Chapter 7
We're not just any team
William
I push open the door to the simulator room, the familiar hum of machinery washing over me, lights slowly turning on.
EJ is just climbing out, his movements fluid despite the hours he's clearly already put in.
He pulls off his helmet, the balaclava coming with it, and I nearly laugh out loud.
Again, his sandy-blond hair stands straight up like he's stuck his finger in an electrical socket—a sea of spikes defying gravity in every direction.
"Morning," I call, dropping my hoodie on a nearby chair. I've given up on the sunglasses and beanie—Violet's already seen me, so the jig is up.
EJ turns, that ever-present grin lighting up his face.
"Hey! Thought you'd never show." His gaze lands on my face, then slides past. Then it snaps back, eyes widening comically. "Holy shit! What happened to your—" He gestures vaguely at my face, mouth hanging open. "You okay?"
I unzip my gear bag, pulling out the fireproof racing suit with ease. The familiar fabric is a comfort in my hands, a second skin I've worn through thousands of laps across dozens of tracks in the simulator. I sigh, running a hand through my hair.
"Got this little souvenir at the metal show a few days ago."
EJ circles me, studying my eye like it's a rare specimen. "That looks brutal. Does it hurt?"
"Only when I laugh. Or blink. Or exist."
He snorts, dropping into a chair and wiping sweat from his forehead with the hem of his shirt. "Looks like you went three rounds with a boxing pro and lost all of them."
"Thanks for the assessment, Doctor Jordan," I deadpan, but there's no heat in it.
The kid's earned the right to give me shit; he's been putting in the hours, and the telemetry doesn't lie.
He's got talent pouring out of his ears.
"Speaking of which, what time did you get here?
It's barely 7 AM, and these readings show you've been at it for hours. "
He shrugs, suddenly finding his racing boots fascinating. "Around five? Couldn't sleep, so, noticing the headquarters was open, I figured I might as well be productive.”
He then goes on about how he recently moved to that apartment complex where all the engineers are staying, how he’s still adapting, what he’ll be doing for Christmas, and then he shifts to talking about the car.
I listen while suiting up, mentally preparing myself for what comes next.
The balaclava.
The helmet.
The pressure against my battered eye socket.
Maybe I should have stayed in bed after all.
"So the front end bites much earlier now," EJ continues, oblivious to my growing dread. "They've stiffened the springs, which helps with turn-in, but you have to be smooth, or it'll punish you."
"Sounds like my kind of challenge," I say, zipping up the suit and reaching for the balaclava. "Did you try it on a wet setup? Since it looks like we'll be testing in the rain at this rate."
EJ nods enthusiastically. "That's where it really shines. The new diffuser creates so much more downforce that—"
"Jesus, you're both here early."
Johnson's voice cuts through as the door swings open. Our head engineer strides in, three water bottles clutched in one hand. His red hair and beard stand out against his black and red Colton Racing polo, making him look like a badass Viking who's taken up motorsport and is ready to dominate.
He tosses bottles to each of us with unreal accuracy, then freezes, staring at my face. "Holy shit, Foster.” A hearty laugh echoes in the simulator room. “Please tell me the other guy looks worse."
I pull the balaclava over my head before answering, grimacing as the fabric slides over my tender skin.
Johnson drops into a chair, eyebrows climbing toward his hairline. "What the hell happened to you?"
Before I can answer, EJ jumps in. "He went to a metal show. His face had an immediate encounter with an elbow. He got a black eye. The end."
"Thanks for the quick summary," I mutter, shooting him a betrayed look. "Really appreciate the support, teammate."
Johnson's laughter fills the room.
I reach for my helmet, dreading the inevitable pain. The moment it slides over my balaclava, pressure builds against my bruised eye socket. Not unbearable, but definitely not pleasant. I wince involuntarily.
"Maybe take it slower today," Johnson suggests, his expression shifting to genuine concern. "We've got plenty of data from EJ's runs this week. No need to push if you're in pain."
"I'm fine," I insist, the automatic response of every racing driver since the dawn of time. "Nothing some ibuprofen can't handle."
EJ snorts. "He needs a medic, not painkillers. You should've seen him skulking in with sunglasses, and a beanie pulled down like he was trying to rob the place."
"It was a disguise," I explain to Johnson's raised eyebrow. "A failed one, apparently."
Wait…
"Epic fail," EJ agrees cheerfully. "Violet spotted him immediately. You should've seen her face when she saw his. Priceless."
"You saw that?" I ask, momentarily horrified. Had EJ witnessed our hallway encounter?
"Just when you arrived, I had jumped out of the simulator to grab an isotonic from the vending machine."
My cheeks heat slightly. Fuck. I’m getting too comfortable and careless. The last thing I want is for this relationship to be found out, especially not on her terms.
I clear my throat, forcing my focus back to the helmet in my hands. "Anyway, what's the plan for today? What do you need me to focus on?"
Johnson, mercifully, takes the cue to shift back to business.
He pulls out a tablet, swiping through to a specific setup sheet.
