Page 135 of Racing for Redemption
“Gentlemen, podium in two minutes. Please standby."
Farrant smirks and turns away. Oliver catches my eye and gives a small shake of his head—a veteran’s advice to not take the bait. I exhale slowly, forcing my fists to unclench. This moment is too important to be tainted by Farrant’s toxicity.
We line up behind the stage. I hear the announcer’s voice booming through the speakers, the roar of the crowd responding. Despite the continuing rain, the grandstands remain packed with fans unwilling to miss this moment.
“In third place, scoring Colton Racing’s first podium in ten years… William Foster!”
I step onto the podium, blinking against the rain and camera flashes. The trophy presenter—some local dignitary—hands me the weighty bronze cup. I raise it above my head, eyes closed, and scream. Not words, just a primal release of everything—the struggle, the doubt, the endless work, the redemption. This year has been tough, and we deserve it. A small breather. A reward for our relentless work with a scrappy, minimal budget in comparison with the two teams sharing this podium with me.
When I open my eyes, I immediately search for Violet in the crowd below. She stands at the front of the Colton team, her gaze fixed on me, pride radiating from her entire being. Our eyes meet, and I smile softly at her.
The anthems play. Farrant preens during “The Soldier's Song,” while Oliver stands respectfully still. I can barely contain my energy, shifting weight from foot to foot, the trophy still clutched in my hands.
Then comes the champagne. Farrant shakes his bottle vigorously, aiming directly at my face when he uncorks it. The cold, sweet liquid hits me like a pressure washer, but I laugh and retaliate. Oliver joins the battle with unexpected enthusiasm, drenching both of us thoroughly. For these brief minutes, even Farrant seems to shed his arrogance in favor of childlike joy.
The celebration continues as we descend from the podium. I’m ushered toward more media obligations, but not before I catch another glimpse of Violet. She’s speaking with Blake, gesturing animatedly, her rain-soaked suit clinging to her curves. She looks happier than I’ve ever seen her.
This is perfect. Too perfect. The podium, the team’s elation, Violet’s pride. I want to freeze this moment, preserve it against the inevitable challenges ahead. Our car is gonna suck for the rest of the season; it’s not optimized for any of those tracks, and it struggles in high temps. But time marches forward, and I’m guided toward the waiting journalists, the trophy—mytrophy—still clutched in my hands.
It’s hard to believe this isn’t a dream—the kind you fight to stay inside when morning threatens to break its spell. But the weight of the trophy in my hands, the ache in my muscles, the dampness of my clothes—all confirm this is gloriously real. And as I answer questions about the race, I’m already planning howI’ll celebrate with Violet later, away from cameras and expectations.
Chapter 40
Just us
William
The now dried champagne is sticky on my skin by the time I escape the media obligations. My body aches pleasantly, muscles humming with the aftermath of ninety minutes of intense concentration and physical strain. But my mind is singular, focused on one destination. I weave through the paddock, clutching my trophy, nodding at congratulations without stopping. The Colton Racing motorhome stands ahead, its lights glowing against the darkening Silverstone sky. Somewhere inside is Violet, and I need her like I need air.
I pass Blake in the main area of the motorhome, his face still split with a grin I doubt will fade for days.
“Hell of a drive,” he says, clapping my shoulder. “She’s upstairs.”
I don’t bother pretending I was looking for anyone else. The stairs take me to the second floor, to the private office Violet usesduring race weekends. I don’t knock. Don’t hesitate. Just push the door open and step inside.
She’s standing by the window, still in her rain-damp suit, phone pressed to her ear. At the sound of the door, she turns, her professional mask sliding into place, until she realizes it’s me. The transformation takes my breath away—her eyes soften, her posture relaxes, her lips curve into a smile that’s just for me.
“I’ll call you back tomorrow,” she says into the phone, disconnecting without waiting for a response.
I cross the room in three strides and wrap my arms around her. She returns the embrace with surprising force, her face pressed against my neck. When she pulls back, I’m shocked to see tears in her eyes.
“Are you crying?” I ask, reaching up to brush her cheek with my thumb.
“No,” she lies, blinking rapidly. “Maybe. It’s just—William, do you realize what you did today?”
“Got a podium?”
She shakes her head, gripping my arms. “You secured our Constructors' position. The simulations are clear—even if we don’t score another point this season, we’ll finish no lower than P8. The board needed P8 or better to keep me on.” Her voice cracks slightly. “You saved my job.”
The realization hits me, and I grin like a fool. The podium was significant for the team, but I hadn’t calculated the mathematical implications for the Constructors’ standings. For Violet’s position.
“You’re not getting rid of me that easily,” I say, attempting lightness despite the weight of the moment.
She laughs, the sound catching on a sob. Then, she grabs my face between her hands and kisses me with an intensity that steals my breath. It’s not our first kiss—not even our hundredth after Melbourne and Monaco, and that weekend at my place—but it carries a new desperation, a gratitude mixed with desire that makes my head spin.
I back her against the desk, finding her waist, then lower. She breaks the kiss, breathing hard against my lips.
“I need to breathe,” she whispers.
