Page 82 of Racing for Redemption
“Have you?” She raises an eyebrow, a challenge in her voice. “Because I distinctly remember someone complaining about understeer just yesterday.”
“Constructive feedback,” I counter. “That’s different from complaining.”
“Is it? I’ll have to take notes on the distinction.” She smirks at me, and I'm melting on the spot.
My parents watch our exchange like a tennis match, heads swiveling between us. Mom’s expression is particularly knowing, and heat creeps up my neck.
“William needs to prepare for qualifying,” Violet says, checking her watch. “But please, make yourselves comfortable inour hospitality area. Blake will ensure you have everything you need.”
“Thank you,” Mom says sincerely. “We’re just so proud to be here.”
Violet’s expression softens again. “As you should be. You raised a good man, and an even better driver.” She turns to me, all business now. “Briefing in fifteen minutes. Don’t be late.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Vio—boss.”
She rolls her eyes at the nickname, but there’s the ghost of a smile as she walks away. I watch her for a moment too long before turning back to my parents.
“She seems lovely,” Mom says immediately.
“She’s my boss,” I remind her, though the words ring hollow even to my ears.
Dad snorts. “Boss, right. That’s why you two were practically finishing each other’s sentences.”
I usher them toward the hospitality area, hoping to change the subject. “Let’s get you settled with coffee before—”
“You’re smitten, aren’t you?” Mom interrupts, her voice low but certain.
I stop walking, blindsided by her directness. “What? No, I’m—”
“William Daniel Foster,” she says, using my full name like she did when I was a child lying about taking an extra cookie. “I know that look. I’ve seen it only twice before—Martha Jenkins in tenth grade, and that Brazilian driver in Formula 4.”
“Gabriela,” Dad supplies helpfully. “The onethat—”
“Yes, thank you, I remember,” I cut him off, glancing around to ensure no one’s listening. “It’s not like that. Violet and I are… friends.”
The word tastes wrong now, a far cry from what we are. From what I want us to become.But what else can I call it?
Dad studies me, more perceptive than most give him credit for. “Is she the reason you haven’t had any outbursts lately? James mentioned you’ve been remarkably calm.”
“That’s in my contract,” I protest. “Zero tolerance for temper tantrums or violence.”
It’s true, technically. But not the whole truth. Since the end of last season, I've made time to go to a therapist to control my emotions and keep the anger at bay, to not take over. Also, the memory of Violet’s face when I snapped at her in the paddock last year—that has done more to temper my reactions than any contractual obligation.
“Sure, sure,” Dad says, clearly unconvinced. “Well, your mother and I think she’s wonderful. Professional, but not cold. Sharp, but not unkind. Has a kind smile, as well.”
Mom nods enthusiastically. “And the way she looks at you when you’re unaware…”
“Mom,” I groan. “Please stop analyzing my boss.”
“Team Principal,” she corrects with a grin. “And CEO. And her eyes soften when she looks at you, Will.”
I check my watch, grateful for the excuse. “I have to go. Qualifying starts soon.”
They both hug me, suddenly serious.
“Drive smart,” Dad says, the same words he’s said before every race since I was eight.
“We love you,” Mom adds. “No matter where you qualify.”
