Page 59 of Racing for Redemption
“Just the usual pre-season sponsorship wrangling,” Violet answers, her professional mask sliding back into place, though her eyes still hold a question. “Nothing for you to worry about.”
“You looked stressed,” I say, as if that explains my behavior. “I mean, we all are. Testing is… well, testing.” I wince internally at the weak wordplay.
Violet’s lips twitch—almost a smile. “An apt description.”
An awkward silence falls. Blake clears his throat.
“The telemetry from your morning runs is promising,” he says, mercifully changing the subject. “Much better brake modulation than we’ve seen previously.”
I seize the lifeline. “The brake-by-wire system feels different from what I’m used to, but we’re getting there. I think we could adjust the initial bite point to improve trail braking into the slower corners.”
As I launch into technical details, Violet studies me with that same puzzled expression, as if trying to reconcile the professional driver discussing brake systems with the man who just carelessly stroked her shoulder.
“It was a reflex,” I blurt, interrupting my analysis of corner entry speeds. “The shoulder thing. Sorry. I didn’t mean to—” I stop, realizing I’m only making it worse. “Just a habit when someone seems stressed. Shouldn’t have—”
“It’s fine, William,” Violet says, putting me out of my misery with a small, dismissive gesture. “No harm done.”
Blake watches our exchange with barely concealed interest, the corners of his eyes crinkling.
“We should check in with Johnson about the aero readings,” Violet says to Blake, clearly ready to move past the moment.
“Of course,” he agrees, then turns to me. “Good work this morning, William. Keep it up.”
“Thanks,” I manage, relief washing through me that the awkward moment is passing.
Violet gives me a brief nod before walking away with Blake toward the small room at the back of the garage complex. Violet’s confident stride betrays none of the stress I’d witnessed earlier, her straight spine and squared shoulders resuming their usual perfect posture.
Once they’re out of sight, I retreat to my driver’s room, the small, private space allocated to me within the team’s temporary structure. I close the door behind me, lean against it, and exhale a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. My heart pounds against my ribs like I’ve just qualified on pole position rather than had an awkward social interaction.
“What the hell was that?” I mutter to myself, wiping my palms on my jeans. They’re sweating. Profusely. Like I’m fifteen again, fumbling through my first interaction with a girl behind the bleachers after she’d mentioned liking my race in the regional karting championship.
I push away from the door and drop onto the small couch, running my hands through my hair. The sensation of Violet’s shoulder under my palm lingers like a phantom touch, along with the memory of her surprised expression—those dark eyes widening slightly, lips parting in question.
I haven’t been this nervous around a woman in… I can’t even remember. Years, certainly. Not since before F4, when racing became my entire world, consuming every waking moment, leaving little time or energy for anything resembling a personal life.
Yet, here I am, palms sweating, heart racing, replaying a ten-second interaction like it’s the most significant moment ofthe day—more significant even than my first official F1 test session.
What is it about her that affects me this way? It’s not just that she’s beautiful—though she undeniably is, with those expressive eyes, and the way her formal demeanor occasionally cracks to reveal flashes of dry humor and fierce passion. It’s not just respect for her position, or admiration for her fight to save her family’s team.
It’s something more elusive. The intensity with which she approaches everything. The complexity beneath her controlled exterior. The brief moments when her guard drops, revealing glimpses of vulnerability that make me want to…Want to do what?
Protect her?
Support her?
Know her?
I shake my head, forcing the thoughts away. This is absurd. She’s my Team Principal. I’m a rookie driver with a damaged reputation on a one-year contract. The power dynamics alone make any feelings beyond professional respect inappropriate.
And yet.
The way my body reacted to her presence, making me adjust in my jeans to conceal it, the instinctive desire to offer comfort, the lingering sensation of that brief contact—these aren’t things I can simply rationalize away.
This is clearly more than an innocent attraction for Violet Colton. Something I haven’t anticipated or prepared for.
And judging by the confusion in her eyes, it’s something she wasn’t expecting, either. But she didn't pull away from my touch. She just… stared at me.
Oh fuck.I'm getting delusional. Maybe she didn't pull away so as to not hurt my feelings. She's cold, but not heartless.
