Page 39 of Racing for Redemption (Backmarker Love trilogy #1)

Implicit threats

Violet

I adjust the collar of my suit as the Melbourne sun beats down on the paddock.

First practice day. The air thrums with anticipation, and the distant whine of engines warming up.

Not even a year as Colton Racing’s CEO and Team Principal, and my stomach still knots before I face the media.

We don't have pressure from the media, nor anyone in the paddock, but…

I've ended up putting pressure on myself to deliver—exceeding the board's goals—to the point that I would have preferred to bail on this commitment.

I paste on my professional mask—straight spine, measured smile, eyes that reveal nothing—and step into the pen.

The reporters swarm like piranhas, searching for blood in the water.

“Ms. Colton! Over here!”

“Violet, a moment, please!”

I acknowledge Janet from Motorsport Weekly first. Strategy—always start with someone reasonable.

“Violet, surprising results from Barcelona testing,” she says, voice recorder extended toward me. “P14 with Foster behind the wheel. Is this a sign that Colton Racing is making a comeback?”

A hint of a smile forms. “We’re cautiously optimistic. The team has worked tirelessly over the winter break. William’s feedback has been invaluable in developing the car.”

William. Not Foster. The familiarity slipped out before I could catch it. A journalist from F1 Daily pounces immediately.

“Speaking of William Foster—quite the coup, signing him. Talk in the paddock was that no one wanted him, not even Colton Racing, but was it a lie? Were you hiding that interest until the last minute to avoid someone stealing him from the team?” Well, I wish it had been that clever.

He literally groveled for the seat, but I won’t tell them that.

“How did a team that finished last in the Constructors’ Championship manage to secure such a promising talent? ”

The question carries a barb, but I’ve been pricked by sharper.

“We saw the opportunity to bring in William and let him prove himself. At Colton Racing, he gets a race seat and develops the car. I still don’t understand why other teams passed on him. He’s embraced our vision for rebuilding this team from the ground up.”

My thoughts briefly flicker to Birmingham—William’s hand steady on my lower back as we navigated the heaving crowd, curling his fingers protectively when that drunk man got too close.

The way his eyes crinkled when he grinned, stealing my fries across the greasy dinner table after the show.

I blink away the memory. Focus, Violet .

“Your car looks a bit… naked, compared to others on the grid,” says a reporter from Speedster Nation. “Only a single sponsor on the rear wing. Is that an aesthetic choice, or is Colton Racing struggling to attract financial backing?”

Heat creeps up my neck, but my expression remains neutral. “We’re in discussions with several potential partners. The right alignment matters more to us than plastering the car with logos for the sake of it.”

A half-truth. We’re desperate for sponsors.

Every call I’ve made has ended with polite refusal, or outright rejection.

Except for one—Silas Belforte. His offer to invest looms in my mind, tempting and troubling in equal measure.

A legitimate businessman on paper, but rumors of mob connections make me hesitate.

“Any names you can share?” the reporter pushes.

“When agreements are finalized, you’ll be the first to know.” I offer a smile that doesn’t reach my eyes.

A younger journalist—hungry, eager—raises his hand next. I don’t recognize him, immediately putting me on alert.

“Nicholas Davanti posted some interesting comments on Instagram last night. He suggested there are ‘internal issues’ at Colton Racing, and that he’s ‘not being given equal equipment.’ Care to address these allegations?”

My face remains impassive, but my blood boils. Nicholas. Again. I school my features into a mask of mild surprise .

“I’m not aware of any social media posts,” I lie smoothly. “Where exactly did you see this?”

The reporter scrolls through his phone, then turns it toward me. There it is—Nicholas’ thinly veiled complaint about “favoritism” and “second-rate treatment” complete with a sad face emoji. I nearly roll my eyes.

“I see.” I measure my words carefully. “Nicholas has been with us for three seasons. During that time, we’ve provided identical equipment to both our drivers. What differs is performance. William’s pre-season times speak for themselves.”

The implicit criticism isn’t lost on the press pack. Several scratch pens eagerly against notepads.

“So you’re saying Davanti’s underperforming?” someone calls out.

I straighten my shoulders. “I’m saying we expect improvement from all team members this season. Nicholas included. The cars are the same. The performance should be the same. Now, if you’ll excuse me, practice begins in twenty minutes.”

I turn and exit the media pen, my heels clicking sharply against the pavement. Blake falls into step beside me, his silver hair catching the sunlight.

“Nicholas again?” he asks, though it’s hardly a question.

“Sometimes, I think he forgets his father owns our last remaining sponsor, not the team itself.” I keep my voice low as we walk through the paddock.

Blake snorts. “Instagram. Of all the unprofessional…” He shakes his head. “Want me to have a word? ”

“No.” I stop walking, facing him directly. “I need to handle this before it festers.”

Blake studies me, his eyes softening. “You know, in all my years at Colton, I’ve never seen the team more motivated than they’ve been these past few months.”

It’s clear what he’s not saying. Since William joined.

Since I’ve had something resembling hope again.

That man arrived, charmed everyone—me included—and immediately extracted performance from a car deemed the "worst ever", "bottom of the grid", and a "shopping trolley".

