Page 86 of Racing for Redemption
I can’t help myself; I reach out again, this time cupping the cheek I poked. Her skin is warm beneath my palm, soft in a way that makes my fingertips tingle.
“I promise to give you a performance you won’t forget,” I say, my voice dropping lower than intended.
Her eyes darken, pupils dilating just enough for me to notice. For a moment, neither of us breathes.Don't give me hope, Violet.
“Bold promise,” she finally says, her voice slightly unsteady. “Care to make it interesting?”
I raise an eyebrow. “A bet? Now you’re speaking my language.”
“If you score points—actual championship points—today…” She pauses, considering. “I’ll let you choose the next team dinner venue.”
“Boring,” I counter. “If I score points today, you have to come to another show with me. And hang out with me afterwards.”
Her lips twitch. “And if you don’t?”
“Then I’ll attend any stuffy PR event you want. No complaints.”
She considers for a moment, then extends her hand. “Deal.”
I shake it, holding on perhaps a second longer than necessary. “Better clear your calendar.”
The moment breaks as more team personnel flood into the garage. I reluctantly step back, switching gears mentally as Tom approaches with my race strategy sheet.
“We need to talk about tire management,”he begins, all business.
I glance over my shoulder as Violet walks away. She looks back once, and the small smile she offers feels like a talisman—a private good luck charm just for me.
The grid is a swarm of activity—last-minute adjustments, flash media interviews, the ceremonial clearing of the track as start time approaches. From my P12 slot, I see the front-runners going through their routines. The crowd in the grandstands is a blur of color and movement, their energy and excitement palpable. I like to think that people are looking at this black and red car, and thinking it is awesome that we dragged it from last place to the midfield.
Inside my helmet, it’s quiet. Just my breathing, and the occasional crackle of the radio as Tom checks in. I go through my mental checklist, visualizing each corner of Albert Park one more time.
“Two minutes to formation lap,” the race engineer announces.
I adjust my gloves, flexing my fingers. The butterflies in my stomach have transformed into a steady, focused energy. This is it. My first Formula 1 race.
“Remember the plan,” Tom says calmly in my ear. “Conservative start, watch for gaps, protect the tires throughthe first stint.”
“Copy that.”
The formation lap passes in a blur of visual checks and brake warming. As I take my position on the grid for the final time, I scan my mirrors. Felix’s Baretta is two rows in front of me in P8. Nicholas is a distant P20. And a place behind me, in the midfield tangle, Paul Bertrand waits like a predator.
Five red lights appear above the track.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
Lights out, and away we go!
I react instantly, muscle memory taking over as I release the clutch. The start is good—not spectacular, but clean. Three cars immediately surge past me on the left—Paul, Louis and Kal—but I hold my position on the right, slotting into the pack as we hurtle toward Turn 1.
The first corner looms—a funnel of twenty cars converging at over 200 km/h. I brake late, but not recklessly, finding a gap between a Vortex Satellite, and a Klip Motorsports. We emerge in a different order, and I’ve gained one position. P11.
