Page 68 of Racing for Redemption
“First time for everything, William.”
We settle into a rhythm of banter that feels surprisingly natural as William navigates through London traffic. He’s not your typical aggressive sports car driver—he’s patient, precise, signalingevery turn with plenty of notice. It’s strange seeing him in this context, away from the paddock and press conferences. And driving at normal speeds.
As we hit the motorway, I’m aware of music playing softly through the car’s speakers—heavy drums and guitar riffs, but low enough that conversation isn’t difficult. The heating is on just enough to keep the evening chill at bay. These small considerations strike me as oddly touching. He’s made his space comfortable for a guest—for me.
I recognize the song that comes on next and start nodding along.
“Wait,” William says, eyes widening. “You know Architects?”
“I don’t just wear band shirts for fashion, William.”
He turns to me fully at the next red light, a stunned expression on his face, like I’ve just told him he’s won a championship. “No way. You’re into metalcore?”
“Don’t look so shocked. I contain multitudes.”
The light changes, and he accelerates, but the excited energy remains. “Favorite album?”
“All Our Gods Have Abandoned Us. No question.”
“Holy shit.” The profanity slips out with his surprise. “Sorry, but—that’s actually my favorite, too.” He looks at me with a wide smile and bright eyes.
I can’t help but smile at his genuine excitement. It’s like watching a switch flip—the slightly guarded William replaced by someone bursting with enthusiasm.
“What?” I say. “Did you think I’d agree to go to a live show with you just because? I actually enjoy rock music.”
“I thought you were humoring me! You know, team bonding or whatever.” He taps his fingers on the steering wheel in time with the music. “I was already planning my apology for subjecting you to what I assumed you’d call ‘noise.’”
“What exactly do you think I listen to, based on my—how did you put it—my ‘vibe?’”
He considers this, head tilting. “Trendy pop? Classical? Maybe some jazz? Definitely something you’d hear at one of those fancy charity galas where everyone pretends to enjoy the music, when they’re actually calculating how much they need to donate to get their name on a plaque.”
I laugh, genuinely, not the controlled chuckle I use at press conferences or around the team. “That is oddly specific and completely wrong.”
“Then enlighten me, Colton. What does the soundtrack of your life truly sound like?”
I tell him about growing up with a father who blasted Led Zeppelin and David Bowie while working on cars, about discovering punk rock in university as an outlet for stress, about Anna introducing me to Japanese metal bands like The GazettE during the early stages of our friendship, and my newfound love for Sleep Token. The words pour out more easily than expected, my usual filters temporarily disabled.
William listens, asking questions that prove he’s actually paying attention. His eyes light up when I mention bands we bothlike, and he playfully argues with me about artists we disagree on. It’s nothing like the strategic conversations that fill my days, where every word is measured for impact. I’m having a lot of fun and smile to myself as I look at the road ahead of us.
“So, you’re telling me,” he says after a particularly spirited debate about a recent album release, “that the uptight CEO who made me do fifty-seven media training sessions—”
“It was three.”
“—was secretly a rock fan this whole time? While I was trying not to swear on camera, you were probably blasting Slipknot in your office?”
“Only on particularly difficult board meeting days.” I smirk. “The soundproofing in my office is excellent.”
He laughs, full and unrestrained, and I join him. The sound of our combined laughter fills the car; I haven’t felt this light in months. Maybe years.
When our laughter subsides, I catch him looking at me, his expression shifted into something softer. The streetlights flash across his face as we drive, illuminating his features in brief, golden bursts.
“You should laugh more,” he says suddenly, voice quieter than before. “Your laugh can cure migraines. It’s soft, gentle, infectious. The type of laughter I lo—”
He stops abruptly, gaze snapping back to the road. His hands adjust on the steering wheel, which is unnecessary, since we’re on a straight stretch of highway.
“The type of laughteranyonewould love,” he amends, clearing his throat. “Good for team morale and all that.”
The moment hangs between us, neither awkward nor comfortable, just… there. I study his profile—the sharp jawline softened by his perfectly curated beard, and the slight furrow between his brows that appears when he’s focusing.
