I recognize the pivot for what it is—a return to entirely professional conversation. "I like this track," I tell her, unableto keep a hint of suggestion from my voice. "Melbourne's been good to me."
The double meaning hangs between us. My P5 finish last year, yes—my first points in Formula 1, a result that silenced many critics. But also what came after. The team celebration leading to drinks at the hotel bar. The electric tension as we found ourselves next to each other during dinner. The first time I fully experienced what Violet Colton looked like without her professional armor—her hair wild across hotel pillows, her voice breathless as she gasped my name.
I want her.
Her eyes darken slightly, reading my thoughts with uncanny precision. "Indeed," she says, her tone neutral, though her gaze anything but. "Let's hope for a repeat performance." A pause, so brief others would miss it. "On track, of course."
"Of course," I agree, not bothering to hide my smile. "Though sometimes, the off-track celebrations are just as memorable."
"Don't be cheeky, Foster," she warns, but her eyes soften. In fact, there's a warmth in her voice that contradicts her professional demeanor. "Save that energy for qualifying."
Chapter 20
Colton Racing is back
William
The CR-40 feels alive beneath me in a way last year's car never did. As I power down the main straight, Melbourne's familiar landmarks blurring at the periphery of my vision, every subtle nuance of the track passes through my fingertips. The upgraded suspension transmits vital information without the jarring brutality of last season's setup. When I turn in for the first corner, the front end bites instantly, no hesitation, no understeer—just pure, predictable mechanical grip. This isn't just an evolution; this is Colton Racing making an important step toward the top.
"How's the balance in sector one?" Tom's voice crackles through my radio, professional but unable to hide his eagerness.
I wait until I've navigated the tricky chicane before responding. "Good. Front end is responding exactly how we wanted." I adjust my line slightly for the next corner, testing thelimits. "Maybe a touch loose on corner exit, but nothing I can't manage."
"Copy that. Temperature’s looking good. Push on this lap if you're comfortable."
I attack the next sequence of corners with growing confidence, the improved aerodynamics keeping the car planted even as I carry more speed than would have been possible last year. The data from Barcelona testing translates perfectly to real-world performance here in Melbourne. Johnson and the engineering team have worked miracles.
Halfway through the session, I'm sitting P7 on the timing screens. Not just a fluke lap, either—consistent pace that puts us firmly in the midfield fight. Tom calls me in for adjustments, the pit crew swarming around the car with complete focus. Another improvement from last season—no wasted movements, no confusion, just a purpose tuned to perfection.
"Minor adjustment to the front wing," Tom explains, leaning into the cockpit. His eyes shine with barely contained excitement behind his glasses. "You're matching Oliver Lenox's pace in sector two. Actually, faster through Turn 9."
I grin behind my visor. Oliver drives for ProTech Energex Fuel Racing—a team with triple our budget, and five times our personnel—and he's a four-time World Driver's champion; this comparison makes me preen a bit, especially after our talk earlier.
"How's EJ doing?"
"P9 currently. Kid's on it today." Tom pats the side of my helmet. "Both Colton Racing cars within the top 10. When's the last time that happened?"
"Before my time," I reply, the weight of that achievement settling in my chest.
We're not just surviving anymore. We're competing. Exactly what I told that journalist earlier.
The rest of the session passes in a blur of perfect corner entries, small setup tweaks, tiny mistakes, and gathering data for the weekend ahead. When the checkered flag waves to end Practice 1, I'm still holding P7, with EJ solidly in P10. As I park the car in our garage, a different energy emanates from the team. Not surprised relief that we didn't embarrass ourselves, but genuine satisfaction at a job well done. Expectations elevated.
I climb out, removing my helmet to find EJ already bouncing on his toes nearby, face flushed with excitement.
"This car is incredible!" he gushes, barely containing himself. "The aero balance through the high-speed sections—I've never felt anything like it."
"Welcome to the big leagues, kid," I tell him, unable to keep from smiling at his enthusiasm. "And P10 on your first official session isn't too shabby."
"Both cars in the top 10," Johnson says, joining us with a tablet displaying our telemetry data. His bushy ginger beard fails to hide his satisfied grin. "Imagine what we can do when we actually start optimizing the setups."
The garage buzzes with controlled celebration—not over-the-top, we're still professionals, but there's an undercurrent of vindication flowing through every conversation. Blake catches my eye from across the space, giving me a subtle nod that carries more weight than any verbal praise could. We both know what this means for the team.For Violet.
Qualifying day comes fast. The first moments in the car follow their familiar ritual—listening to hardcore and metalcore rock to decompress, patting the nose of the car, putting the helmet snugagainst my cheeks, gloves flexed to ensure perfect grip, harness tightened to the point of mild discomfort. Then the session starts, and I'm released into the controlled chaos of Q1.
Albert Park's track surface has evolved since practice—grippier in some sections, trickier in others. My installation lap feels solid, the car responding precisely to inputs, building my confidence for the push lap to come. The team timed our run perfectly—clear air ahead, minimal traffic to navigate.
"Track is clear in sector one," Tom's voice confirms through the radio. "Push now, push now."
