Page 33 of Racing for Redemption
I brake hard into Turn 1, feeling the resistance through the wheel.
I nail the apex of Turn 3, feeling the virtual car respond. New parameter settings definitely help with the rear stability.
“Looking good, William.” Johnson’s voice cuts through my headset. “Half a second up on yesterday already.”
I smile despite myself. This is what I focus on. Improvement. Progress. Proving every day that I deserve to be here.
The lap flies by, corners blending into straights, my hands moving automatically. This is where my mind goes quiet. Where the doubt and frustration melt away.
Three laps later, I pull the virtual car into the pits and remove my balaclava and helmet combo. Sweat beads on my forehead despite the room’s air conditioning.
“That’s what I’m talking about.” Johnson grins, showing me the times. “Consistent improvement. Nicholas hasn’t been able to match these times yet.”
I put down the helmet and lean against the wall.
“I’ll take the data to Violet later,” Johnson continues. “She’s been asking for daily progress reports.”
“How’s she feeling about pre-season testing?” I ask, trying to sound casual.
Johnson shrugs. “You know Violet. Keeps her cards close. But Blake mentioned she’s been pulling all-nighters lately.”
I nod, picturing her hunched over reports in her office. The few times we’ve spoken directly, she’s been professional, focused. She's always with a cup of coffee in hand, and some sort of pastry to pair it with. Sometimes, I catch her watching the simulator sessions from the observation deck, her expression unreadable.
“Speak of the devil,” Johnson murmurs, and I follow his gaze to the glass window above us.
There she is. Hair pulled back in a neat ponytail, wearing the flowy, dark-gray suit with thin, violet stripes that have become her trademark. I start thinking that maybe she’s a 'power suit'type of woman. She’s speaking with Blake, gesturing at something on a tablet.
Her presence commands attention. She radiates intensity. Like every moment matters. Like she’s carrying the weight of her family’s legacy on her shoulders.
Which, I suppose, she is.
Our eyes meet briefly through the glass. She gives a small nod of acknowledgment. I return it, and add a smile to the mix.
“Foster!” Nicholas’ voice ruins the moment. I turn to see my teammate swagger in, twenty minutes late for his scheduled session. “Don’t tell me you’re hogging the simulator again.”
“Just finished,” I say, standing and gathering my notes. “All yours.”
Nicholas is everything I’m not—tall, blond, mega rich, connected. His father owns half of Dubai, or so it’s rumored. He drives like someone who’s never had to fight for anything in his life.
Which, I guess, he hasn’t.
I glance up at the observation window again, but Violet is gone. Only Blake remains, watching Nicholas with a look that mirrors my own thoughts.
The marketing department’s studio lights burn hot against my face. Two weeks before the big team reveal, and we’re shooting promo content like we’re running out of time. I adjust the collar of my white, red, and black team shirt, stealing glances at the clock.
Three hours down; God knows how many more to go.
It’s as though the camera lens is staring at me, unblinking and merciless. I smile—not too wide, not too stiff. Media training 101. The marketing department has us jumping through hoops like trained seals. Press photos, video clips, sound bites. I will do whatever the team needs to get back on its feet, but today is particularly stressful, and it doesn’t help that beside me, Nicholas lounges in his chair like he’s poolside in Monaco, not giving a damn about being here.
“And we’re ready in three, two—” The marketing director points at us, and the red light on the camera blinks on.
“I’m Nicholas Davanti, and this season with Colton Racing is going to be our best yet.”
“I’m William Foster, and I can’t wait to show what Colton Racing can do this year.”
Our practiced lines. Delivered exactly as instructed. The difference is, I meant what I said.
“Perfect, gentlemen. Now, let’s get some casual conversation going between teammates. Just chat naturally about your expectations, your preparation, anything race-related.” The director steps back, giving us space. "We want this to look candid."
