Page 113 of Racing for Redemption
“So,” Blake says, “what did you think?”
“About Belforte?” I consider the question. “His passion for the sport seems genuine. The vibes felt right, even if I'm still wondering if his interactions with us are only civil because he wants to invest, or if he really is that nice.”
“Fifty-five million feels right, too,” Blake adds with a grin.
I laugh. “That certainly doesn’t hurt.”
In the motorhome, the team’s energy is electric after William’s points finish. We finally have points on the board again. P9 in the Constructors’ Championship, which is still a bit away from our goal when it comes to the points. But my mind is already racing ahead—to contract negotiations with Belforte, to conversations with the board about Nicholas, to bringing Ethan Jordan up from reserve driver.
To the future of Colton Racing, which suddenly seems brighter than it has in years. After months of groveling, meetings that went nowhere, and money wasted on international travel trying to secure a tiny bit of funding, this all seems too perfect. The storm was too deep and impactful to the point that the aftermath sounds too kind in comparison. I'm not trusting it completely.
The watch under my sleeve seems to pulse against my skin, reminding me of something else—someone else—I need to address.
Chapter 32
Time to Impress
William
24 Hours Earlier
Islip the balaclava over my head, my skin still buzzing from seeing her this morning. Two months. Two fucking months of nothing but texts about race strategy and performance metrics. And then, she walks in, all business in that black suit, and I’m right back where I started—wanting something I think I have, but can’t fully have. The familiar weight of my helmet comes next, grounding me.Focus, William. There’s a race to drive.
“You listening, William?” Tom’s voice cuts through my thoughts.
“Yeah, sorry. Go on.” I adjust my gloves, forcing my attention back to the qualifying strategy laid out before me.
Tom sighs. “As I was saying, Imola’s a technical bastard. Overtaking’s near impossible, so qualifying position is everything. Weneed to push for Q2 minimum, otherwise, we're stuck in the back forever.”
I nod, scanning the telemetry data. “The car feels better after the tweaks. More stable through sector two. In comparison to last year's car, we have everything to push it harder, and get closer to the results we want.”
“Who’s the suit with Violet?” I ask, trying to sound casual, gesturing toward the tall, imposing man I’d seen entering the motorhome earlier. He’d looked like someone who broke kneecaps for a living, but Violet and Blake had greeted him like an old friend.
“Potential sponsor, I think. Belforte Construction.” Tom shrugs. “Italian company. Big money.”
Big money. Exactly what we need. One more reason to push today—show this Belforte guy his investment would be worthwhile.
“Well then,” I say, standing up. “Let’s give him something to write checks for.”
The garage hums with pre-qualifying energy—mechanics making final adjustments, engineers huddled over computers, the occasional burst of power tools cutting through the buzz of conversation. I close my eyes for a second, breathing in the familiar scents of rubber and fuel.
Imola stretches out before us, a ribbon of asphalt winding through the Italian countryside. It’s old school, unforgiving—a real driver’s track. The kind where talent can still overcome machinery, at least partly. Where mistakes cost seconds, not tenths.
Q1 passes in a blur. The car feels alive beneath me, responding to each input with newfound precision. I push harder throughAcque Minerali, the backend stepping out slightly before catching it. The lap time flashes on my dash—P14. Enough to squeeze into Q2 by two-tenths.
“Nice work, William.” Tom’s voice crackles in my ear. “Box this lap, we’ll prep for Q2.”
"Did I qualify?"
"Yes, the other cars running behind you came close, but didn't have the pace," he adds.
The pit crew swarms around the car, fresh tires going on in a choreographed dance of efficiency. The more we work together, the more in sync they become. I gulp water through my helmet tube, heart still hammering from the qualifying lap.
“How’s the car?” Tom asks.
“Loose in the high-speed corners, but manageable.”
Q2 is all about precision. I visualize each corner before hitting it, braking later, carrying more speed through the apexes. The lap feels good—clean, aggressive, on the limit without crossing it. When I cross the line, I hold my breath, waiting for the time.
