Page 105 of Racing for Redemption
Then came the distance. The overworking. The exhaustion. The notion that things are slipping away from me, him included.Why do I keep wearing his watch? Why do I find myself thinking of him during tedious meetings? Why did my stomach clench when Blake called about his crash?
I pull up our text exchangefrom a couple of weeks ago.
William:When are you coming back to the paddock?
Me:Not sure. Imola, hopefully. Get some rest, William.
Formal. Distant. Nothing like the breathless whispers in my hotel room, his hands tangled in my hair, my name on his lips like a prayer.
I’d almost written more. Almost told him I miss him. Almost suggested we meet in Imola, resume where we left off.
But complications are the last thing I need. And I don't want to sound needy and burden him, when I initially said this was a casual thing. However, I can't focus on that right now. The team is walking a tightrope—financially, competitively, politically. One misstep, one distraction, and we could lose everything my father built.
So, I keep William at arm’s length through cold texts and professional emails, even as I wear his watch against my skin.
I stand, gathering my materials. The European triple-header is approaching—Imola, Monaco, Barcelona. No more hiding in boardrooms and conference calls. The paddock awaits, with all its challenges. With all the excitement, adrenaline, and high stakes I love.
And William.
My phone buzzes with an incoming call from Blake. Time to focus on the business at hand. Time to be the Team Principal, not the woman who can’t stop thinking about her driver’s hands on her body, or the warm hug I desperately need right now.
I answer, voice steady as stone.“Blake. Update me on the car repairs.”
Chapter 29
When the snakes start to sing
William
Itrudge back to the paddock, medical clearance form clutched in my hand like a detention slip. My ribs ache. My neck throbs. But it’s the sting of another pointless race that really hurts—another opportunity squandered, another weekend without points, another failure to prove myself worthy of the seat Violet gave me. The thought of her makes my chest tighten in a way unrelated to the 51 Gs impact I just survived.
Halfway to the Colton Racing garage, a voice stops me.
“William Foster.” The accent is crisp, English boarding school polished to a shine. “Nasty crash. Glad to see you on your feet.”
I turn to find Dominic Harrington—Team Principal of Vortex Racing—leaning against a hospitality unit. His silver hair is immaculate despite the desert heat, his tailored suit unwrinkled. The embodiment of F1 "pseudo" royalty.
“Mr. Harrington,” I say, straightening despite the pain in my back. In F1, there are people you’re casual with, and people you’re not. Harrington belongs firmly in the latter category.
“Please, Dominic.” He smiles, all teeth and no warmth. “Walk with me?”
It’s not really a question. In the F1 hierarchy, when someone like Dominic Harrington suggests a walk, you walk. This is one thing I hate here, part of the elitism of this sport. The dinosaurs of the sport—regardless if talented or not—get all the limelight, and if a rookie driver ignores them, they are shunned, criticized and removed from any "good driver" lists. I was problematic in the past, with my temper flaring almost all the time. I was "damaged goods." I don't intend to have such a title here, so, I oblige.
We move away from the busy paddock area, toward the quieter space near the garages and through the back. Harrington maintains a respectful distance, hands clasped behind his back.
“That was some drive in Melbourne,” he says. “P5 in that...” He pauses. “...challenging machinery. Impressive.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“No need for ‘sir.’ We’re colleagues.” His smile widens. “Or perhaps future colleagues.”
My pulse quickens.This isn’t a casual chat.
“I’ve been watching your career with interest, William. F3 champion. Would have been F2 champion if not for Bertrand’s… tactics. Which was a pity, but you understand business, don’t you?” He makes a dismissive gesture. “Then, extracting performance from that Colton Racing shopping trolley that, frankly, doesn’t deserve to be in the points.”
I remain silent, unsure where this is heading.
“You deserve better equipment,” Harrington continues. “A proper team. Real opportunities.”
