Page 79 of Racing for Redemption
I drape the towel around my neck and approach her, sliding into her line of sight with an exaggerated swagger, and that smile of mine that usually makes her immediately go soft.
“See something you like on those time sheets, boss?” I keep my voice low, just for her.
Violet looks up, her professional mask slipping back into place—but not completely—as she smiles at me. There’s warmth in her eyes that wasn’t there during our first meetings. This warmth tells me that it's not only me feeling this. We've both noticed. We're just not acting on it.
“P14 is hardly cause for celebration at most teams,Foster.” Her tone is dry, but the smile she’s fighting gives her away. I've noticed when she wants to tease me, or be slightly sarcastic, she gives that jab by using my surname. That's her way to both deflect and deploy her deadpan humor that many don't get, but I find thoroughly fascinating.
“Good thing we’re not most teams, then.” I lean against the workbench beside her, close enough that our shoulders almost touch, her warmth seeping through to me. “Admit it. You’re impressed.”
She purses her lips, but the corners twitch upward. “The car performed adequately.”
“The car?” I press a hand to my chest in mock offense. “What about the incredibly talented, slightly hot-blooded, and devastatingly handsome driver behind the wheel?”
A soft snort escapes her. “The driver managed not to crash. I suppose that’s something.”
“High praise indeed from Violet Colton.” I grin, then lean closer, dropping my voice lower. “But seriously, the car feels good. Stable in the corners. We’re closer than I expected.”
She nods, a genuine smile finally breaking through. “Tom showed me your sector times. There’s still more we can extract, but…” She glances around, then admits, “It’s better than I dared hope.”
Something shifts in her expression then—a shadow passing over her features. My gaze follows hers across the garage to Nicholas’ empty cockpit. His side of the garage is quieter, mechanics working with less enthusiasm. It's frustrating that the excitement we have with the team getting closer to a chance at points is not shared across the garage. Those mechanics clearly lack the motivation to work with Nicholas. He's consistently rude to them, and when he drives, his bravado doesn't reflect good driving… It's hard to be happy on that end, even if, collectively, we're all moving forward.
I hesitate, then decide to risk it. “Speaking of hope… Everything okay with you? Earlier, with Nicholas—that looked intense.”
Violet’s posture stiffens slightly. She glances around to ensure we’re relatively alone before responding.
“Just addressing some… unprofessional behavior.” Her voice drops to barely above a whisper. “He’s been complaining about favoritism on social media.”
I let out a low whistle. “Seriously? That’s…”
“Childish? Unprofessional? A PR nightmare waiting to happen?” She sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. “All of the above.”
“I was going to say ‘bullshit,’ but yours works, too.” I study her face—the tiny stress lines between her brows that weren’t there this morning. “He’s got the same car I do. If anything, I should be the one complaining. I’m developing a car for him, and he’s making me look bad!”
“Try telling him that.” Frustration colors her voice. “Three years, William. Three years of excuses, and mediocre performances. And every time I try to hold him accountable, he waves his father’s sponsorship in my face.”
The pieces click together. Nicholas’ father. Gritt Tires. The lone sponsor logo on our car’s rear wing.
“So, he’s basically untouchable,” I murmur, understanding dawning.
A deep sigh escapes her lips, and she says, "For now, we're in this weird limbo that the worst driver on the team, contributing to nothing, is… ironically, keeping the team afloat." Violet’s eyes flash. “But no one is untouchable. Not if they’re dragging this team down.”
She’s never sounded so fierce, so determined. It stirs something in me—admiration, yes, but something else, too. Something hotter, more immediate.
“You threatened to sack him.”
It’s not a question. I’d caught enough of their conversation across the garage to piece that together.
“I reminded him of the terms of his contract.” She looks down at the time sheets again. “P20. Six seconds off your pace in identical machinery.”
I consider my next words carefully. “His father’s sponsorship… How critical is it?”
Violet’s silence tells me everything. The team is hanging by a thread financially, and Nicholas’ family connection is one of the few things keeping us afloat. Sure, I brought a partner or two for tools and catering, but that's not the same as bringing title sponsors to a team, and to the car or driver's suits.
“That’s messed up,” I say quietly. “Being held hostage like that.”
“Welcome to the glamorous world of Formula 1 team management.” Her attempt at humor falls flat, strain evident in her voice.
Without thinking, I extend my arm around her shoulders and pull her gently against my side. It’s a half-hug, friendly enough that anyone watching wouldn’t think twice, but intimate enough that she stiffens momentarily in surprise.
