Page 76 of Racing for Redemption
Or consolation, depending on how things go. But I don’t say that part out loud.
I finish the mango as we talk, catching up on neighborhood gossip and news from home. Time slips away, and I check my watch with a jolt.
“I need to get going,” I say. “Team dinner tonight—mandatory.”
I pull out the VIP passes and wristbands from my backpack. “These will get you into the paddock, and our hospitality area. You can watch from the garage if you want, or there’s a viewing platform.”
Dad takes them reverently, like I’ve handed him ancient artifacts. “We’ll be there. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
I hug them both one more time, holding on a beat longer than necessary. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Go show them what a Foster can do,” Dad says.
“We love you, Will,” Mom adds. “No matter what happens.”
I nod, throat tight again. “Love you, too.”
As I walk to my rental car, my steps are lighter somehow. Seeing them after such a long time really eased all the stress I was feeling coming into this weekend. No matter what happens this weekend—points, crash, or mechanical failure—I have them. And for a kid who grew up with nothing but a dream, and parents crazy enough to believe in it, that’s more than enough.
Chapter 21
Implicitthreats
Violet
Iadjust the collar of my suit as the Melbourne sun beats down on the paddock. First practice day. The air thrums with anticipation, and the distant whine of engines warming up. Not even a year as Colton Racing’s CEO and Team Principal, and my stomach still knots before I face the media. We don't have pressure from the media, nor anyone in the paddock, but… I've ended up putting pressure on myself to deliver—exceeding the board's goals—to the point that I would have preferred to bail on this commitment. I paste on my professional mask—straight spine, measured smile, eyes that reveal nothing—and step into the pen. The reporters swarm like piranhas, searching for blood in the water.
“Ms. Colton! Over here!”
“Violet, a moment, please!”
I acknowledge Janet from Motorsport Weekly first. Strategy—always start withsomeone reasonable.
“Violet, surprising results from Barcelona testing,” she says, voice recorder extended toward me. “P14 with Foster behind the wheel. Is this a sign that Colton Racing is making a comeback?”
A hint of a smile forms. “We’re cautiously optimistic. The team has worked tirelessly over the winter break. William’s feedback has been invaluable in developing the car.”
William. Not Foster. The familiarity slipped out before I could catch it. A journalist from F1 Daily pounces immediately.
“Speaking of William Foster—quite the coup, signing him. Talk in the paddock was that no one wanted him, not even Colton Racing, but was it a lie? Were you hiding that interest until the last minute to avoid someone stealing him from the team?” Well, I wish it had been that clever. He literally groveled for the seat, but I won’t tell them that. “How did a team that finished last in the Constructors’ Championship manage to secure such a promising talent?”
The question carries a barb, but I’ve been pricked by sharper.
“We saw the opportunity to bring in William and let him prove himself. At Colton Racing, he gets a race seat and develops the car. I still don’t understand why other teams passed on him. He’s embraced our vision for rebuilding this team from the ground up.”
My thoughts briefly flicker to Birmingham—William’s hand steady on my lower back as we navigated the heaving crowd, curling his fingers protectively when that drunk man got too close. The way his eyes crinkled when he grinned, stealing myfries across the greasy dinner table after the show. I blink away the memory.Focus, Violet.
“Your car looks a bit… naked, compared to others on the grid,” says a reporter from Speedster Nation. “Only a single sponsor on the rear wing. Is that an aesthetic choice, or is Colton Racing struggling to attract financial backing?”
Heat creeps up my neck, but my expression remains neutral. “We’re in discussions with several potential partners. The right alignment matters more to us than plastering the car with logos for the sake of it.”
A half-truth. We’re desperate for sponsors. Every call I’ve made has ended with polite refusal, or outright rejection. Except for one—Silas Belforte. His offer to invest looms in my mind, tempting and troubling in equal measure. A legitimate businessman on paper, but rumors of mob connections make me hesitate.
“Any names you can share?” the reporter pushes.
“When agreements are finalized, you’ll be the first to know.” I offer a smile that doesn’t reach my eyes.
A younger journalist—hungry, eager—raises his hand next. I don’t recognize him, immediately putting me on alert.