"We've made some adjustments to the power mapping based on EJ's feedback.
More progressive delivery, less of that sudden surge that was catching you both out at corner exit. "
Our conversation turns technical, the three of us slipping into the specialized language of motorsport. Downforce numbers. Tire degradation patterns. Energy deployment strategies. The familiar rhythm of it settles me, even as the helmet continues to press uncomfortably against my injury.
"The new floor design is showing a three percent improvement in overall downforce," Johnson explains, pointing to a graph. "But we're seeing some instability in high-speed corners. I need both of you to push it there, see if it's manageable, or if we need to reconsider the design."
EJ nods seriously. "I noticed that in Turns 3 and 8 of the Barcelona simulation. Feels like the rear wants to step out if you're too aggressive with the throttle."
I'm impressed. The kid doesn't miss a thing. "What about ride height? Are we sacrificing too much in the bumpy sections?"
"That's what we need to find out," Johnson says, handing me another setup sheet. "I've programmed three different configurations for you to try. EJ's already done A and B. You take C and then we'll compare notes."
"You got it." I pull the helmet on fully now, ignoring the dull throb around my eye. The simulator awaits, its wraparound screen displaying the Barcelona circuit in perfect digital detail.
Two hours of pushing virtual limits has my neck muscles crying for mercy, and my bruised face throbbing with renewed intensity.
But none of that matters. What matters is the feeling I had in those final laps—the car dancing beneath me, responding to inputs with a precision our previous chassis never managed.
The stability through high-speed corners, the bite on turn-in, the traction on exit.
It all adds up to something we haven't had at Colton Racing in years: potential.
I peel myself out of the simulator, my body drenched in sweat despite the AC being on.
"Holy shit," I say, pulling off my helmet with more care than usual. "That's a different beast entirely."
Johnson looks up from his data screens, a rare smile cracking through his usually stoic expression. "Numbers support your enthusiasm. Your last ten laps were consistently half a second quicker than anything we managed with last year's package with clean air."
"Better than that," I add, setting the helmet down and wiping sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand. "It's predictable. Last year's car would try to kill you if you pushed too hard. This one... It works with you."
EJ glances up from a book he's been reading in the corner—something thick with a spaceship on the cover. The kid's always buried in sci-fi when he's not in the car. "Told you," he says simply, a hint of a smile playing at his lips.
Johnson taps through several screens on his tablet. "If these simulations translate to the track—and that's still a big if—where do you think that puts us in the pecking order?"
I consider this, running through mental calculations of our competitors' likely development. "Midfield for sure. Better than that if things really click. P5 in Constructors' doesn't seem crazy."
"That's a big jump from P8," Johnson notes, but I can tell he's thinking the same thing.
"Belforte's money is making a difference," I point out. "Real development instead of just patching holes. And Violet's restructuring of the technical department is paying off."
At the mention of Violet's name, that now-familiar warmth spreads through me. Every time evidence of her vision becomes reality, her father's legacy climbing back from the ashes, a ridiculous sense of pride blooms in my chest. Not that I can say that out loud.
"And personally?" Johnson asks, fixing me with his analytic gaze. "Where does William Foster see himself finishing this season?"
The question deserves honesty. "If the car's capable of P5 in Constructors', I want to be within the top 10 in the Driver’s Championship. Maybe higher if things click."
"Ambitious." Johnson nods approvingly.
"Realistic," I counter. "I know what I can do in a car that doesn't fight me.
Last year, we were surviving and still managed to have bright moments.
This year, we can compete." EJ has put his book down now, listening intently.
I turn to him. "What about you, rookie? Where are you setting your sights? "
He blinks, seemingly surprised at being put on the spot.
"Me? I just want to learn as much as I can, and I don't want to embarrass myself," he admits with surprising honesty.
"I don’t want to be floundering and spinning around on track like a newbie.
I want to help the team right away. This chance means everything, you know? "
I do know. I was in his position a year ago, desperate to prove I belonged, that Violet hadn't made a mistake taking a chance on me.
"You won't," I tell him, clapping him on the shoulder. "Just keep doing what you're doing. Working hard, learning the car. The results will come."
His modesty makes me smile. At eighteen, I was convinced I'd be an F1 world champion by twenty-two. Reality had other plans. I’m twenty-five and still chasing that dream.
"Those are solid goals," Johnson agrees, but the slight reservation in his voice is clear. The same thought I'm having.
"They're a start," I say, meeting EJ's gaze directly. "But don't sell yourself short. You've got the speed. I've seen the data."
EJ shrugs, a gesture that somehow makes him look even younger. "I just don't want to get ahead of myself. First season in F1, you know? Walking before running."
"Look," I say to EJ, more seriously now.
"Being realistic is good. Being humble is good.
But having ambition pushes you forward on the days when everything feels impossible.
" I think about my three years in F2, watching lesser drivers get promoted ahead of me just because they had deeper pockets. "Trust me on that."
EJ considers this, then nods slowly. "So what would you suggest? Actual target?"
"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."