"Points in half the races," I say without hesitation. "Top 8 finish at least once. That's challenging but achievable with this car."
Johnson raises an eyebrow. "That would be impressive for a rookie."
"He's not just any rookie," I point out. "And we're not just any team anymore."
EJ looks between us, a new determination settling over his features. "Points in half the races," he repeats, as if testing how it feels to say it aloud. "I can aim for that."
"And outqualify me at least once," I add with a grin. "Keep me honest."
That startles a laugh out of him. "Now you're just being ridiculous."
"Am I?" I challenge, enjoying the way his eyes widen. "I've seen you in that last sector at Barcelona. That's raw talent—not experience."
The compliment lands, bringing a flush of pride to his face. Good. The kid needs to believe in himself as much as Violet believes in him. As much as I'm starting to believe in him. He’s going to be a World Driver’s Champion in a couple of years.
Johnson clears his throat. "Right, enough ego-stroking for one session. William, get cleaned up and meet me in the analysis room in thirty. We need to go through the telemetry in detail before everyone escapes for Christmas."
As I gather my things, I catch EJ staring thoughtfully at the simulator, his book forgotten beside him. I know that look. It's the same one I wore after Violet took a chance on me. The look of someone who's just had their horizon expanded—who's starting to see not just what is, but what could be.
I walk to him and bear-hug him. "You’re gonna do well, EJ. I believe in you."
His eyes widen in surprise, then he smiles softly, and I add, "I think we're both going to surprise some people this season."
Chapter 8
Friends in high places
William
I leave the simulator room with a smile that not even my bruised face can suppress. The data doesn't lie; we have a real car this year. A proper challenger. Johnson's words echo in my head as I check the time on my phone: 10:27 AM.
Perfect.
Felix should be arriving any minute now. I quicken my pace through the gleaming corridors of Colton Racing HQ, heart thumping with a different kind of excitement. If I pull this off—if I can convince Violet to bring Felix on board—our team won't just have a good car. We'll have one of the sharpest racing minds in F1 helping us push it to its limits.
The lobby gleams under bright lights as I push through the double doors. Our receptionist glances up from her computer, offering a warm smile.
"Morning, William. Expecting someone?"
"Felix Becker. Should be here any—"
The entrance doors slide open, and there he is. FelixfuckingBecker, looking like he just stepped off a fashion runway rather than arriving for a potential job interview. Dark jeans that probably cost more than my first racing suit. A charcoal turtleneck that accentuates his ridiculous height. And draped over his shoulders, a camel coat that makes him look like he's about to announce the fall collection instead of discussing a reserve driver position.
I can't help but laugh as he spots me, his face breaking into that familiar grin.
"What?" he asks, arms spread wide as he approaches. "What's so funny?"
"Nothing," I say, stepping forward to embrace him in a quick, hard hug. "Just wondering if you're here to race cars or shoot a cologne commercial."
"Shut up, you still look like shit, Foster."
Someone clears their throat behind us. Our security guard—a stern-faced man whose name I still don't know despite nodding to him every morning for a year—stands with his arms crossed.
"Sir, I'll need to see some identification," he says to Felix, not intimidated in the slightest by the presence of a seven-time Grand Prix winner.
Felix reaches for his wallet, but I step in.
"Craig, come on. This is Felix Becker. Former Baretta driver? Seven Grand Prix victories? He's practically motorsport royalty." I hope I got his name right.
