Page 2 of Racing for Redemption
“Ms. Colton! Ms. Colton!”
Taking a deep breath, I observe the journalists’ eager expressions and media pundits, ready to once again trash my team.
This has become a tradition in the paddock as well as among fans of the sport. I just want this to end.
“Ms. Colton!” A journalist stands at the front and begins inquiring. “It is said that Colton Racing will be on the grid this weekend with only one driver. Can you confirm?”
I adjust my suit jacket before answering. “We are currently seeking options. We will do our best to race with both cars. That is the least we can do to reward the hard work of our mechanics and engineers at the factory.”
The journalist doesn’t look happy with my answer—it’s clear why.You want me pointing fingers, eh? Well, I’m not giving you that pleasure. Not to you or any of the others in this room.
Call me all the names you want. Trash me if you want to. But I’ll be the last one standing; even if my F1 team is crumbling in front of everyone, I will hold the fort. I need to, for the sake of my family’s legacy.
“Violet Colton, you’ve been CEO and Team Principal of Colton Racing since this summer. Is it a coincidence that the team is nearing its end? Shouldn’t the roles be handed to separate people?”
I purse my lips as the journalist—an old man with a sleazy vibe—eyes me like a hungry hyena, ready to attack at my smallest mistake.Who said we’re nearing our end?
“I’ve only recently taken over the role of CEO and Team Principal of this team. As you may be aware, Colton Racing has a long-standing tradition in F1, especially as a privately owned team, but, in the past couple of years, we’ve struggled with consistency, and poor management has led to our decline. In the interest of efficiency, and to save valuable resources, those two roles are handled by the same person. That’s not unprecedented, as we can see other CEOs also taking roles as Team Principals for other teams.”
Pausing, I read the room. Some are interested in what I’m saying… though others, it seems, are thinking about the next question to put me in check. I continue, “Me joining the team and us being short one driver have nothing in common. I’d kindly ask you not to make those assumptions.” I flash a professional smile at the journalist, but I just want to walk away and focus on more pressing issues.
“Are we done here?” My tone is sharp. I’m stressed. I’m furious. I want to burn this whole fucking paddock to the ground. Yet, I need to act as professional as possible.
I storm out of the media pen and into the paddock.
Whispers and sidelong glances follow in my wake, but I keep my chin high, with my gaze fixed ahead. I won’t give them the satisfaction of seeing me falter. That’d be the last nail in this already bursting at the seams coffin.
A flash of silver hair, a confident pose, and a sickening smile catches my eye. All in the same package. Dominic Harrington, standing before a cluster of reporters, his voice carrying. I can hear the hint of arrogance and superiority in his tone, as if he were born to lead, and others were simply meant to follow. Pawns beneath him, ready to be manipulated. They gladly eat up anything he spews. What he says is controversial—he loves spurring on the media. Fending off the flames in controversies that don’t have a thing to do with him. I think he loves the attention. It can only be that, because his team doesn’t need any more; they’re champions, after all.
“—a shame, really. Colton Racing, once a titan of the sport, can’t even field two cars. One has to wonder about the… leadership, you know?”
I clench my jaw, but maintain my pace. His words sting even in passing, like salt in an already raw wound.
“Ms. Colton!” A reporter breaks from the pack, microphone shoved in my face. “Any comment on the rumors that you’re struggling to find a replacement driver?”This again?
I plaster on a polite smile. “Colton Racing is exploring all options to ensure we finish the season strong. We’re confident in our ability to overcome this temporary setback.”
It is an understatement how much I hate this. I’m lying through my teeth. And it tastes bitter. We’ve contacted every eligible driver in F2 and F3. All promptly declined. William Foster—one of the big names in this year’s F2 season—briefly crossed my mind, but I dismissed the thought. Iwon’t jeopardize his fight for the championship, giving the vultures more ammunition against me. Chances are, he would also reject our invitation.
As I escape into our team’s motorhome, my phone buzzes. Turns out I forgot to silence notifications. Against my better judgment, I open it.
A crude meme sent to my DMs. How funny. My face photoshopped onto a sinking ship labeled “Colton Racing.” The caption reads:Fastest way to destroy a legacy? Put a Colton in charge.
I swallow hard, fighting the sting in my eyes. This was my Dad’s dream, his life’s work. In just a few short months, I’d become the architect of its demise.Good going, Violet.
“Violet?” Blake’s voice startles me. I quickly lock my phone.
He narrows his gaze, studying me. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I snap, my voice cutting through the air sharper than I intended, then immediately feel a pang of regret twist in my stomach. Given what he has been doing for me and the team, that is not how I should address him.Hell. I’m getting too emotional.I run a hand through my curls, sighing at the concerned look on his face. “Sorry,” I mumble, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. “Just… stressed.” My shoulders slump under the invisible weight of the week’s chaos.
The board is losing faith, the paddock is mocking us, and the internet seems determined to tear us apart. But I’ll weather this storm. I have to.
For my father.
For the team.
For myself.
