Chapter 20
Colton Racing is back
William
"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 the limits. "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 snug against 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."
I attack the first corner with calculated aggression, braking later than in practice but not overdriving.
The car rotates beautifully through the apex, allowing me to get on the power earlier than expected.
Each subsequent corner follows the same pattern—finding the limit without crossing it, extracting maximum performance without risking a session-ending mistake.
Crossing the line, I check the time on my steering wheel display before Tom can relay it.
"P7, good lap," he confirms. "But traffic's building. One more push before the tires drop off."
The second attempt feels even better—smoother, more connected, finding those extra hundredths in corner entries that add up over a lap. The checkered flag drops as I enter the final sector, making this my last qualifying attempt for Q1.
"Across the line in P13," Tom reports, a hint of tension in his voice. "Should be enough, but it's tight."
The wait for confirmation is excruciating. I circle slowly back toward the pits, watching the timing screens update as the final cars complete their laps. Positions shuffle rapidly, names rising and falling on the leaderboard.
"We're through," Tom finally confirms. "P13 secured. EJ just behind you in P14."
Relief washes through me, temporarily replacing the nervousness. Both Colton cars through to Q2—already an improvement over most of last season. But the job isn't finished.
Q2 demands perfect execution. The midfield battle is brutally tight—half a second separating six cars, with fine margins between advancing to Q3 and starting in the lower midfield. My first attempt places me temporarily in P7, but others will improve.
"Last run needs to be mega," Tom advises. "We’ve dropped to P9 now, but it's going to be close."
I visualize the lap before executing it—every braking point, every apex, every moment where milliseconds hide between aggression and caution. When I launch into the final attempt, the car mimics an extension of my will—no longer machinery to be controlled, but a conduit for pure intent.
Each sector clicks into place—not perfect, but strong. The final corner opens up before me, and I carry just enough speed to maximize the exit without compromising the racing line. I cross the line holding my breath, waiting for Tom's verdict.
"Checkered flag. P8! You've done it!" His usually measured voice carries uncommon excitement. "We're into Q3!"
"EJ?" I ask, almost afraid to hope for a perfect outcome.
"P10 by six hundredths," Tom confirms. "Both cars in Q3, William. Both cars!"
The realization hits me in waves—Colton Racing in Q3 again. Both cars advancing to the final qualifying session; something that hasn't happened for a decade, something many believed impossible for a team that was fighting just to survive last season. Melbourne has been magical to us.
Q3 presents a different challenge—no longer fighting to advance but competing against the established order, the teams with vastly more resources and experience. The pressure shifts from survival to opportunity. How much can we extract from this moment?
My first flying lap borders on extraordinary—every corner attacked with precision, the car dancing on the edge of adhesion without crossing into chaos. When I cross the line, Tom's voice carries a note of genuine awe.
"P4! Incredible lap, William! You're only three-tenths off Farrant in P3."
We're fighting with the front-runners, not just hanging onto the back of the midfield. Farrant’s the reigning F1 champion. Damn. This isn't just progress; it's a quantum leap from where we were.
But qualifying is merciless—one perfect lap immediately demands another. As I push into my final attempt, the extra adrenaline courses through me, the knowledge that something special is possible today. Maybe too much adrenaline.
Turn 9 approaches, a fast left-hander that feeds directly into the technical Turn 10.
I carry slightly more speed than before, sensing an opportunity to gain time.
But it's too much—the rear steps out as I reach the apex, forcing me to correct quickly.
The car oversteers into Turn 10, running slightly wide, precious tenths bleeding away with each correction.
I extract everything possible from the remaining corners, but the damage is done. I cross the line knowing the lap won't improve my position.
"P8 final," Tom confirms. "That mistake cost us, but still a strong result. EJ maintained P10."
Logic tells me P8 is excellent—far better than anyone expected from Colton Racing, a genuine achievement for a team rebuilding from near-collapse. But that glimpse of what might have been—P4, fighting with the established drivers—makes it difficult to celebrate fully.
Back in the garage, I remove my helmet and balaclava with mixed emotions churning in my chest. Pride in what we've accomplished, frustration at what slipped through my fingers. Tom approaches, data tablet in hand.
"That mistake aside, the pace was genuinely there," he says, already analyzing rather than dwelling. "We're in the fight tomorrow. Real points potential."
I nod, unable to shake the nagging sense of opportunity missed. "Should have been higher. That Turn 9 entry was—"
"Exactly what any driver would have tried," a velvety voice interrupts. "It just didn't work this time. Nothing to sweat about."
I turn to find Violet standing behind me, her expression professionally composed, but her eyes conveying a deeper understanding. Being in the same team space with her feels both natural and painfully constrained—so close yet unable to interact as we would if we were alone.