Page 18 of Racing for Redemption (Backmarker Love trilogy #1)

“You don’t get it, do you?” I finally say, sitting straighter. My voice is quiet but hard.

“Get what?” Nicholas looks genuinely confused.

“Not everyone has a golden spoon in their mouth at birth.” The words are out before I can stop them.

I don’t need to raise my voice; the intensity comes through clearly.

Cutting my words short, the marketing team continues their work.

I'll be the better man. Let's not explode and hit someone.

I stand by it, even if Nicholas deserves to be taught how to shut up.

“And now, if you two could just answer a few fan questions?” The social media coordinator holds up cue cards with forced enthusiasm, trying to smooth our interactions.

I nod. Nicholas sighs dramatically.

“First fan question: What’s your pre-race ritual?”

I lean forward, grateful for an easy one. “I listen to hardcore rock and metal. Gets my mind in the right space. Then I review the track map one last time before—”

“I call my girlfriend,” Nicholas interrupts. “Or whoever’s warming my bed that weekend.” He winks at the camera. I almost puke.

The director’s smile falters. “Right, um, Nicholas, perhaps you could—”

“What? It’s the truth.” He stretches, his grossly expensive watch glinting under the lights. “Fans want authenticity, don’t they? Last race weekend in Abu Dhabi, I had this model from Berlin who could—”

“Next question,” I cut in, catching the coordinator’s grateful look.

She shuffles the cards. “What’s been your biggest challenge in motorsport?”

I take a breath, considering. “Honestly? Money. Racing isn’t accessible to most people. My parents sacrificed everything to—”

“Finding garage space for all my cars.” Nicholas laughs. “Such a nightmare. I’ve got this collection in Dubai that would make you weep, Will. The maintenance alone costs more than some teams’ aero budget.”

My jaw aches from clenching it so hard. I’ve been tolerating his bullshit for half an hour, but my patience is wearing thin.

“The Bugatti is my baby, though,” he continues, oblivious to the room’s discomfort. “Took her to three hundred on a closed road last summer. That’s the thing about having money—you can make anything happen.”

The marketing intern—a young woman with pink-rimmed glasses, and a nervous smile—nods politely while checking her phone. Probably counting the minutes until this is over. I know I am. Get me outta here; this guy is shallow as fuck.

“Nicholas,” the marketing director cuts in. “Could we stay focused on Formula 1?”

He rolls his eyes. “Fine, fine. Formula 1 is cool, too. But let’s be real—the after-parties are where it’s at. Vegas was insane last year. There was this pop star, can’t say who, but we ended up in her hotel suite with—”

“Is this seriously what we’re doing today?” I finally snap, but keep my voice low.

Nicholas turns to me, eyebrows raised. “What?”

“This.” I gesture at him. “The whole ‘look how rich and connected I am, women love me’ routine. Is that all you’ve got? Is this your entire personality? ”

A strange silence falls over the studio. The cameras are still rolling. Part of me knows I should shut up, but something hot and angry pulses beneath my skin. It would be so easy to throttle this guy, then get all the media day stuff done in peace and quiet.

Nicholas smirks. “Sorry, didn’t realize I was bothering you. Thought you’d be used to it by now, being around success.”

“Success?” I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “Is that what you call it?”

“What would you call it?” He leans back, a challenge in his eyes.

I meet his gaze. “Privilege.”

“Oh, here we go.” He rolls his eyes. “Let me guess—you worked hard for everything, pulled yourself up by your bootstraps, blah blah blah. Spare me the poor boy narrative, Will. We’re the same, you and I.”

And there it is. The assumption that’s been crawling under my skin since we met.

“We’re not the same,” I hiss.

“No?” He laughs. “Rich parents bought you a seat in karting, right? That’s how it works. That’s how you ended up here. That’s how everyone ended up in Formula 1.”

The studio lights suddenly feel too hot. I curl my hands into fists, but force myself to relax. I won’t lose control. Not like last time.

“My parents weren’t rich,” I say, each word careful and precise. “They were public school teachers in Michigan.”

Nicholas snorts. “Right. ”

“They sold our house. Cashed in their retirement funds. Moved us to the UK when I was seven, because that’s where you have to be to make it in this sport, and they couldn't afford the constant traveling from the US to the UK.

