Page 17 of Racing for Redemption (Backmarker Love trilogy #1)

Testing my patience

William

I swipe my access card and head toward the drivers’ room. My footsteps echo against the polished floor. Still convinced I’m walking through someone else’s dream.

“Morning, Foster!” A mechanic—Dave or Dan, I still mix them up—waves from the corridor.

“Morning,” I call back, offering a tight smile.

The team members keep getting even cozier with me.

It’s refreshing. They’re more like a family than the corporate machine I’d imagined.

Makes sense, given how long most of them have worked here.

Through the glory days, and the recent struggles.

Still, they have a passion and warmth that many would no longer have in other teams. It’s frustrating to work for a team where “struggling” has been a state of mind for a decade.

I enter the locker room and change quickly. The Colton Racing gear still feels stiff and unfamiliar against my skin. The red and black accents pop against the white, making me appear taller than my actual height. A small blessing in this sport of giants.

My phone buzzes. Text from James:

Meeting pushed to 2 PM. Extra sim time – use it wisely.

I type back a quick On it, and pocket the phone.

The simulator room is quiet when I enter.

Screens glow with data from yesterday’s session.

I’ve been putting in extra hours, learning every millimeter of track that’ll matter this season.

Nicholas, my teammate, treats simulator work like a chore. I treat it like oxygen.

“William.” Johnson, our lead engineer, looks up from his tablet. “Good timing. I’ve adjusted the downforce parameters based on your feedback.”

“How’s it feel?” I ask, eyeing the setup.

“Like you’ll have more grip through sector two at Imola.

But we’ve sacrificed some straight-line speed.

” We’ve been focusing a lot on Imola as this was the track in which Colton Racing absolutely had no pace last year.

It is the temple of speed, but they were slow as a snail, ending up with Nicholas DNFing, and Kevin, the guy who disappeared, being lapped three times by the race winner.

I nod, already calculating the trade-off in my head. “Let’s test it. ”

The simulator seat fits my body perfectly now; two months of adjustments, and tiny changes after each session. I pull on the gloves, then grab the wheel. This is more real to me than most things in my life.

Johnson hands me a bottle of water. “Three flying laps, then we’ll compare with yesterday’s times.”

I slip on the balaclava and helmet, and sink into the familiar trance. The virtual track materializes before me, and everything else falls away. This is where I belong. Where I make sense.

My mind drifts as I hit the first straight.

Three months ago, I was groveling for a place in this team, telling Violet we needed each other, while no other Team Principal took my calls.

Not because I lacked talent—everyone knew I had that—but because I was an idiot with a short fuse who was robbed of the F2 title.

I like to believe that I’ve matured a bit since I joined the team, but I’ve yet to race or find an asshole that will test that and take me to a breaking point, so… I can’t be so sure. But I’ve made an effort.

I brake hard into Turn 1, feeling the resistance through the wheel.

I nail the apex of Turn 3, feeling the virtual car respond. New parameter settings definitely help with the rear stability.

“Looking good, William.” Johnson’s voice cuts through my headset. “Half a second up on yesterday already.”

I smile despite myself. This is what I focus on. Improvement. Progress. Proving every day that I deserve to be here .

The lap flies by, corners blending into straights, my hands moving automatically. This is where my mind goes quiet. Where the doubt and frustration melt away.

Three laps later, I pull the virtual car into the pits and remove my balaclava and helmet combo. Sweat beads on my forehead despite the room’s air conditioning.

“That’s what I’m talking about.” Johnson grins, showing me the times. “Consistent improvement. Nicholas hasn’t been able to match these times yet.”

I put down the helmet and lean against the wall.

“I’ll take the data to Violet later,” Johnson continues. “She’s been asking for daily progress reports.”

“How’s she feeling about pre-season testing?” I ask, trying to sound casual.

Johnson shrugs. “You know Violet. Keeps her cards close. But Blake mentioned she’s been pulling all-nighters lately.”

I nod, picturing her hunched over reports in her office.

The few times we’ve spoken directly, she’s been professional, focused.

She's always with a cup of coffee in hand, and some sort of pastry to pair it with.

Sometimes, I catch her watching the simulator sessions from the observation deck, her expression unreadable.

“Speak of the devil,” Johnson murmurs, and I follow his gaze to the glass window above us.

