Page 20 of Racing for Redemption (Backmarker Love trilogy #1)

William

T he corridor to the main garage feels like a tunnel connecting two worlds. Nicholas trails behind me, tapping away at his phone, probably letting his socialite friends know what an awful time he’s having with the peasants, and how I’m just the poorest and saddest guy he’s ever seen. Fuck him.

The new Colton Racing car sits under bright lights. Sleek. Dangerous. Full of potential and problems in equal measure. This is not a perfect car by far. But it is a massive upgrade over last year’s.

My heart beats faster at the sight of it—this machine that will carry my dreams and nightmares for this season. My office, my weapon, my partner for twenty-three race weekends.

Blake stands beside the car, his sturdy frame almost touching the rear wing, comfortable in a way that speaks of decades spent around these machines. Johnson hovers nearby, tablet in hand, his eyes darting between us and the complex diagrams on his screen.

“Gentlemen,” Blake says, a small smile forming. “Your chariot awaits.” He couldn’t have said it in a more posh accent. I hold in a chuckle.

The CR-39 is beautiful in a functional, lethal way.

Sleeker than last year’s model, with revised sidepods, and a more aggressive front wing design.

The Colton Racing black gleams under the lights, red accents tracing elegant lines across the bodywork.

I circle it slowly, taking in every curve and cut, the way it seems to be moving even while standing still.

“We’ve made several key improvements,” Johnson jumps in, swiping through technical readouts on his tablet. “The cooling system has been completely overhauled. Last year’s car was overheating by lap thirty on most circuits.”

Nicholas yawns, checking his watch. I fight the urge to glare at him.

“What do you think?” Johnson asks. He’s been with the team for fifteen years, through championships, and the recent struggles. And he’s actually a great guy, helping me through all the sim work I’ve been doing. As he asks me, his eyes hold a cautious hope.

“Gorgeous,” I murmur, crouching to examine the front suspension. “You’ve addressed the ride height issue from last year’s model?”

Johnson nods. “Completely redesigned. Should give you better feel through low-speed corners. And, we’ve finally solved the porpoising that plagued us last year. We looked like those lowrider cars.” He’s not wrong; I saw the footage from last year’s races, and oh boy, did that car bounce like crazy.

“The diffuser looks different, too,” I note, moving to the rear.

“Good eye,” Blake says, joining me. “We’ve optimized the airflow. Should translate to about two-tenths per lap on most circuits.”

Nicholas finally looks up from his phone, giving the car a cursory glance. “Nice paint job.”

Blake’s expression doesn’t change, but something flickers in his eyes. Disappointment, maybe. “It’s more than a paint job, Nicholas. It’s a complete redesign philosophy.”

“Right, right.” Nicholas waves a dismissive hand. “Very impressive. Does it go faster?”

Johnson clears his throat. “That’s the idea. We’ve found about half a second per lap in the wind tunnel compared to last year’s car.”

I run my fingers along the sidepod, feeling the smooth carbon fiber. “The cooling package looks more compact.”

“Had to be,” Johnson confirms. “We’ve shifted some weight distribution to help with the balance issues you noted in the simulator.”

Nicholas frowns. “What balance issues?”

I bite my tongue. He drove last year’s car all season, and never once mentioned the mid-corner understeer that plagued them at every technical circuit. How can you not feel something so fundamental?

“The tendency to wash out mid-corner under heavy load,” Johnson explains patiently. “William picked it up in his first simulation session.”

Nicholas nods like he knew all along. “Right, that. Definitely noticed it. Good catch, Will.”

Blake catches my eye, giving the smallest shake of his head. Don’t engage. Message received.

“The wheelbase is shorter, too,” I observe, moving back to the front of the car.

“Ten centimeters,” Blake confirms. “Should make it more nimble in the slower corners. Sacrifice a bit of stability, but…”

“Worth it on most circuits,” I finish. “Especially street tracks. Baku might still be tough, though.”

Johnson smiles. “Exactly what I said. We can adjust with setup, of course. Won’t be perfect, but it’ll do.”

I circle the car again, mentally comparing it to what I know of our competitors.

Vortex Racing will still have the power advantage; their engine program is second to none.

ProTech Energex Racing and Scuderia Nova will be strong as always.

But this car… There’s serious potential here.

Maybe not for wins—not yet. But to climb out the back of the grid? Absolutely.

