Page 56 of Racing for Redemption
Blake’s expression is sympathetic. “He’s playing mind games, Violet. Don’t let him get to you.”
“How can I not? He’s—”
“Trying to throw you off your game. Don’t give him that satisfaction.”
I take a deep breath, my fists still clenched. “I hate him. That smirk… God, I wish I could wipe it off his face. And that tone—”
Blake squeezes my shoulder. “You will. On the track. That’s where it counts. Not now, but we will.”
I nod, but inside, I’m seething.3 years, Dominic Harrington. If my projections are right, give me 3 years, and I’ll make you eat those words.
Chapter 17
Sixteen again
William
Barcelona’s Circuit de Catalunya stretches before me like a puzzle waiting to be solved. Morning sun glints off carbon fiber and chrome as mechanics push cars toward garages, the air thick with anticipation, and the acrid scent of fuel. Testing. No points, no podiums, no champagne—just pure data acquisition, and the first true measure of where we stand. I adjust my Colton Racing cap, steeling myself as I approach our garage. This is it. The moment when simulation becomes reality, when all the winter talk finally faces the stopwatch’s brutal honesty.
The paddock buzzes with controlled chaos. Engineers huddled over laptops, team principals strategizing in glass-walled hospitality units, journalists prowling for any hint of innovation or controversy. Testing has its own peculiar atmosphere—professional yet relaxed, competitive yet collaborative. Without the pressure of championship points, there’s a different energy.More scientific. More methodical. The calm before the twenty-three-race storm.
Our garage sits at the far end of the pit lane, territory reserved for last season’s backmarkers. I nod to several mechanics I recognize, exchanging brief greetings as I make my way through. The car sits partially disassembled, bodywork removed to expose the intricate systems beneath. Even naked like this—perhaps especially so—it’s beautiful. A symphony of engineering, each component meticulously designed, manufactured, and fitted.
“Well, look who decided to join us. The poor boy from Michigan.”
Nicholas’ voice cuts through my appreciation. He’s lounging against a tool cabinet, dressed in the team gear that somehow looks like designer wear on him. His smile doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Morning, Nicholas,” I respond neutrally, refusing to take the bait. "I see you've woken up on the asshole side of the bed."
His eye twitches. “Sleep well in your budget hotel room? Mine had a jacuzzi, and a view of the city.” He examines his manicured nails with exaggerated interest.
A hot spike of anger flares in my chest. After our confrontation during the media day, he’s clearly decided antagonism is our default relationship. Fine. I can work with that.
I force a smile. “I slept perfectly, thanks. Been reviewing data since 5 AM.” I move past him toward my side of the garage, where my race suit hangs ready.
“Such dedication,” he calls after me, voice dripping with mockery. “Trying to compensate for something?”
I clench my jaw so hard, my teeth ache. This is exactly what James warned me about—needless provocation, attempts to destabilize my focus. I won’t give Nicholas the satisfaction of seeing me react. Instead, I channel the anger into focus, into determination to let my driving speak for itself.
My race engineer, Tom, approaches with a tablet as he fixes his glasses. “Ready to get started? We’ve got the initial program mapped out.”
“Absolutely.” I take the tablet, scanning the test sequence—installation lap, systems check, baseline setup evaluation, then progressively pushing performance variables. “Looks good.”
I change into my race suit in the small driver’s room, methodically going through my pre-drive routine. The suit fits perfectly, custom-tailored to my body. The helmet andHANSdevice wait on the shelf above. I reach for my balaclava, pulling it over my head, feeling the familiar confinement as theNomexmaterial covers my face, leaving only my eyes exposed.
The helmet comes next—carbon fiber shell encasing my head, visor clicking into place. The world narrows, sounds are muffled, and breathing is restricted to the flow through the small ventilation system. Some drivers hate this feeling of confinement. I find it oddly comforting—a cocoon of focus, stripping away everything but the essentials. This can also be my introverted side enjoying silence. Isolation. Peace. Either way, I like it.
Tom returns as I’m securing my gloves. “Car’s ready. Initial setup is conservative; we’re prioritizing reliability over performance for the first runs.”
I nod, following him out to where the car waits. The mechanics part like water from oil, creating a path to the cockpit. I place my hand briefly on the nose of the car—a small ritual, a moment of connection before we dance together.
Sliding into the cockpit feels like coming home. The seat, moulded precisely to my body during my fitting session months ago, cradles me perfectly. Hands on the wheel, feet finding the pedals, eyes scanning the displays. The team attaches the steering wheel, connects the radio, secures the safety belts with practiced efficiency.
“Radio check, William,” comes Tom’s voice in my ear.
“Loud and clear,” I respond.
“Engine start in thirty seconds.”