There she is. Hair pulled back in a neat ponytail, wearing the flowy, dark-gray suit with thin, violet stripes that have become her trademark. I start thinking that maybe she’s a 'power suit' type of woman. She’s speaking with Blake, gesturing at something on a tablet.

Her presence commands attention. She radiates intensity. Like every moment matters. Like she’s carrying the weight of her family’s legacy on her shoulders.

Which, I suppose, she is.

Our eyes meet briefly through the glass. She gives a small nod of acknowledgment. I return it, and add a smile to the mix.

“Foster!” Nicholas’ voice ruins the moment. I turn to see my teammate swagger in, twenty minutes late for his scheduled session. “Don’t tell me you’re hogging the simulator again.”

“Just finished,” I say, standing and gathering my notes. “All yours.”

Nicholas is everything I’m not—tall, blond, mega rich, connected. His father owns half of Dubai, or so it’s rumored. He drives like someone who’s never had to fight for anything in his life.

Which, I guess, he hasn’t.

I glance up at the observation window again, but Violet is gone. Only Blake remains, watching Nicholas with a look that mirrors my own thoughts.

The marketing department’s studio lights burn hot against my face. Two weeks before the big team reveal, and we’re shooting promo content like we’re running out of time. I adjust the collar of my white, red, and black team shirt, stealing glances at the clock.

Three hours down; God knows how many more to go.

It’s as though the camera lens is staring at me, unblinking and merciless.

I smile—not too wide, not too stiff. Media training 101.

The marketing department has us jumping through hoops like trained seals.

Press photos, video clips, sound bites. I will do whatever the team needs to get back on its feet, but today is particularly stressful, and it doesn’t help that beside me, Nicholas lounges in his chair like he’s poolside in Monaco, not giving a damn about being here.

“And we’re ready in three, two—” The marketing director points at us, and the red light on the camera blinks on.

“I’m Nicholas Davanti, and this season with Colton Racing is going to be our best yet.”

“I’m William Foster, and I can’t wait to show what Colton Racing can do this year.”

Our practiced lines. Delivered exactly as instructed. The difference is, I meant what I said .

“Perfect, gentlemen. Now, let’s get some casual conversation going between teammates. Just chat naturally about your expectations, your preparation, anything race-related.” The director steps back, giving us space. "We want this to look candid."

Nicholas immediately turns to me with a rehearsed smile. “So, Will, first season in F1. Nervous?”

“It’s William,” I correct automatically. “And no, just eager to get started.”

“Cool, cool.” Nicholas’ attention drifts. “Did I tell you about the party at Cannes last weekend? The yacht was insane. Models everywhere.” He lowers his voice, though not enough for the microphones to miss. “This Swedish girl, absolute rocket, kept giving me eyes all night—”

“Maybe we should talk about the season prep?” I suggest, cutting him off.

Nicholas waves his hand dismissively. “Boring. We’ve got weeks for that.” He leans in, his cologne—too much of it—invading my space. “Seriously, though, you should’ve been there. I could’ve introduced you to her friends. These girls are wild when they know you’re an F1 driver.”

I grit my teeth, jaw muscle twitching. The camera is still rolling, capturing every second of this farce.

I could pretend I’m into all that and just go along to avoid internal conflict.

But I am honestly not like that. The secondhand embarrassment is almost too much as he talks about women and parties. So, I go my own way .

“I was training,” I say flatly. “Six hours in the simulator, three hours in the gym, two hours with my physical therapist. Every day, for the past three months.”

Nicholas snorts. “All work and no play, Will. Life’s too short.”

“It’s William to you,” I repeat, clenching my teeth. Only my parents call me Will, asshole.

“Whatever.” He lounges back, clearly bored with me. “Anyway, next weekend, there’s this exclusive thing in Monaco. Dad’s friends with some dukes, so we get the royal treatment. Private rooms, premium champagne—the works. You should come. I’ll put you on the list.”

I grip the armrests of my chair. Behind the camera, the marketing team exchange glances. This isn’t the teammate bonding they were hoping to capture. I don’t know what this even is.

“Not really my scene,” I say, trying to keep my voice even.

“What? Parties? Beautiful women? The good life?” Nicholas laughs, a sound like expensive crystal clinking. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those boring guys who just sits at home watching race footage.”

A hot coal of anger burns in my gut. It’s not just his assumptions. It’s the entitlement. The casualness with which he dismisses anything that doesn’t fit his gilded world view.