar.”
I grin over my shoulder. “No promises.”
The door closes behind me, but I carry the warmth of our conversation down the creaking stairs and out into the rain-washed street. Beyond manager and driver, beyond mentor and protégé, James and I have become something rare in the cutthroat world of motorsport.
Friends. Almost family.
Chapter 16
Generational rivalry
Violet
Itake a deep breath, smoothing my violet-accented suit jacket. The door looms before me, a barrier between the calm of the hallway, and the chaos that awaits. My first pre-season press conference as Colton Racing’s Team Principal. My heart thunders. I’m a bit nauseous, and my palms are sweaty, but I force my face into a mask of composure.
I push the door open.
A sea of faces turn toward me. Flashes pop. Microphones thrust forward like accusatory fingers.
“Ms. Colton! Over here!”
“Violet, a moment, please!”
I smile, tight-lipped, and make my way to the long table at the front of the room. My heels click against the floor, each step mirroring a calm I’m lacking internally. I take my seat between Dominic Harrington of Vortex Racing, and Marco Baretta of Baretta Racing.
Dominic’s cologne wafts over, cloying and overpowering. I resist the urge to wrinkle my nose. This guy smells worse than a grandma’s closet.
The moderator clears his throat. “Welcome, everyone. We’ll begin with opening statements from each Team Principal, starting with the reigning champions, Vortex Racing.”
Dominic leans forward, his smile predatory. “Vortex Racing is poised for another dominant season. With James Farrant at the wheel, and our superior technology, we’ll be leaving the competition in the dust.”
