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

‘ This is the comeback story of the decade. ’

In the paddock, you can feel it—the high stakes, the pressure. The highs don’t last long, and the lows can drag on for months, even years.

Drama is part of the daily lives of those on the grid. It destroys teams, drivers and relationships, making rivalries become more than just trading sarcasm in front of the media.

But this passion of ours has a different side, too—a relentlessly fun, carefree side.

Reserved for fans and enthusiasts who are oblivious to our behind-the-scenes politics, ultimatums, sponsors, events and all the bullshit that makes my brain feel like it’s melting since I took over Colton Racing this summer.

They know of the glamour. They know of the glory. But they rarely know of the drivers and teams who fell from grace— disgraced, ridiculed, and forgotten. A footnote in the history of the sport when they were once a headline.

Fans live for the intoxicating roar of engines coming to life. For twenty-three weekends, they tune in and flock to the F1 races, immersing themselves in the sound of revving in the distance, echoing in circuits around the world.

Through it all, they are the twenty best drivers in the world sitting in the cockpits of their powerful cars—daring destiny, facing danger day in, day out, while hunting for glory and fighting for every driver’s dream: the coveted Driver’s Championship.

As I walk around the garage, I spot fans in the stands, their faces alight with excitement. It is quite the scene.

They wear the colors of their chosen teams like badges of honor—hats, T-shirts, flags, handmade cardboard messages—all representing their allegiance.

Families huddle together while friends exchange playful banter about their favorite drivers.

Yes, there is a sense of rivalry, but there’s also a shared love for this sport that transcends boundaries and unites us all. I love that about us.

I remember when I was young, and Dad was here, letting me run around the garage being a cute little brat—bothering the mechanics, dreaming of becoming one of them.

Good times. That innocence, that passion, that unbridled curiosity made me fall in love with the sport.

It developed from a passion to a hobby. From a dream to a failure, and now, my duty.

“Violet, we have the media asking why we don’t have a second driver this week.” My assistant, Blake, keeps pace alongside me as I make a beeline to the media room, the confident click of my staccato heels echoing through the empty corridor.

“Good question. Has anyone tried to contact Kevin? How does a driver vanish? Does anyone in hospitality know where he went?” I clench my jaw and ball my hands into fists at my sides. This is getting out of hand.

Blake keeps up and checks his smartphone for any news or updates on Kevin’s whereabouts as we arrive at the room, stopping before opening the door to face the hungry media. “No, boss. This is unheard of. There’s nothing about him on the news nor social media. He’s a ghost.”

I hold the door handle and turn to him. “Well, either security in the paddock is lax, or Kevin somehow pulled off a vanishing act.” I turn the handle.

“I don’t like this one bit.” Our best driver, abandoning us with five races left in the season.

This is a betrayal of the highest level.

It stings, and the implications are going to be far worse. I can feel it.

Blake adds, “There’s more, though. Three sponsors pulled out an hour ago.”

An empty void sits in my stomach. “Which ones?”

“Jameson Tools, Greenhill Tech and OilQ.”

The blood drains from my face. He must be fucking kidding me. These sponsors represent more than half our revenue stream. With Kevin gone and now this… I sense a migraine coming.

“Who’s left? Gritt Tires?” I ask, dreading the answer.

“Correct. Just them. ”

“Figures.” Prior to joining the team, I worked at Gritt Tires, so this is the company with which we have the strongest ties.

But there’s a limit to their tolerance of our poor performance before they pull out.

I… I don’t really want to think about it.

If they leave, we’re gone for good. They are our lifeline.

“We need to sue Kevin. Now,” I declare quietly, whirling to face Blake. “Breach of contract, frustration of sponsors’ expectations, damage to the team’s reputation—”

“Violet.” Blake’s tone is gentle but firm. I know what he’s going to say. I know it. But hell if this isn’t frustrating. “That could explode in our faces. Make us look desperate, vindictive, even petty.”

“Then what do you suggest? Take it on the chin and smile? This is a business, Blake. People invest big money in this team. We have a board of directors demanding results, then he goes and breaches the contract? We can’t just let him walk away scot-free while we’re left scrambling!”

Blake locks his eyes on mine, steady and reassuring. “We focus on what we can control. Finding a replacement driver for this weekend—better yet, for the remaining races, shoring up our remaining sponsorship, and damage control with the media.”

I nod slowly, some of the tension leaving my shoulders. This is why I need Blake. His level-headedness balances my passionate—though at times reckless—drive.

“We’ll do that. After I’m done with the interviews.” As soon as I enter the room, the media flash their cameras. Microphones are shoved at me as if any of my words will sate their hunger for the latest juicy scandal on the grid.

“Ms. Colton! Ms. Colton!”

Taking a deep breath, I observe the journalists’ eager expressions and media pundits, ready to once again trash my team.

This has become a tradition in the paddock as well as among fans of the sport. I just want this to end.

