Page 139 of Racing for Redemption
“Ready for this?” James asks as I suit up for practice.
“Always,” I reply, even as I eye Nicholas across the garage, studiously ignoring everyone on the team. His silent treatment has grown old, but at least he’ll be gone after this weekend.
Practice goes surprisingly well. The car is balanced, and I manage P11, just missing out on the final segment by a tenth. This could be a sign; we could end this season on a high note.
But qualifying turns into a nightmare. Halfway through the session, Farrant bins his Vortex in the barriers after a heated tangle with Lenox, bringing out red flags and much tension to a drama-riddled season for both their teams. By the time the track is cleared, there’s only a minute left on the clock.
“Get out there, now!” Tom shouts through the radio as I wait at pit exit, watching the seconds tick down.
I floor it, but my tires are stone cold as I start my flying lap. The car slides through the first corner, costing me precious tenths. By the time I cross the line, I’m only P18—sandwiched between Paul Bertrand and Nicholas for the race start.
A literal nightmare scenario.
“Sorry about that,” I mutter into the radio as I drive back to the pits.
“Not your fault,” Tom replies. “We’ll make it up in the race. Debrief and strategy meeting in 30.”
The media pen is another test of patience. My answers are short and professional, despite the disappointment churning in my gut. Next to me, Paul Bertrand is holding court with a group of journalists, his voice just loud enough to carry.
“Well, of course, I know how to handle pressure at Abu Dhabi despite a poor place at the starting grid,” he’s saying, smirking. “Last year’s F2 championship proved that. Poor William crashed out—sadly—but that’s racing, isn’t it? The best man won.”
I tighten my jaw. He knows damn well his teammate deliberately took me out to secure his championship. The mockery in Paul’s tone makes my blood boil.
“William, any response to Paul Bertrand’s comments about last year?” a journalist calls out, sensing drama.
I take a deep breath. “Looking forward, not back. Tomorrow’s race is my focus.”
It’s the mature answer, but as I walk away, I can’t help adding under my breath, “Even if I have to start behind that asshole.”
Race day dawns hot and bright, the desert sun already fierce as I walk the track in the early morning. My race engineer lays out our strategy—aggressive undercut on the first pit stop, push hardon fresh tires, aim for the overcut on the second stint. It’s a bold plan that could gain us several positions if executed perfectly.
“Let’s give them something to remember us by,” I say to the team as I pull on my gloves.
The formation lap passes in a blur of nervous energy. Then, we’re on the grid, engines growling, lights counting down. The start is clean—I pull away from Nicholas, but Paul closes the door brutally into Turn 1. We settle into a DRS train, cars running nose-to-tail through the opening laps.
Paul’s driving like he has a personal vendetta, weaving on the straights whenever I get close, braking later than necessary into corners. After ten laps of this, my patience wears thin.
“Tom, options?” I ask through the radio.
“Stick with him. Tires are his weakness—he’s overheating the rears. Three more laps, and he’ll be struggling.”
Tom’s right. By lap thirteen, Paul’s rear end is twitchy through the fast corners. I hang back slightly, giving myself space to line up the perfect attack. The opportunity comes at Turn 9—a demanding left-hander that has enough space for two cars to be wheel to wheel, despite the tight exit. Paul defends the inside line, but I feint that way before switching back to the outside, carrying more speed through the apex.
He tries to squeeze me on exit, but I’ve already got the better line. I surge past, my front wing clearing his rear tire by inches.
“Nice move,” Tom says, his smile evident through the radio. “Now push.”
I do, the weight lifting from my shoulders as Paul’s car shrinks in my mirrors. One small victory in a season of struggle. The rest of the race is uneventful. James Farrant is a four-time World Champion. Vortex Racing is the Constructors’ Champion–again. And I wrapped up the race in P11 after a couple of good strategy calls that helped me maintain my position. Not perfect, but neither was this season.
Now, I just want to get out of the car and see if a new contract is ready tobe signed.
Chapter 42
Securing the future
Violet
3PM sharp. I’ve always appreciated James’ punctuality, a trait that matches my own. The contract papers sit on my desk, crisp and ready, representing more than just business to me, though I’d never admit that aloud. William’s future with Colton Racing. My future with him, even if that part isn’t written in the fine print.