" I tighten my fists. "They sold their wedding rings to pay for my first racing suit.”

The memories flood back—the tiny, cockroach-riddled apartment in Milton Keynes.

My parents left everything behind. Our house, their friends, my grandparents.

When we arrived in the UK, finding work was hard for them.

So my dad ended up working as a mechanic during the day, and a security guard at night.

Mom waitressed and worked at a contact center at night.

I helped out at the garage after school to pay for tires.

“They gave up everything they built, so I could chase this dream.”

Nicholas’ smirk falters slightly. “That’s why you run the United Kingdom flag in your driver's suit, and not the United States one?”

I don’t owe him an answer as to why I have dual citizenship. This country opened the doors in my career, and things came easier in Europe if I was British. Not that it’d matter or would make sense to someone like Nicholas.

“While you were flying private to Monaco, or wherever the hell you lived, I was sleeping in the back of our van at race weekends.” I can’t seem to stop now.

“As I grew up, my race suits were secondhand. My helmet was the cheapest one that still met safety standards. Every win meant another few weeks we could afford to keep going.” Felix Becker, one of the veteran drivers currently in Formula 1, actually handed me down some of his suits and helmets when I hit my teens.

The studio is completely silent now. Even the camera operators have stopped fidgeting.

“Every penny they made went into my career. Every holiday, every luxury, every new pair of shoes they needed—all sacrificed. For years. So no,” I finish, looking him straight in the eye. “We’re not the same.”

Nicholas stares back, something uncertain crossing his face. Then, the mask slips back on. “Touching story. Really. Should sell it to a video streaming platform, or make a movie out of it, I don't care.”

I shake my head, deflating slightly. What did I expect? Understanding?

The director clears her throat. “Maybe we should take a break?”

“No need,” Nicholas says, suddenly all business. “I can be professional. Unlike some people who get emotional on camera.”

I bite back a retort. He’s trying to provoke me, and I won’t give him the satisfaction.

My mind is on my parents, now living in a modest house in Australia.

Dad finally got to retire, and Mom has a small garden she tends to religiously; she said she’s growing a mango tree just for when I come visit and indulge in the sweetness I love.

They’re happy, finally doing things for themselves after decades of putting me first. I miss them more than I can express.

The way Dad’s eyes crinkle when he laughs.

Mom’s terrible jokes that somehow always make me smile.

I like to think I carry a bit of them with me.

They’re attending my first race. Six-hour car trip to Melbourne, despite me offering to pay for flight tickets.

“Save your money,” Dad said. “You’ll need it.

” That’s my father—always thinking ahead, always planning for contingencies.

I still got them tickets, because the prices are ridiculous in the VIP area.

“Haven’t seen them in person for almost a year,” I continue. “But they’re driving for the season opener. They want to see me race in Formula 1.”

For a moment, something close to empathy flickers across Nicholas’ face. Then, it’s gone. “Fine, whatever. Family’s important. I get it.” He turns back to the camera with a practiced smile. “Can we move on? I’ve got dinner reservations at eight.”

The director nods gratefully and signals the camera operator. “Let’s try something lighter. How about dating life for an F1 driver?”

Nicholas perks up immediately. “Now, we’re talking.” He slaps my shoulder. “Foster here needs some help in that department. Too serious all the time. Right, mate?”

I force a neutral expression. “I’m focused on racing.”

“That’s exactly the problem!” Nicholas laughs. “All these gorgeous women throwing themselves at us, and you’re obsessing over tire compounds. When’s the last time you got laid? Abu Dhabi? Before that?”

The marketing intern shifts uncomfortably. She glances at the exit .

“I’m not discussing this,” I say firmly.

“Come on,” Nicholas prods. “I can set you up. I know this group of models who follow the European races. Absolute stunners. No strings attached. Just what you need to loosen up.”

I take a deep breath. “I’m not interested.”

“Not interested in women?” He raises an eyebrow.

“Not interested in treating anyone like disposable entertainment,” I correct him. “I’m more of a romantic. I love sex as much as the next guy, but I want someone to settle down with, not… whatever it is you’re talking about.”

Nicholas looks at me like I’ve asked where the button is to turn on the car's engine. “Settle down? You’re twenty-four, not forty-four.”

“Some of us think with a different head, Nicholas.”