Page 90 of Racing for Redemption
The media frenzy dies down after William’s P5 finish. Points. A big haul that took our team out of last place in the Constructors’ Championship.
Our first points in a decade.
I barely keep it together as I navigate through reporters, and dodge Dominic’s backhanded compliments. My face aches from the professional smile I’ve maintained for hours, and now for all the tears I’ve shed. Only when I shut my office door at the motorhome do I allow myself to breathe, to feel the weight—or lack thereof—of today’s triumph, and the heat of another, more troubling sensation taking root inside me.
I sink into the small sofa across from my mobile desk, kick off my heels, and close my eyes. Earlier today, I cried. Actual tears. Like some dam inside me burst, releasing years of pressure in one overwhelming flood. Colton Racing scored points. We’re moving forward. William delivered.
William.
His name alone sends a ripple through me that has nothing to do with professional satisfaction. I press my palms against my eyes, trying to force away the images that keep surfacing—his smile as he climbed out of the car, sweat-slicked hair plastered to his forehead. The way he brushed his lips against my neck, him holding my hand. The way his race suit clung to his body. How he picked me up and spun me around in a moment of pure joy.
“Fuck,” I whisper to the empty room.
Friends; that’s what we labeled this thing between us. Am I wrong? A friendship born from initial irritation, smoothed with his groveling, tempered in Barcelona, solidified in Birmingham.
But friends don’t think about friends the way I’ve been thinking about William.
Friends don’t imagine their friends naked, pressed against them, hands exploring—
I snap my eyes open.This is getting out of hand. I'm like a horny teenager right now.Where has my control gone?
The fluorescent lights in my office suddenly seem too harsh.
When was the last time I felt this way about anyone? Years. Way before Dad and Mom passed away. Before I stepped into this role and buried every personal desire beneath mountains of responsibility and expectation. Most of that, self-imposed. Now, it’s all rushing back, and it’s centered on the one person I absolutely should not be fantasizing about.
My team's F1 driver.
My employee.
My friend.
I’m feeling needy for the first time in a while.
I remember our conversation at that dingy pub in Birmingham after the show. The way the colored lights played across his features, how he leaned in close, so I could hear him over the noise.
“Sometimes, we just need human connection,”he’d said, eyes locked on mine.“No strings attached.”
Was he offering something even then? Or am I reading into it, projecting my own growing desires?
It would be simpler if this were just physical frustration. A body’s natural response after too long without touch. I could rationalize that, compartmentalize it. But there’s something about William specifically that sets me on fire—his irreverence, his passion, the way he sees through my carefully constructed walls.
I check my phone. The team dinner starts in an hour. I should go back to the hotel, change, and prepare to be the composed, professional Team Principal celebrating our success.
Instead, I’m wondering what William will wear. If he’ll sit next to me. If he’ll lean in close again. If I'll feel those lips on meagain.
I’m so fucked.
The restaurant buzzes with celebration when I arrive. Our mechanics, engineers, strategists—all wearing grins that mirror the one I’ve plastered onto my face. Blake spots me first, raising his glass in my direction before returning to some animated story he’s telling. I scan the room, pretending I’m not looking for anyone specific.
Then, I see him.
William stands near the bar, dressed in black jeans, and a simple button-down shirt that stretches across his shoulders. He’s laughing at something an engineer said, head thrown back, throat exposed. His eyes find mine across the room, and his laughter softens into something else. Something that makes my stomach flip with a mixture of excitement and nerves.
I weave through the crowd, accepting congratulations with nods and brief replies. By the time I reach him, he’s already ordered me a drink.
“For the boss,” he says, passing me a glass of champagne. His fingers brush mine, and they’re electric against my skin.
“Not drinking?” I nod at his water.
