Our conversation turns technical, the three of us slipping into the specialized language of motorsport. Downforce numbers. Tire degradation patterns. Energy deployment strategies. Thefamiliar rhythm of it settles me, even as the helmet continues to press uncomfortably against my injury.
"The new floor design is showing a three percent improvement in overall downforce," Johnson explains, pointing to a graph. "But we're seeing some instability in high-speed corners. I need both of you to push it there, see if it's manageable, or if we need to reconsider the design."
EJ nods seriously. "I noticed that in Turns 3 and 8 of the Barcelona simulation. Feels like the rear wants to step out if you're too aggressive with the throttle."
I'm impressed. The kid doesn't miss a thing. "What about ride height? Are we sacrificing too much in the bumpy sections?"
"That's what we need to find out," Johnson says, handing me another setup sheet. "I've programmed three different configurations for you to try. EJ's already done A and B. You take C and then we'll compare notes."
"You got it." I pull the helmet on fully now, ignoring the dull throb around my eye. The simulator awaits, its wraparound screen displaying the Barcelona circuit in perfect digital detail.
Two hours of pushing virtual limits has my neck muscles crying for mercy, and my bruised face throbbing with renewed intensity. But none of that matters. What matters is the feeling I had in those final laps—the car dancing beneath me, responding to inputs with a precision our previous chassis never managed. The stability through high-speed corners, the bite on turn-in, the traction on exit. It all adds up to something we haven't had at Colton Racing in years: potential.
I peel myself out of the simulator, my body drenched in sweat despite the AC being on.
"Holy shit," I say, pulling off my helmet with more care than usual. "That's a different beast entirely."
Johnson looks up from his data screens, a rare smile cracking through his usually stoic expression. "Numbers support your enthusiasm. Your last ten laps were consistently half a second quicker than anything we managed with last year's package with clean air."
"Better than that," I add, setting the helmet down and wiping sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand. "It's predictable. Last year's car would try to kill you if you pushed too hard. This one... It works with you."
EJ glances up from a book he's been reading in the corner—something thick with a spaceship on the cover. The kid's always buried in sci-fi when he's not in the car. "Told you," he says simply, a hint of a smile playing at his lips.
Johnson taps through several screens on his tablet. "If these simulations translate to the track—and that's still a big if—where do you think that puts us in the pecking order?"
I consider this, running through mental calculations of our competitors' likely development. "Midfield for sure. Better than that if things really click. P5 in Constructors' doesn't seem crazy."
"That's a big jump from P8," Johnson notes, but I can tell he's thinking the same thing.
"Belforte's money is making a difference," I point out. "Real development instead of just patching holes. And Violet's restructuring of the technical department is paying off."
At the mention of Violet's name, that now-familiar warmth spreads through me. Every time evidence of her vision becomes reality, her father's legacy climbing back from the ashes, aridiculous sense of pride blooms in my chest. Not that I can say that out loud.
"And personally?" Johnson asks, fixing me with his analytic gaze. "Where does William Foster see himself finishing this season?"
The question deserves honesty. "If the car's capable of P5 in Constructors', I want to be within the top 10 in the Driver’s Championship. Maybe higher if things click."
"Ambitious." Johnson nods approvingly.
"Realistic," I counter. "I know what I can do in a car that doesn't fight me. Last year, we were surviving and still managed to have bright moments. This year, we can compete." EJ has put his book down now, listening intently. I turn to him. "What about you, rookie? Where are you setting your sights?"
He blinks, seemingly surprised at being put on the spot. "Me? I just want to learn as much as I can, and I don't want to embarrass myself," he admits with surprising honesty. "I don’t want to be floundering and spinning around on track like a newbie. I want to help the team right away. This chance means everything, you know?"
I do know.I was in his position a year ago, desperate to prove I belonged, that Violet hadn't made a mistake taking a chance on me.
"You won't," I tell him, clapping him on the shoulder. "Just keep doing what you're doing. Working hard, learning the car. The results will come."
His modesty makes me smile. At eighteen, I was convinced I'd be an F1 world champion by twenty-two. Reality had other plans. I’m twenty-five and still chasing that dream.
"Those are solid goals," Johnson agrees, but the slight reservation in his voice is clear. The same thought I'm having.
"They're a start," I say, meeting EJ's gaze directly. "But don't sell yourself short. You've got the speed. I've seen the data."
EJ shrugs, a gesture that somehow makes him look even younger. "I just don't want to get ahead of myself. First season in F1, you know? Walking before running."
"Look," I say to EJ, more seriously now. "Being realistic is good. Being humble is good. But having ambition pushes you forward on the days when everything feels impossible." I think about my three years in F2, watching lesser drivers get promoted ahead of me just because they had deeper pockets. "Trust me on that."
EJ considers this, then nods slowly. "So what would you suggest? Actual target?"
