Page 84 of Racing for Redemption
I push the thought away.Focus on what I can control.
Q2 begins, and the intensity ratchets higher. The top teams are pushing now, setting blistering times that remind me of the gap we still need to close. But I’m not racing them—not yet.
My first flying lap puts me at P12 temporarily, but as others improve, I slip to P14 again. One more attempt.
As I exit the pits for my final run, I’m behind Paul’s car. He’s on an out lap, too, but moving suspiciously slowly.
“Bertrand ahead,” I report to Tom. “He’s backing me up.”
“Copy that. Three minutes remaining in the session. Find space if you can.”
But Paul is playing games, slowing on corners, then accelerating on straights, making it impossible to pass cleanly without compromising my tire preparation. My blood boils, but I force myself to stay calm.
I try the outside into Turn 4, but he drifts wide, forcing me to back off. The seconds tick away. Two minutes left.
“William, you need to start your lap in the next 45 seconds,” Tom warns.
"I fucking want to! This muppet is stalling me. Report him to the stewards!" Decision made, I’m driving up the inside into Turn 9 with more aggression than I’ve shown all weekend. Paul is forced to yield, but I struggle to keep the car on track at the exit to Turn 10.
As I push to create a gap for my flying lap, Felix’s Baretta appears in my mirrors. We raced together in junior formulae—friends off track, respectful rivals on it. He waves in acknowledgment as he hangs back, giving me space.
“Thanks, buddy,” I mutter, focusing forward.
The final flying lap is all instinct—pushing harder than before, finding milliseconds in every corner. The car complains but responds, tires on the edge of their performance window.
“Last corner, give it everything,” Tom urges.
I clip the apex perfectly, powering onto the main straight, foot flat to the floor until the very last moment before the line.
“1:18.248,” Tom reports. “P13! Good job, William!”
P13. Not a miraculous improvement, but in F1, every position is a battle. More importantly, we’ve made Q2, beaten several midfield teams, and shown that Colton Racing isn’t dead yet.
I return to the garage in a state of apprehensive elation. As I climb out of the cockpit, the team converges—handshakes, back slaps, wide grins all around as I try to take off the helmet and balaclava. On the other side of the garage, Nicholas’ space is empty. He qualified P20—dead last—and has already disappeared.
Through the crowd, I spot my parents near the back of the garage, my father’s eyes suspiciously wet as my mom is jumping around him. And there’s Violet, standing beside Blake, the biggest smile I’ve ever seen on her face—professional restraint momentarily abandoned.
I can’t help myself. After hugging my parents, I jog over to Blake first, hugging him briefly, then turn to Violet. Without hesitation, I wrap my arms around her, lifting her slightly off the ground in my excitement.
“P13, Violet! P13!” I laugh, breathless with achievement.
I set her down but don’t let go, suddenly aware of the cameras capturing this moment. I should care—should worry about appearances—but all I can focus on is the warmth of her, the subtle scent of her perfume, the way her hands tentatively rest against my back. I deserve this, so… I just need a moment longer.
I pull back enough to look at her, still keeping her in the circle of my arms. Her eyes are bright, cheeks flushed, and it’s the most beautiful view I've seen.
“Don’t consider this one of the hugs you need to cash in,” I whisper, just for her. “This is a freebie for my precious friend, CEO, and Team Principal.”
I move my hand to the back of her head, a gesture far too intimate for colleagues, too possessive for mere friends. I breathe her in for one selfish moment before reluctantly stepping back.
“Sorry,” I apologize, suddenly aware of the attention we’ve drawn. “I’ve probably wrinkled your suit. And I’m all sweaty and gross.” And I need to adjust myself before someone spots how aroused I am from her scent.
“Worth it for P13,” she says, her voice slightly unsteady. “Though, next time, perhaps wait until you’ve showered.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” I grin, running a hand through my helmet-flattened hair.
We hold each other’s gaze for a moment too long. "I'm proud of you." When she says those words, I look away, ears and neck burning. My parents are watching us, identical knowing expressions on their faces.
I clear my throat. “I should go get ready for the press. They’re going to want to know how we pulled that off.”