His enthusiasm has kept the team in high spirits, and I'm not just talking about the core senior members, like most drivers like to butter up.

No. He actually focused on the factory staff, the mechanics, engineers, and even his pit crew.

Everyone smiles when he's around. And those vibes make me hopeful for the future.

Maybe, just maybe, this man arrived to save Colton Racing.

“Let’s see if that translates to lap times during this weekend,” I say, resuming our walk to the garage.

We enter the Colton Racing garage—modest compared to the gleaming operations of teams like Scuderia Nova, or Vortex Racing, but it’s ours.

The space is divided, two sides mirroring each other.

To the right, William stands with his race engineer, Tom.

He’s gesturing animatedly, pointing at a data screen, fully engaged.

His race suit is zipped up, his curly hair already slightly flattened from the balaclava he’s been testing.

Even from here, the intensity in his eyes is evident—that hungry focus I recognized the first time we met.

To the left, Nicholas slouches against the wall, still in his team shirt rather than his race suit. His phone is in his hand, thumbs tapping away at the screen. Probably composing his next complaint. Three mechanics hover nearby, waiting for him to prepare for the session.

The contrast couldn’t be more stark.

I march toward Nicholas, my steps purposeful. His gaze flicks to me as I approach, then immediately back to his phone. Dismissive.

“A word,” I say, not a request.

He sighs dramatically, pushing off from the wall. “Something wrong?”

I lead him slightly aside, though not fully out of earshot of his crew. They need to hear this, too.

“Instagram, Nicholas? Really?” I keep my voice low but sharp.

He has the audacity to shrug. “Just being honest with my followers.”

“Your honesty seems conveniently timed with your lack of performance in testing.” I hold his gaze until he looks away. “The car you’re driving has the exact same specifications as William’s. The difference is the driver.”

He flares his nostrils. “You’ve been favoring him since he arrived.

Yet, he fucking begged for the seat. What the fuck is this?

” How the hell does he know William did that?

Is he… Is he the one who created the rumor that William groveled for the seat?

The more I look at him and witness his attitude towards the team, the more it makes sense that this bastard actually leaked what happened under the guise of a rumor. Ah, fuck me. The mole is clearly him.

“What I favor are results.” I lean in slightly. “This is your third season with us, Nicholas. Your last season under contract. In that time, you’ve never scored points. William hasn’t even had his first official race, and he’s already showing more promise.”

Nicholas narrows his gaze. “My father won’t like hearing this.”

And there it is—the implicit threat. Gritt Tires’ sponsorship is the only thing keeping us afloat at the moment. But I’m done being held hostage by mediocrity. I want to get rid of him. I'm just trying to find a sustainable way that won't destroy this team.

“Your father understands business. I’ve worked alongside him, Nicholas.

And in racing, performance is business.” I straighten, keeping my voice just low enough that it won’t carry to the journalists hovering at the garage entrance.

“So, let me be crystal clear: improve your performance, or we’ll be having a very different conversation about your future with Colton Racing. Sponsorship or no sponsorship.”

His face pales slightly, then flushes red with anger. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me.” I hold his gaze. “Now, get suited up. Practice starts in ten minutes.”

I turn away, not waiting for his response.

As I walk back toward the center of the garage, I sense eyes on me.

William. He’s paused his conversation with Tom, his hazel eyes calmly tracking my movement.

I briefly catch his gaze—something passes between us, a silent acknowledgment.

He saw. He heard enough. His expression shifts slightly, concern replacing curiosity.

A strange urge to explain comes from nowhere; to share the burden of Nicholas’ petulance with someone who might understand. Someone who won't mind listening to me vent about someone who's making my life difficult. But now isn’t the time. I nod once in William’s direction, then turn toward the exit.

“I’ll be in the motorhome if you need me,” I tell Blake, who’s watching the exchange with knowing eyes.

“Violet,” he calls after me. “Don’t let Nicholas get to you. He’s not worth it.”

I pause at the doorway, looking back at our garage—at William, now pulling on his balaclava, focused and ready; at Nicholas, reluctantly accepting his helmet from a mechanic.

“He’s not,” I agree. “But this team is.”

I step out into the sunshine, the frustration from that moment dissipating, giving way to a small yawn.

Jet lag is affecting me big time, but I should focus.

The next few hours will tell us if all the work done during the winter break paid off, if William’s talent can elevate our struggling team, and if my gamble on him was justified.

From the corner of my eye, I see a poster on a nearby wall—William’s official driver portrait, his confident half-smile staring out at the paddock. Something flutters in my chest, warm as that body, and unfamiliar as that relationship.

Friend, he called me, that night in Birmingham as he tucked a stray hair behind my ear.

His touch was gentle, almost reverent. I've replayed that scene time and time again in my head.

And I wish I could go back to it and tell him that maybe, what we're labeling as friendship isn't it.

That maybe, instead of tucking a stray hair, I wanted him to cup my cheek.

And maybe, instead of a "See you in Australia", he'd asked to come upstairs with me.

Oh fuck. I’m struggling here. That night unlocked something in me. And it’s throwing me off big time.

I want a repeat. I need it.

I've never felt so out of control before.