These are the conversations I live for. The technical details, the endless pursuit of milliseconds. Nicholas has drifted back to his phone, scrolling with bored indifference. How can he not care about the machine that has his life riding on it every race weekend ?

“What about the rear suspension?” I ask, moving to the back of the car. “Last year’s model had serious issues with tire degradation on the left rear.”

“We’ve addressed that,” Blake says. “New geometry entirely. Plus, a damper system that should be more responsive to changing track conditions.”

Nicholas finally seems to wake up. “We didn’t have tire degradation issues.”

What? It takes all my control to not let out an expletive. During my sim time when I joined the team, it took me exactly three laps to identify the problem.

“It was pretty significant,” Johnson explains diplomatically. “The left rear was wearing about twenty percent faster than it should have been. Created major balance issues in the second half of races.”

Nicholas shrugs. “I didn’t notice anything special.”

That’s because you crashed out of half the races before the tire wear became critical , I think, but don’t say. Instead, I move to the cockpit, running my fingers along the edge of the monocoque.

In my head, I’m already driving this car. Imagining how it might respond through Eau Rouge, how it might handle the slow hairpins of Monaco, and the high-speed sweeps of my favorite track, Silverstone. Every circuit presents its own challenges, its own opportunities.

A good driver adapts.

A great driver anticipates .

A bad one… Well… A bad one scrolls on their smartphone, not giving two fucks about what’s happening.

Johnson looks at me with new respect. “William, most drivers wouldn’t bother with that level of analysis before even driving the car.”

I shrug. “I’m not like most drivers. I like engineering and being prepared for anything.”

Behind us, the door to the technical area swings open. There’s a subtle shift in the room’s energy—a straightening of spines, a sharpening of attention. I turn, and there she is.

Violet Colton enters with purposeful strides, her dark curls framing her face in a way that somehow looks both perfectly styled, and effortlessly natural. She’s wearing a tailored charcoal suit with violet accents, and a white blouse that makes her eyes seem even more intense. She means business.

“Gentlemen,” she says, her gaze sweeping over us. “How’s the introduction going?”

“Very well,” Blake answers. “William here has already identified half the technical changes we made.”

Violet’s gaze finds mine, and for a moment, I’d swear sweat was trickling down my spine. There’s something about the direct way she looks at people—like she’s reading code only she can decipher.

“Impressive,” she says, the slightest lift at the corner of her mouth. Not quite a smile, but something. “Though, I wouldn’t expect any less from someone who convinced us he’d memorized every piece of telemetry data from our test sessions. ”

My face warms. “Just doing my homework, Ms. Colton.”

“Violet,” she corrects, and my heart does a strange little sidestep. “We’re not formal around here. At least, not with each other. I want us to be a family, and those formalities ruin the mood completely.” I'm still trying to understand how professional I should be around her.

She nods, her attention moving to the car, then to Nicholas—who’s still on his phone, quite possibly texting someone—and finally, to me. Our gazes lock for a heartbeat longer than necessary. Something flutters in my chest—a wingbeat of nervousness I haven’t felt since my first F3 race.

“What do you think as a whole, William?” she asks.

The sound of my name from her mouth does strange things to my concentration. I swallow. “It’s impressive. The aero package especially. This car seems much faster in comparison. But, I haven’t tried it, or seen the detailed specs, so I’ll hold my enthusiasm for when I get behind the wheel.”

She smiles—a small, controlled gesture that nevertheless transforms her face. “I’ll pass that along to the design team. They’ve been working around the clock.”

Nicholas finally pockets his phone. “Looks fast,” he offers. “Can’t wait to drive it.”

Generic answers that could apply to any year’s car. I resist the urge to roll my eyes.

Violet’s expression doesn’t change, but something cools in her eyes.

“I’m glad to hear it, Nicholas. Your feedback will be crucial during testing.

” She’s diplomatic enough not to call him out.

But hell if that comment didn’t almost make me laugh.

She has a deadpan brand of sarcasm that nearly sends me into a laughing fit.

She steps closer to the car, and I catch a hint of her perfume—something subtle and complex, like vanilla and blue lotus. It’s sweet, yet refined, without being obnoxious. My fingers twitch at my sides.

The way she moves is mesmerizing—precise, but never rigid, confident, but never arrogant. I watch her hands as she gestures to different parts of the car, the elegant movement of her fingers emphasizing her points.