Page 77 of Racing for Redemption
“Nicholas Davanti posted some interesting comments on Instagram last night. He suggested there are ‘internal issues’ at Colton Racing, and that he’s ‘not being given equal equipment.’ Care to address these allegations?”
My face remains impassive, but my blood boils. Nicholas. Again. I school my features into a mask of mild surprise.
“I’m not aware of any social media posts,” I lie smoothly. “Where exactly did you see this?”
The reporter scrolls through his phone, then turns it toward me. There it is—Nicholas’ thinly veiled complaint about “favoritism” and “second-rate treatment” complete with a sad face emoji. I nearly roll my eyes.
“I see.” I measure my words carefully. “Nicholas has been with us for three seasons. During that time, we’ve provided identical equipment to both our drivers. What differs is performance. William’s pre-season times speak for themselves.”
The implicit criticism isn’t lost on the press pack. Several scratch pens eagerly against notepads.
“So you’re saying Davanti’s underperforming?” someone calls out.
I straighten my shoulders. “I’m saying we expect improvement from all team members this season. Nicholas included. The cars are the same. The performance should be the same. Now, if you’ll excuse me, practice begins in twenty minutes.”
I turn and exit the media pen, my heels clicking sharply against the pavement. Blake falls into step beside me, his silver hair catching the sunlight.
“Nicholas again?” he asks, though it’s hardly a question.
“Sometimes, I think he forgets his father owns our last remaining sponsor, not the team itself.” I keep my voice low as we walk through the paddock.
Blake snorts. “Instagram. Of all the unprofessional…” He shakes his head. “Want me to have a word?”
“No.” I stop walking, facing him directly. “I need to handle this before it festers.”
Blake studies me, his eyes softening. “You know, in all my years at Colton, I’ve never seen the team more motivated than they’ve been these past few months.”
It’s clear what he’s not saying. Since William joined. Since I’ve had something resembling hope again. That man arrived, charmed everyone—me included—and immediately extracted performance from a car deemed the "worst ever", "bottom of the grid", and a "shopping trolley". His enthusiasm has kept the team in high spirits, and I'm not just talking about the core senior members, like most drivers like to butter up. No. He actually focused on the factory staff, the mechanics, engineers, and even his pit crew. Everyone smiles when he's around. And those vibes make me hopeful for the future. Maybe, just maybe, this man arrived to save Colton Racing.
“Let’s see if that translates to lap times during this weekend,” I say, resuming our walk to the garage.
We enter the Colton Racing garage—modest compared to the gleaming operations of teams like Scuderia Nova, or Vortex Racing, but it’s ours. The space is divided, two sides mirroring each other. To the right, William stands with his race engineer, Tom. He’s gesturing animatedly, pointing at a data screen, fully engaged. His race suit is zipped up, his curly hair already slightly flattened from the balaclava he’s been testing. Even from here, the intensity in his eyes is evident—that hungry focus I recognizedthe first time we met.
To the left, Nicholas slouches against the wall, still in his team shirt rather than his race suit. His phone is in his hand, thumbs tapping away at the screen. Probably composing his next complaint. Three mechanics hover nearby, waiting for him to prepare for the session.
The contrast couldn’t be more stark.
I march toward Nicholas, my steps purposeful. His gaze flicks to me as I approach, then immediately back to his phone. Dismissive.
“A word,” I say, not a request.
He sighs dramatically, pushing off from the wall. “Something wrong?”
I lead him slightly aside, though not fully out of earshot of his crew. They need to hear this, too.
“Instagram, Nicholas? Really?” I keep my voice low but sharp.
He has the audacity to shrug. “Just being honest with my followers.”
“Your honesty seems conveniently timed with your lack of performance in testing.” I hold his gaze until he looks away. “The car you’re driving has the exact same specifications as William’s. The difference is the driver.”
He flares his nostrils. “You’ve been favoring him since he arrived. Yet, he fucking begged for the seat. What the fuck is this?” How the hell does he know William did that?Is he… Is he the one who created the rumor that William groveled for the seat?The more I look at him and witness his attitude towards the team, the more it makes sense that this bastard actually leaked whathappened under the guise of a rumor.Ah, fuck me. The mole is clearly him.
“What I favor are results.” I lean in slightly. “This is your third season with us, Nicholas. Your last season under contract. In that time, you’ve never scored points. William hasn’t even had his first official race, and he’s already showing more promise.”
Nicholas narrows his gaze. “My father won’t like hearing this.”
And there it is—the implicit threat. Gritt Tires’ sponsorship is the only thing keeping us afloat at the moment. But I’m done being held hostage by mediocrity. I want to get rid of him. I'm just trying to find a sustainable way that won't destroy this team.
