"Morning," I call to Tom, who raises his coffee mug in greeting.
I can't help noticing how, lately, Maya's eyes flicker toward Tom when she thinks no one's looking, a faint color rising in her cheeks when he asks her a technical question. There's something endearing about it—two brilliant minds circling each other, unaware of their mutual orbit, and one clearly fascinated with the other. I’m calling it; those two will, eventually, date.
EJ gravitates toward Maya with a shy smile on his face, already deep in discussion about setup options for first practice. I head for the breakfast spread, grabbing a protein bar and some fruit as Tom joins me.
"Sleep well?" he asks, voice lower than usual. "You look tired."
"Jet lag," I lie, not mentioning how I spent half the night staring at the ceiling, thinking about Violet in her hotel room just floors away.
Tom studies me, too perceptive for comfort. "Right. Well, Felix’s simulator data looks good. If the track temperature stays consistent, we should—"
The motorhome door swings open, and Blake strides in, clipboard in hand. "There you two are. Media's waiting. Both of you, media pen, five minutes ago."
I stuff the last piece of banana in my mouth. "Duty calls," I tell Tom with a shrug.
Time to face the first inquisition of the season.
Chapter 19
This distance is killing me
William
The media pen resembles a boxing ring where the punches come as questions. I stand in position, microphones thrust toward my face while cameras click in rapid succession.
"William, can you comment on the rumors that Vortex Racing tried to poach Ethan Jordan during the off-season? There's been speculation about contract interference."
Are we still covering this?
"Those rumors were addressed by the team officially," I say, my voice neutral. "EJ is contracted to Colton Racing and excited to start his F1 career with us. That's all that matters now."
The reporter isn't satisfied. "But sources suggest there was legal action threatened against Vortex. Would you say the relationship between the teams is hostile?"
"I'd say we're focused on racing, not paddock politics." I maintain eye contact, refusing to blink first. "My job is to drivethe car as fast as possible and bring points to the team. The rest is noise."
Finally, the journalist returns with a question I actually enjoy. "Violet Colton has been credited with turning this team around. What's it like working under her leadership?"
Heat rises to my cheeks at the phrasing—working under her—but I keep my expression professional. "Violet has transformed every aspect of Colton Racing. Her vision, her determination... She's the real engine driving our progress." I choose my words carefully, aware of the line between honest praise and revealing too much. "The entire team believes in what she's building."
"But there were those who questioned putting a woman in charge of an F1 team, especially one with limited racing experience." The same journalist strikes again, his tone setting my nerves on edge.
"Anyone still questioning that decision hasn't been paying attention to our results," I reply, sharper than intended. "Violet knows more about racing and team management than most people who've spent their entire careers in the paddock. She raced in karting championships when she was younger and has always been around Formula 1 thanks to her late father, so I wouldn’t ever question her experience."
"Last question," the media handler announces.
A journalist from a tabloid-adjacent outlet steps forward. My guard immediately goes up.
"William, there's been speculation about the nature of your relationship with—"
"I appreciate everyone's time," I interrupt, stepping back. "Looking forward to a great weekend of racing."
With a final nod to the assembled media, I extract myself from the pen, exhaling slowly as I walk away. The condescension in some of those questions leaves a bitter taste. The focus on the drama, the veiled sexism toward Violet, the assumption thatColton Racing is still the same struggling team from years past. We proved them wrong last year. We'll do it again.
The autumn sun beats down as I cross the paddock, nodding to familiar faces. My mind drifts from the interviews to more pleasant thoughts—Violet. Last night, I dreamt about her and woke up reaching across an empty hotel bed.
And then—as if my thoughts summoned her—I spot her approaching the Colton Racing motorhome. My mouth immediately goes dry.
She's wearing a midnight-blue suit with thin white pinstripes that trace the curves of her body in a way that's simultaneously professional and devastating. Her curls bounce with each step, catching sunlight, making my fingers itch to touch them. The tailored jacket nips at her waist, and even from this distance, I can see she's wearing those killer heels that put her slightly above my eye level.
