Page 134 of Racing for Redemption
The final corner. The checkered flag waves through the rain as I cross the line, Felix mere car lengths behind. For a moment, I’m unsure of my position, until Tom’s voice erupts through the radio.
“P3! P3, William! You’ve done it! First podium for Colton Racing in ten years! Incredible drive!”
I scream into my helmet, a primal release of emotion. The team’s celebration floods the radio channel—cheers, applause, someone crying. I pump my fist as I navigate the cool-down lap, waving to the drenched but ecstatic British fans.
As I park inparc fermé—alongside James Farrant’s Vortex and Oliver Lenox’s ProTech Energex—the Colton team is assembled at the barriers. In the center, her face radiant with joy, stands Violet.
And in that moment, surrounded by rain and triumph, I realize I’m exactly where I belong.
I climb out of the car, rain still pelting my helmet, my race suit soaked through. Doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except this moment. Third place. Podium. The first time Colton Racing will stand on an F1 podium in a decade.
My first podium in F1.The first of many, I promise myself.
My legs shake slightly as I place my feet on the ground, not from exhaustion, but from a surge of adrenaline that makes everything brighter, sharper, more real. The team erupts intocheers as I approach, a wall of black and red uniforms blurring through the water streaking down my visor.
My pit crew reaches for me, patting my back, gripping my shoulders. I pull off my helmet, and the rain hits my eyes directly, cool and cleansing. Someone—Tom, I think—crushes me in a bear hug. Johnson, usually stoic and analytical, has tears in his eyes as he grabs my hand. Mechanics who’ve worked endless hours, who’ve rebuilt this car from nothing, try to circle around me. This may be a fluke. We may not repeat this for the rest of the season, but hell if it doesn’t feel good. Their faces reveal a decade of frustration washing away in the Silverstone downpour. I let the rain ease my worries. Clear my mind. Take away those doubts, that fear, that stress that has plagued me for years.
Through the crowd, I spot her. Violet stands slightly apart, her professional composure cracking under the weight of emotion. Her suit is already darkened with rain, hair plastered to her cheeks. She’s smiling wider than I’ve ever seen.
I don’t think. Don’t calculate. I simply move.
The small railing separating us is an afterthought; I vault over it like it’s nothing. Team members part as I make my way to her. When I reach Violet, I wrap my arms around her waist and lift her off the ground, spinning once in the rain.
“Sorry.” I laugh against her ear, her body pressed against mine. “I’m soaking wet.”
“I don’t care,” she replies, her voice thick with emotion. She tightens her arms around my neck.
I set her down but don’t release her. Instead, I remove my balaclava, rain immediately slicking my hair to my forehead. Our eyes lock, and for a suspended moment, I consider kissing her—right here, surrounded by the team, cameras, and thousands of fans. The urge is nearly overwhelming. Claiming her would be too easy.
But I don’t. Not publicly.Not yet.
Instead, I tighten my grip on her waist, pulling her slightly closer. I lower my head to the curve where her neck meets her shoulder, brushing my nose against her skin.
“You did it,” she whispers as I pull back, her hands still on my shoulders.
“Wedid it,” I correct, finally releasing her. The lack of her warmth is immediate, but the FIA officials are already gesturing for me to follow them for the post-race procedures.
The scale confirms I’m well above the minimum weight requirement, despite sweating through the intense race. An FIA official directs me toward the cool-down room, where the top three drivers gather before the podium ceremony. I wipe my face with a towel, my heart still reeling from the race—and from Violet.
The cool-down room is oddly quiet when I enter. Oliver Lenox sits on one of the chairs, already wearing his team’s rain attire on top of his racing suit. His five championship trophies have made this routine for him. At 35, he’s the elder statesman of the grid, respected for his clinical precision on track, and thoughtful comments off it.
“Impressive drive,” he says, genuine appreciation in his voice. “That move on Marquez was particularly ballsy in these conditions. Bloody impressive, mate.”
“Thanks,” I reply, slightly starstruck despite myself. This is a five-time F1 World Driver’s Champion, one of the few people on the grid who I’ve admired for years. “Means a lot coming from you.”
The door opens again, and James Farrant struts in. The current World Champion surveys the room with the casual arrogance of someone who believes his talent entitles him to victory. At 27, he’s already secured three championships, and shows no signs of slowing down. His fiery red hair is perfectly styled despite the helmet and rain, as if even the elements dare not disturb his appearance.
His gaze lands on me, and he raises an eyebrow. “Well, look who crawled out of the back of the grid. Foster, right? Didn’t know that trash box you’re driving could make it toparc ferméwithout breaking down.”
The flush of anger is immediate, heating my neck and cheeks. I’ve dealt with arrogant drivers my entire career, but Farrant elevates it to an art form.
“Funny,” I reply, keeping my voice level. “I was just thinking the same about your personality.”
Oliver snorts quietly from his corner. Farrant’s gaze narrows.
“Enjoy your charity podium,” he says dismissively. “Rain makes everyone look good temporarily. Next dry race, you’ll beback fighting for scraps with the other backmarkers where you belong.”
I step forward, muscles tensing, but an FIA official enters before I can respond.
