Page 81 of Racing for Redemption
William
Stepping through the paddock gates, my parents flank me like eager bodyguards.
Dad’s already wearing the Colton Racing shirt, the FOSTER 64 across his back impossible to miss. Mom’s got the knitted coat folded over her arm—“just in case it gets chilly,” she insisted, though the Melbourne sun is already beating down. My chest swells with a mixture of pride and embarrassment. These are my people. Twenty-four years of unwavering support, of sacrifices I’m still discovering. Today, they’ll watch me qualify for my first Formula 1 race. The thought sends adrenaline surging through my veins, sharper than any caffeine.
“Now, remember,” I tell them as we navigate the bustling paddock, “just act natural. These people are used to celebrities and billionaires wandering around, so—”
“William!” Dad interrupts, pointing excitedly. “Is that the five-time champion, Oliver Lenox?”
I sigh. So much for playing it cool. “Yes, Dad. Please don’t ask for his autograph. I can send it over to you later.”
Mom squeezes my arm. “We’ll behave. But you can’t blame us for being excited.”
They’re like kids at an amusement park, heads swiveling to take in every detail, taking pictures of everything. I guide them toward the Colton Racing motorhome, nodding at familiar faces as we pass. Several people do double-takes at my father’s shirt, which only makes him stand taller.
Inside the motorhome, the team is gathered for breakfast. Blake spots us first, rising from his seat with a warm smile.
“You must be the Fosters,” he says, extending his hand. “Blake Simmons. I’ve heard wonderful things.”
“All lies,” I joke. “Blake is our team manager and operations expert, and the only reason this place functions.”
I introduce them to Tom, my race engineer, whose quiet brilliance has already earned my trust; to Johnson, our lead engineer who speaks six languages, but prefers equations to words; to the mechanics, who’ve spent countless hours ensuring my car will perform today.
My parents absorb each name, each handshake with genuine interest. They’ve been doing this since my karting days—acknowledging every person who contributes to my racing, treating them like an extended family member.
“William speaks so highly of everyone,” Mom tells Tom. “He says you’re a technical genius.”
Tom’s ears redden. “Just doing my job, Mrs. Foster.”
“Barbara, please,” she insists. “And this is Dan.”
Dad is in the middle of explaining his shirt to an amused group of mechanics when movement on the staircase catches my eye. Violet descends from her office, tablet in hand, sleek in her usual gray suit. Her eyes find mine immediately, then shift to my parents with curious interest.
Something in my expression must give me away, because she walks directly toward us, her professional smile softening into something more genuine.
“Ms. Colton,” I say, suddenly formal. “I’d like you to meet my parents, Barbara and Dan Foster.”
Violet extends her hand. “Please, call me Violet. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you both. William speaks of you often.”
My father engulfs her hand in both of his. “The pleasure’s ours. Thank you for taking a chance on our boy.”
“I assure you, it wasn’t charity,” Violet says, her gaze briefly meeting mine. “Your son is extraordinarily talented.”
“We know,” Mom says proudly. “But it’s nice to hear it from his boss.”
“Team Principal,” I correct automatically. “Violet’s also the CEO.”
Mom looks impressed. “Such responsibility, and so young! William mentioned you’ve been rebuilding the team?”
Violet nods. "But I'm not as young as you may think; I'm in my thirties." I’m a little surprised as she engages my parents in conversation. There’s none of the careful distance she maintains with sponsors or media—she’s warm, attentive, even slightly lessformal than usual. She asks about their drive to Melbourne, genuinely listens to their responses, shares a laugh at my expense when Dad mentions my childhood obsession with racing. And they play around with the fact that I groveled for a seat in this team, or how to tame my hot-blooded personality.
I’ve never seen her quite like this. It does something strange to my insides, watching her with my family. As though she belongs to it.
“William tells us the car has improved dramatically this season,” Dad says.
Violet glances at me, amusement dancing in her eyes. “Has he? I was under the impression he thought it was still a backmarker.”
I groan. “That was before pre-season testing. I’ve changed my tune, as you well know.”
