Page 60 of Racing for Redemption
I stand, splashing cold water on my face from the small sink in the corner. Testing continues tomorrow. I need focus, clarity, professionalism—not whatever this is.
This feeling won't fade away simply because I want it to.
And that, perhaps, is what unsettles me most of all.
Chapter 18
Past and Present
William
The day’s debrief wraps up as the Mediterranean sun sinks toward the horizon, painting the paddock in amber light. My neck aches from the G-forces, and my mind buzzes with setup changes and ideal racing lines. I grab my backpack from the driver’s room, nodding goodbyes to the engineers still hunched over screens.
Day two complete. Not perfect, but promising. I push through the paddock exit, already thinking about the protein shake and hot shower waiting back at the hotel—then stop dead. Paul Bertrand leans against the barrier, arms crossed, smirking like he’s been waiting just for me. Tension coils in my stomach.
Paul notices me immediately, his smirk widening into something predatory. He stands straighter, all six feet of him clad in Vortex Satellite team gear, his blond hair perfectly styled despite a full day of helmet-wearing. We haven’t spoken since Abu Dhabi—since I wanted to kill him for using his teammate to takeme out, and winning the F2 Championship that should have been mine.
The championship that catapulted him to F1, while I had to grovel for a seat at Colton Racing.
He raises his hand in an exaggerated wave, the gesture dripping with condescension. “William Foster! The man himself. How’s life treating you these days?”
I could walk past him. Should walk past him. James would tell me to keep moving, to not engage. But something in me refuses to give him the satisfaction of thinking he can intimidate me.
“Paul,” I acknowledge flatly, stopping a few feet away from him. “Didn’t expect to see you lurking by the exit.”
“Not lurking. Waiting for my physio.” His accent—posh British boarding school with French undertones—somehow makes everything he says sound smug. I usually love the accent, but this guy makes it insufferable. “Saw you heading this way and thought I’d say hello to an old… competitor.”
The pause before “competitor” is deliberate. We both know what he wanted to say: “loser.”
“How thoughtful.” My tone could freeze mercury.
Paul pushes off from the barrier, stepping closer. “How was your winter break? Spend a lot of time looking at that runner-up trophy? Second place is still quite an achievement for someone like you.”
And there it is—the dig, the bait, the invitation to lose my temper, just like I did in Abu Dhabi.Someone like me.I curl my hands into fists at my sides, pulse pounding in my throat. Thememory of that race flashes through my mind—the deliberate moves by Paul and the other Vortex driver, the radio messages between them that were later deemed normal by the stewards, the crash that ended my race—and my championship hopes.
My jaw aches from clenching it so hard. If this were six months ago, I’d have already taken the bait, would already be in his face, would already be giving the photographers undoubtedly watching exactly what they want—another “William Foster meltdown” to splash across racing sites.
Not today.
I force my hands to relax, my breathing to steady. “Actually, I had a great winter break,” I say, my voice surprisingly level. “Spent time with friends, trained hard, signed my F1 contract. You know, the usual.”
Paul raises his eyebrows slightly, perhaps surprised by my calm response. “Ah yes, Colton Racing. Bottom of the grid, wasn’t it? Nowhere to go but up, I suppose.”
“Precisely,” I agree, as if he’s made an excellent point. “And today’s testing showed we’ve made progress already. P14. Not bad for a team that was last all through last season.”
“Fourteenth,” Paul repeats with a mocking chuckle. “Setting your sights high, I see.”
I smile—a genuine smile, which seems to unsettle him more than anger would have. “I have a team that actually believes in me, Paul. People who hired me for my talent, not my daddy’s money, or academy connections. People who work together rather than sabotaging each other for personal gain.” I shift mybackpack to my other shoulder, casual as can be. “How’s that working out for you at the Vortex Satellite team, by the way? I heard Mendoza isn’t exactly the supportive teammate type.”
His right eye twitches as he tries to mask it with another smirk. I’ve clearly hit a nerve. Mendoza, Paul’s veteran teammate, is notorious for his cutthroat approach to intra-team competition. He's the king, and the others have to obey him.
“Cesar and I have a perfectly professional relationship,” Paul says stiffly.
“Professional. Right.” I nod, as if convinced. “That must be why he was quoted saying you were ‘still driving like you’re in F2’ after your closed doors test.”
Paul tightens his jaw. “Taking an interest in my career, Foster? I’m flattered.”
“Just keeping tabs on old friends.” I give him a smile that doesn’t reach my eyes. “So, how’s the Vortex hierarchy treating you? Must be challenging being in the B-team while watching Farrant and Kikuchi get all the glory in the main outfit.”
