Page 78 of Racing for Redemption
“Your father understands business. I’ve worked alongside him, Nicholas. And in racing, performance is business.” I straighten, keeping my voice just low enough that it won’t carry to the journalists hovering at the garage entrance. “So, let me be crystal clear: improve your performance, or we’ll be having a very different conversation about your future with Colton Racing. Sponsorship or no sponsorship.”
His face pales slightly, then flushes red with anger. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Try me.” I hold his gaze. “Now, get suited up. Practice starts in ten minutes.”
I turn away, not waiting for his response. As I walk back toward the center of the garage, I sense eyes on me. William. He’s paused his conversation with Tom, his hazel eyes calmly tracking my movement. I briefly catch his gaze—something passesbetween us, a silent acknowledgment. He saw. He heard enough. His expression shifts slightly, concern replacing curiosity.
A strange urge to explain comes from nowhere; to share the burden of Nicholas’ petulance with someone who might understand. Someone who won't mind listening to me vent about someone who's making my life difficult. But now isn’t the time. I nod once in William’s direction, then turn toward the exit.
“I’ll be in the motorhome if you need me,” I tell Blake, who’s watching the exchange with knowing eyes.
“Violet,” he calls after me. “Don’t let Nicholas get to you. He’s not worth it.”
I pause at the doorway, looking back at our garage—at William, now pulling on his balaclava, focused and ready; at Nicholas, reluctantly accepting his helmet from a mechanic.
“He’s not,” I agree. “But this team is.”
I step out into the sunshine, the frustration from that moment dissipating, giving way to a small yawn. Jet lag is affecting me big time, but I should focus. The next few hours will tell us if all the work done during the winter break paid off, if William’s talent can elevate our struggling team, and if my gamble on him was justified.
From the corner of my eye, I see a poster on a nearby wall—William’s official driver portrait, his confident half-smile staring out at the paddock. Something flutters in my chest, warm as that body, and unfamiliar as that relationship.
Friend, he called me, that night in Birmingham as he tucked a stray hair behind my ear. His touch was gentle, almost reverent.I've replayed that scene time and time again in my head. And I wish I could go back to it and tell him that maybe, what we're labeling as friendship isn't it. That maybe, instead of tucking a stray hair, I wanted him to cup my cheek. And maybe, instead of a "See you in Australia", he'd asked to come upstairs with me.
Oh fuck. I’m struggling here.That night unlocked something in me. And it’s throwing me off big time.
I want a repeat. I need it.
I've never felt so out of control before.
Chapter 22
Distraction
William
Itwist my body out of the cockpit, muscles humming with residual adrenaline. Two practice sessions down, and the car feels alive under my hands—better than testing, more responsive than I dared hope. P14. Not groundbreaking for most teams, but for Colton Racing? It might as well be pole position. The garage buzzes with cautious excitement as I pull off my balaclava and helmet, sweat-soaked hair plastered to my forehead. That’s when I spot her—Violet, perched on a stool in the center of the garage, studying the time sheets with intense focus. Even from here, I can read the story they tell: Foster P14, Davanti P20.
The contrast couldn’t be more stark. We're both in the back, but I'm smelling points. Nicholas, however, is… I don't know what he is doing.
I hand my helmet to one of the mechanics with a quick thanks, then unzip the top half of my race suit, tying the sleeves around my waist. The cool air hits my sweat-damp fireproof undershirt,bringing immediate relief. I grab a towel from my side of the garage and wipe my face, watching Violet from the corner of my eye.
Her shoulders are tense, spine straight as always in that impeccable dark-gray suit, with subtle violet accents that plague my dreams. She does change around a bit the suits she wears, but this one… This one is iconic. Like it was made for her. She gives off that 'powerful woman' vibe that I love. But there’s a softness in her expression I rarely see in the paddock—a small, private smile playing at the corners of her lips as she reviews the times. Pride, maybe. Or relief. Either way, it tugs at something in my chest.
Almost five months since I signed with Colton Racing. One week since Birmingham, and that underground metal show that changed… something between us. I wanted to kiss her when I drove back to her place. But then again, she was a bit groggy and sleepy, and the last thing I wanted was to, by any chance, force myself on her, be an asshole, and make things awkward between us.
I think we both noticed. We're massive liars. Initially, I wanted to become her friend just to save my ass. But it didn't take long to crave her. To want to be around her. I spent weeks going to the garage just to catch a glimpse of her. Could I have done sim work at my place? Yes. But I wanted to be near her, even if she barely interacted with me during the first months. Then, at the show, we hung out, the corners of her luscious lips rising with each topic we talked about, the adorable small wrinkles on her forehead when she narrows her gaze if a topic is not to herliking, how bright her eyes shine when we talk about Formula 1, engineering, or music… I should have kissed her that morning, and I'm regretting it big time right now.That was my chance.
Friend. She’s much more to me now. If she said she wanted me, I'd be with her in a heartbeat. That's how whipped I am for her. She cares a lot about those around her, but I honestly don't see the same happening in reverse. There's no one there to care for her—well, maybe that friend of theirs I saw in Abu Dhabi last year, and old man Blake—but other than that… She's always working when we're at the headquarters. She's always working on the road. I bet she's always working at home. This woman says she loves her job, but her job is turning her into a slave. She doesn't get any time for herself, any time to let someone in, any time for... me.
The longer I'm around, the more I want to take care of her, but also, a small part of me wants to have the luck and privilege of being the only one she lets in.
We're both liars, using 'friendship' to disguise what is now an attraction so irrational, I don't even remember when or how it started.
We're both liars, because we keep stealing glances at each other, trying to act professional around each other.
We're both liars, because this isn't a friendship for me. This is so much more. She's the perfect distraction, but also the perfect reward. She's my boss, but also the woman I crave.Kinda ironic, isn't it?First time in years I want to be with someone. And that someone understands me, because we're in the same sport. Thatsomeone has the same tastes as me and—I think—she enjoys my company. But, she's my boss, so I can only dream of anything happening. However, I'm done keeping so much distance. Overly professional is too cold. If she can side-hug Blake, I should be allowed to come close, seeing as we are...friends.
Dammit, this word is losing all meaning to me.Do I even know what a friend is?
