Page 58 of Racing for Redemption
How many others do this? How many treat their bodies—their instruments—with such casual disregard? It’s not just unprofessional; it’s disrespectful.
To the team that works endless hours.
To the fans who pay small fortunes to watch.
To competitors who deserve rivals at their best.
I’ve never understood that lifestyle, even when I had the time for it. Parties with strangers, meaningless conversations shouted over pounding music, anonymous hookups—none of it appeals to me. My precious free time is too valuable to waste on empty, quick experiences.
Give me a quiet dinner with close friends. A long trail run at dawn. A small concert venue with musicians who pour their souls into their instruments. Real connections. Authentic experiences. Quality over quantity.
Somecall me boring. A homebody. Antisocial even—they’re wrong. I’m selective. Intentional. I’d rather spend three hours with one person who matters than three minutes with sixty people who don’t.
My parents taught me that—the value of genuine connection. Growing up with so little, we learned that time together was our true wealth. Game nights around our tiny apartment table. Dad teaching me chess on a board with missing pieces. Mom reading aloud from library books, doing all the character voices.
Those moments shaped me more than any luxury ever could.
I glance at Nicholas again, now laughing too loudly with some mechanics who look uncomfortable, but are too professional to say anything. There’s no sense of superiority, just a profound disconnect. We’re teammates wearing the same colors, but we’re from different worlds, different value systems, and with different approaches to both life and racing.
Tom interrupts my thoughts. “Debrief in ten minutes. Then lunch, and Nicholas takes over for the afternoon session.”
I nod, gathering my notes. One session down. Two more to go over the next three days. Hundreds of laps, thousands of data points, countless adjustments.
Putting my headphones on, I head out of the garage to our team’s motorhome, ready for the debrief session with the engineers.
This is where races are won and lost—not just in the glamour of qualifying and Grand Prix Sundays, but in the methodical, unglamorous work of testing. In the attention to detail. Thecommunication between driver and engineer. And the relentless pursuit of milliseconds.
Hungover or not, Nicholas is in for a tough comparison when the team reviews our data side by side. Because while he was drinking last night, I was studying. While he was partying, I was preparing. While he wasn't giving a crap about his career, I was doing everything I could to be deserving of this seat.
The results speak for themselves—P14 versus P20.
Now, I want to make sure that by the end of testing, the gap has widened.
The afternoon session runs smoothly with Nicholas in the car. From the garage, his driving style is analyzed through live telemetry—more aggressive inputs than mine, harder on the brakes, quicker to the throttle, but missing apexes by centimeters that add up to lost tenths. I’m listening to his radio feedback when Violet enters the paddock with Blake beside her, deep in serious conversation. She looks exhausted, dark circles under her eyes contrasting with her crisp white shirt and tailored team jacket. Her voice, though hushed, carries an edge of stress as she mentions someone named Belforte, and a meeting that apparently didn’t go as planned.
I straighten slightly, instinctively tuning into their conversation before catching myself. Not my business. Whatever “Belforte” is—a sponsor, an investor, a technical partner—it’s team management territory, not a driver concern. Still, the tension in Violet’s shoulders, the tightness around her mouth, tells me it’s significant.
They stop near the back of the garage, Blake nodding sympathetically as Violet runs a hand through her dark curls, momentarily disheveling their perfect arrangement before they fall back into place. She has never been this openly stressed. She always maintains such careful composure, especially in the paddock where rival teams are watching, judging.
The strain etched across her features stirs something protective in me. Before I can analyze the impulse, I’m crossing the garage toward them.
“Afternoon,” I say, offering Blake a small smile before turning to Violet. “How’s the session looking from the outside?”
Blake returns my smile with a warm one of his own. “Better than we expected, thanks in no small part to your morning performance. Very consistent lap times.”
“Just doing my job,” I say, then, without thinking, I place my hand on Violet’s shoulder.
The contact is casual, collegial, or it should be. But instead of the brief touch I intended, I linger, almost caressing the smooth fabric of her jacket, feeling the delicate structure of her shoulder beneath. It’s an unconscious movement—something I might dowith a friend who looks stressed. But this is Violet. My boss. The Team Principal.
I suddenly become hyper aware of my hand on her shoulder, of the small circling motion my thumb is making against the fabric, of the warmth of her body radiating through the light material. I freeze, caught in a moment that has somehow stretched beyond professional boundaries into something undefined.
Violet looks at my hand, then up at me, her dark eyes widening slightly with confusion. Not anger, not discomfort—just genuine puzzlement, as if she’s trying to decode why her new driver is touching her with such unexpected familiarity.
Blake notices, too, his gaze darting between us, a flash of amusement crossing his weathered features.
I should stop touching her. Apologize. Do anything except stand here like an idiot with my hand still resting on my Team Principal’s shoulder.
Instead, I’m smiling at her, forcing a lightness into my voice. “Tough meeting?” I ask, finally removing my hand with what I hope appears to be casual ease, rather than the panicked retreat it actually is.
