Where are you? Engineering meeting in 15.
I smile down at the screen and tell her I'm coming.
She has no idea what just happened, how I walked away from a confrontation that last year would have ended with security pulling us apart.
I’m proud of myself. I’m proud of us.
Chapter 40
Control yourself, Foster
William
"P6!" I pump my fist as I pull intoparc fermé, but it's not my qualifying position that has me grinning like a fool inside my helmet. It's the sight of EJ's car in the P1 spot, catching everyone by surprise with a massive session in mixed conditions.
My rookie teammate just claimed pole position in his first season. In Monza, the temple of speed. He’s a generational talent. Watch him fight for a title in two, three years.
I park, yank off my helmet, and jog over to the commotion, my own result momentarily forgotten. This is bigger than me. This is about our team—Violet's team—proving everyone wrong in the most spectacular way possible.
Minutes later, I'm standing in the media pen, fielding predictable questions about my qualifying performance in Monza, one of my favorite tracks on the calendar. Cameras flash, microphones thrust toward my face, but I handle it all with practiced ease.
"William, P6 in qualifying—satisfied with that result?"
I nod, keeping my tone measured despite the excitement still bubbling inside me. "The car felt incredible. We've made huge strides with the setup since yesterday. P6 gives us excellent options for the race strategy tomorrow."
"Any concerns about starting behind Kikuchi after what happened in Monaco?"
My smile doesn't falter. "No concerns. That's racing—I’m just glad he came out unscathed after that." I glance past the journalist, spotting EJ entering the media pen. His face is flushed, eyes wide, hands fidgeting with the zipper of his race suit. "Excuse me for a moment."
I break away mid-interview, ignoring the confused looks. This matters more. "EJ!" I call, waving him over.
He turns, that deer-in-headlights expression softening as I approach. Without hesitation, I wrap him in a tight hug, lifting the young giant slightly off his feet.
"You fucking legend!" I laugh against his shoulder.
His body shakes with adrenaline and disbelief. "I didn't—I never thought—"
"You earned this." I pull back, gripping his shoulders. "Pole position in your rookie season! Do you have any idea how incredible that is?"
EJ's smile is so wide, it must hurt, his eyes darting between me and the gathering journalists who've sensed a better story than my top 10 qualification. His hands won't stay still, alternately running through his unruly sandy-blond hair and adjusting his collar.
"I just... followed the plan Maya and I worked out," he stammers. "The car felt perfect in the final sector."
I shake my head, genuine pride swelling in my chest. "Don't downplay this. You nailed every apex, pushed exactly when you needed to." I glance at the journalists, their attention now fully on us. "Trust me, this is your moment. Soak it up."
EJ's eyes widen. "But you—your interview—"
"It’s done." I squeeze his shoulder. "I've been interviewed a thousand times. This is your first pole." I turn to the journalists. "Everyone, I believe you'd rather speak with the man of the hour. EJ, pole position in his rookie season. He’s a fucking generational talent." I step back with a theatrical bow. "The media is all yours, mate."
The reporters surge forward, questions overlapping as they redirect their attention to EJ. I catch his eye one last time, giving him a thumbs-up as I slip away. The kid deserves every second of this spotlight. And I know that when—not if—our car becomes competitive, he’ll be my biggest threat. Damn, I can’t wait to fight for victories with and against him.
I circle around the back of the media area, planning my escape to the motorhome, when I spot Violet near the team hospitality entrance. She's surrounded by at least a dozen reporters, their bodies forming a tight circle around her. Even from this distance, the tension in her shoulders is clear, the too-straight posture she adopts when feeling cornered. Their rapid-fire questions are relentless, not about the team's performance but about us—our relationship, the "distraction factor," whether the board has concerns and other shit.
Before I can move toward her, a familiar figure crosses my path. Paul Bertrand, still in his race suit, helmet tucked under his arm. His eyes find mine, lips curling into that mocking smile I've come to loathe.
"Being out-qualified by a rookie," he drawls just loud enough for me to hear. "Losing your edge, Foster? Or just distracted by... management issues?"
My body tenses, the old familiar anger flaring. But I think of Violet, of how far I've come, of what truly matters. I meet his gaze, then deliberately look through him as if he's not worth my attention. His smile falters as I step past him without a word. Small victory, but satisfaction blooms in my chest.
