Chapter 9
Desperate for different reasons
William
After handling things with Felix and Violet, I returned to the simulator room for more sessions until late in the afternoon.
In the locker room, I strip quickly, shoving my sweat-soaked gear into a bag. The shower's hot spray pummels my shoulders, washing away the simulator session's physical tension but doing nothing to ease the restless energy building inside me.
My phone pings as I'm toweling dry. I snatch it up, pulse quickening when I see her name.
Finishing a call with Blake. Ready in 15. Meet you at your car?
I type back one-handed while pulling on jeans.
Already there. Waiting for you, Goddess.
The endearment slips out in text form before I can reconsider it.
We don't do pet names, not really. Not outside the breathless moments when we're tangled together in darkness.
But something about today—the promising simulator session, Felix getting hired, the upcoming week together, the raw honesty of wanting her near me—makes me reckless.
Three dots appear, disappear, appear again. My heart hammers against my ribs.
On my way.
No acknowledgment of the endearment. No rejection, either. Just Violet, efficient as always. I smile at my phone like an idiot, then shove it in my pocket before anyone can catch me.
The corridors are emptying quickly as I make my way toward the exit.
Outside, the rain has intensified, drumming against the glass entrance doors.
I flip up my hood and make a dash for my car, gear bag slung over my shoulder.
Water soaks through my jeans instantly, cold seeping into my bones.
The Polo's heating takes forever to kick in, but I crank it anyway, tossing my bag onto the passenger seat.
I check my reflection in the rearview mirror, rubbing at the stubble on my jaw. Should have shaved. Too late now. The bruise looks better in the dim light, at least. Less raccoon, more slightly-elbowed human.
I lean back, closing my eyes. It's just Christmas, I tell myself. Not a marriage proposal. Not even a formal relationship. Just two people who enjoy each other's company spending a holiday together.
But even as I think it, I’m fully aware I'm lying to myself. Because while Violet might be hesitant to define what we are, my feelings are concrete and unwavering.
I'm in love with her. Have been for a while. Six, seven months maybe. Even after all we’ve experienced together, I'm still terrified she doesn't feel the same or with the same depth I do.
Rain continues to hammer against my windshield in steady waves, the wipers struggling to keep up. I've been sitting here for twenty-three minutes, watching the Colton Racing entrance like a hawk.
I check my phone again. Her message said fifteen minutes. It's been twenty-eight now. I'm not counting or anything.
I drum my fingers against the steering wheel, an uneven beat betraying my nerves.
What if she's changed her mind? What if her "on my way" actually meant "I'm rethinking this entire arrangement"?
Logic tells me I'm being ridiculous. Violet doesn't say things she doesn't mean.
But logic has little jurisdiction over the tight knot forming in my stomach.
I lean back, trying to settle the jittery energy coursing through me. We've spent nights together before. Weekends, even. This shouldn't feel different. But it does.
A week together means something. It's deliberate.
Chosen. Not just convenience or momentary desire.
A week means waking up beside her every morning.
Seeing her with sleep-mussed curls and no makeup.
Watching her work through her morning coffee ritual.
Learning the rhythm of her days outside the paddock.
I still remember those days during the summer break. And now we have a full week for each other.
Honestly, it feels like crossing a line. One we've been tiptoeing around for months.
Movement at the entrance catches my eye.
The glass doors slide open, and there she is.
Violet, striding through the rain toward her Porsche, a sleek umbrella held aloft.
Even from here, the set of her shoulders beneath that navy suit is visible—commanding, elegant, unmistakably her.
Her curls are pulled back, emphasizing her sharp cheekbones, and the graceful curve of her neck.
My heart rate kicks up a notch, like I've hit a sudden boost of acceleration on track when I hit the DRS.
She moves with the confidence of someone who knows exactly who she is and where she's going.
It's the same walk that first caught my attention when I was still just a desperate driver begging for a seat.
Now, I'm still desperate, but for entirely different reasons.
I hit the lights, flashing them twice to catch her attention. Her head turns, and even through the rain-streaked windshield, the impact of her eyes finding mine slams into me. A slight smile curves her lips—subtle, but there. The kind she reserves for when we're alone.
I wave, probably too enthusiastically, then gesture down the road in the universal "I'll lead, you follow" signal. She nods once, elegant and efficient as always.
I pull out of the parking space, moving slowly to ensure she can follow. The rain has created small rivers along the roadside, churning miniature rapids over storm drains. Through my rearview mirror, her Porsche falls in behind me, headlights cutting through the gloom.
Something shifts in my chest—a tightening that isn't entirely comfortable, but isn't pain, either. Is this what it would be like? Driving home together after work, her following me through rain-slicked streets to a place that's ours?
Dangerous thought. We're not there. May never be, if Violet has her way. Team Principal and driver, keeping things casual, professional boundaries technically intact. That's the arrangement.