“Ms. Colton!” A journalist stands at the front and begins inquiring. “It is said that Colton Racing will be on the grid this weekend with only one driver. Can you confirm?”

I adjust my suit jacket before answering. “We are currently seeking options. We will do our best to race with both cars. That is the least we can do to reward the hard work of our mechanics and engineers at the factory.”

The journalist doesn’t look happy with my answer—it’s clear why. You want me pointing fingers, eh? Well, I’m not giving you that pleasure. Not to you or any of the others in this room.

Call me all the names you want. Trash me if you want to. But I’ll be the last one standing; even if my F1 team is crumbling in front of everyone, I will hold the fort. I need to, for the sake of my family’s legacy.

“Violet Colton, you’ve been CEO and Team Principal of Colton Racing since this summer. Is it a coincidence that the team is nearing its end? Shouldn’t the roles be handed to separate people? ”

I purse my lips as the journalist—an old man with a sleazy vibe—eyes me like a hungry hyena, ready to attack at my smallest mistake. Who said we’re nearing our end?

“I’ve only recently taken over the role of CEO and Team Principal of this team.

As you may be aware, Colton Racing has a long-standing tradition in F1, especially as a privately owned team, but, in the past couple of years, we’ve struggled with consistency, and poor management has led to our decline.

In the interest of efficiency, and to save valuable resources, those two roles are handled by the same person.

That’s not unprecedented, as we can see other CEOs also taking roles as Team Principals for other teams.”

Pausing, I read the room. Some are interested in what I’m saying…

though others, it seems, are thinking about the next question to put me in check.

I continue, “Me joining the team and us being short one driver have nothing in common. I’d kindly ask you not to make those assumptions.

” I flash a professional smile at the journalist, but I just want to walk away and focus on more pressing issues.

“Are we done here?” My tone is sharp. I’m stressed. I’m furious. I want to burn this whole fucking paddock to the ground. Yet, I need to act as professional as possible.

I storm out of the media pen and into the paddock.

Whispers and sidelong glances follow in my wake, but I keep my chin high, with my gaze fixed ahead. I won’t give them the satisfaction of seeing me falter. That’d be the last nail in this already bursting at the seams coffin .

A flash of silver hair, a confident pose, and a sickening smile catches my eye.

All in the same package. Dominic Harrington, standing before a cluster of reporters, his voice carrying.

I can hear the hint of arrogance and superiority in his tone, as if he were born to lead, and others were simply meant to follow.

Pawns beneath him, ready to be manipulated.

They gladly eat up anything he spews. What he says is controversial—he loves spurring on the media.

Fending off the flames in controversies that don’t have a thing to do with him.

I think he loves the attention. It can only be that, because his team doesn’t need any more; they’re champions, after all.

“—a shame, really. Colton Racing, once a titan of the sport, can’t even field two cars. One has to wonder about the… leadership, you know?”

I clench my jaw, but maintain my pace. His words sting even in passing, like salt in an already raw wound.

“Ms. Colton!” A reporter breaks from the pack, microphone shoved in my face. “Any comment on the rumors that you’re struggling to find a replacement driver?” This again?

I plaster on a polite smile. “Colton Racing is exploring all options to ensure we finish the season strong. We’re confident in our ability to overcome this temporary setback.”

It is an understatement how much I hate this.

I’m lying through my teeth. And it tastes bitter.

We’ve contacted every eligible driver in F2 and F3.

All promptly declined. William Foster—one of the big names in this year’s F2 season—briefly crossed my mind, but I dismissed the thought.

I won’t jeopardize his fight for the championship, giving the vultures more ammunition against me.

Chances are, he would also reject our invitation.

As I escape into our team’s motorhome, my phone buzzes. Turns out I forgot to silence notifications. Against my better judgment, I open it.

A crude meme sent to my DMs. How funny. My face photoshopped onto a sinking ship labeled “Colton Racing.” The caption reads: Fastest way to destroy a legacy? Put a Colton in charge.

I swallow hard, fighting the sting in my eyes. This was my Dad’s dream, his life’s work. In just a few short months, I’d become the architect of its demise. Good going, Violet.

“Violet?” Blake’s voice startles me. I quickly lock my phone.

He narrows his gaze, studying me. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I snap, my voice cutting through the air sharper than I intended, then immediately feel a pang of regret twist in my stomach.

Given what he has been doing for me and the team, that is not how I should address him.

Hell. I’m getting too emotional. I run a hand through my curls, sighing at the concerned look on his face.

“Sorry,” I mumble, shifting my weight from one foot to the other.

“Just… stressed.” My shoulders slump under the invisible weight of the week’s chaos.

The board is losing faith, the paddock is mocking us, and the internet seems determined to tear us apart. But I’ll weather this storm. I have to.

For my father .

For the team.

For myself.

I am Violet Colton. I refuse to let this be our final chapter.