Page 61 of Racing for Redemption
“It’s a two-year plan,” Paul says, a defensive edge creeping into his voice. “Learn the ropes, prove myself, move up to the main team.”
“Sure, sure.” I wave my hand dismissively, echoing his own patronizing tone from earlier. “I’m sure they’ll promote you over the other five academy drivers they’ve got lined up. Any day now.”
The tension between us thickens. Several team personnel walk by, slowing to observe our exchange. Paul straightens his posture, aware of the audience.
“At least I’m in a real team,” he says, voice lower but sharper. “Not some family business running on candles, mold and nostalgia. How many points do you honestly think you’ll score this year, Foster? One? Two, if you’re lucky?”
“More than you scored in your last three races before the finale in Abu Dhabi,” I counter smoothly. “Remind me how those went? DNF, P18, DNF, wasn’t it?”
Paul’s cheeks flush. Those races were disastrous, and the reason it opened the doors for me to fight for the F2 title until the season finale. It seemed like he was breaking under pressure. “Teething problems. This season will be different.”
“I’m sure it will.” I adjust my cap, the picture of relaxed confidence despite the anger still simmering below the surface. “For both of us.”
A sleek black car pulls up near the exit—Paul’s ride, based on how he glances at it. His opportunity to exit the increasingly uncomfortable exchange.
“Well,” he says, recovering his smug demeanor, “it was fascinating catching up. I’ll be sure to wave when I lap you in Australia.”
“Bold of you to assume you’ll be far enough ahead to lap anyone,” I reply with a pleasant smile. “But I appreciate the optimism. Best of luck with Mendoza. I hear he likes to playpolitics with team resources. But I’m sure you’re used to that kind of environment.”
Paul’s gaze narrows at the pointed reference to the Vortex Academy tactics that helped him win in F2. For a moment, it seems he might abandon his composure and say something genuinely revealing. Instead, he forces a laugh.
“Politics is part of F1, Foster. But I wouldn’t expect someone driving for a Team Principal’s charity case to understand the complexities of real racing politics.”
The jab about being Violet’s “charity case” stings, but my expression remains neutral. “You know what, Paul? I genuinely hope you have a great season.”
He blinks, thrown by the apparent sincerity. “What?”
“I mean it. I hope you do well. I hope you score points, impress your team, prove your worth.” I step closer, lowering my voice. “Because I want to beat you fair and square, on equal footing, no excuses. I want to demolish you on pure talent, not because your car failed, or your team strategy was wrong. Just you and me, man to man, driver to driver.”
Paul stares at me, momentarily speechless.
“See you on the grid,” I say, moving past him toward the parking lot.
I continue walking, sensing his gaze on me but refusing to look back. My heart pounds in my chest, adrenaline coursing through me from the confrontation, but there’s something else there, too—pride. Not in winning the exchange, but in not losing myself to it.
Six months ago, that encounter would have ended with security intervention. Today, I walked away on my terms, said my piece without losing control, and defended myself without derailing my focus.
Progress. Growth. Maturity.
I reach my rental car, tossing my backpack into the passenger seat. As I start the engine, I glance in the rearview mirror to see Paul still standing by the exit, still watching me. I give him a small nod—not friendly, not hostile, just acknowledgment—before driving away.
The old rivalry isn’t over. If anything, it’s just beginning its evolution into something more complex in the F1 arena. But I’m not the same William Foster who wanted to throttle him in Abu Dhabi. I’m becoming someone stronger, more controlled, more strategic.
Someone who might just surprise everyone this season—Paul Bertrand included.
The restaurant’s sign flickers neon blue against the darkening Barcelona sky—“El Buffet Internacional”—nothing fancy, just honest food in generous portions. Colton Racing team members are already claiming a section near the back, engineers and mechanics piling plates high withpaellaand grilledmeats. Nicholas is conspicuously absent, probably dining at some Michelin-starred establishment instead.
I can’t help but smile. Violet Colton runs a multi-million dollar racing team, yet chooses a family buffet for the team dinner. Cost-cutting measures, probably. But I don’t mind. Reminds me of the places my parents would take me as a treat after successful race weekends—when a big meal meant victory, not an everyday expectation.
I weave through the crowded restaurant, nodding to familiar faces from the team. The place buzzes with conversation in multiple languages, the air thick with the aroma of saffron, garlic, peppers, and grilled seafood. Flatscreen TVs mounted on walls play muted football matches, occasionally drawing cheers from locals at the bar.
This is my kind of place. Not the sterile, pretentious restaurants where they serve a teaspoon of foam and a pea, and call it molecular gastronomy while charging you an arm and a leg. Here, food is abundant, unpretentious, meant to satisfy rather than impress. Proper food for genuine hunger. And it smells heavenly.
Blake sits with Johnson and some other senior staff, animatedly discussing something over half-empty sangria pitchers. I approach their table, noting the empty chair where Violet would probably sit.
“Evening,” I greet them. “Good day’s work today.”
“William!” Blake’s face lights up, gesturing to an empty chair. “Join us. We were just discussing your feedback on the car’s balance.”
