Page 25 of Racing for Redemption (Backmarker Love trilogy #1)

That’s What Friends Are For

William

He’s lounging against his car, scrolling through his phone with that characteristic intensity that makes everything Felix does look important. At the sound of my car door slamming, he looks up, a wide grin splitting his face.

“Some of us still have to do actual work,” I retort, but I’m smiling as I approach him. We clasp hands, and pull each other into a brief, back-slapping hug. “You could have called, you know.”

“And miss the surprise on your face? Never.” Felix steps back, looking me up and down in my Colton Racing polo and dark jeans. “Look at you, all official in team colors. It suits you.”

“Thanks.” I fish my house keys from my pocket. “How long have you been waiting?”

“Long enough to remember why I mock your choice of living in the middle of nowhere.” He gestures to the surrounding countryside. I’d chosen this place specifically for its isolation; a renovated farmhouse on five acres, far from the constant buzz of the racing world. My small sanctuary.

“And yet, here you are,” I point out, heading toward the front door.

Felix falls into step beside me, then suddenly veers off the path toward the back of the property. “Speaking of which, when are you going to invite me to race go-karts with you on that track you’ve got hiding back there?”

I roll my eyes. Felix discovered my secret project last summer—a small but precise go-kart track I’d built on the property, complete with timing sensors and varying corner types modeled after my favorite sections of F1 circuits.

“It’s not ready yet,” I lie.

Felix snorts. “It was ready three months ago. You’re just afraid I’ll beat your lap record. ”

“You wish, Becker.”

“Ah, there it is.” Felix grins triumphantly. “William Foster, cool and collected in public, but still a bad loser in private.”

“I don’t lose on my own track,” I say with a hint of pride. “Even to World Destructors’ Championship leaders.”

Felix winces at the nickname the press gave him after his three DNFs from leading positions last season. “Low blow, Foster. Low blow.” He kicks me in the rear and barks a laugh. “You’re such a brat.”

Felix has been there through everything—the junior championships, the struggles to find funding, the disappointments and triumphs. When other competitors became rivals, he remained a friend. My only friend besides my manager.

We reach the front door, and I unlock it, stepping aside to let him in first. The house is cool and quiet after the buzz of the Colton facility. Felix immediately makes himself at home, tossing his designer jacket over the back of my couch and kicking off his shoes.

“Nice place,” he says, though he’s been here before. “Very… rustic.”

I glance around at the exposed beams and stone walls, new additions since Felix was last here. “Not everyone wants to live in a glass box that looks like a furniture showroom.”

“My apartment is architectural genius, thank you very much.”

“It’s a fishbowl with uncomfortable chairs,” I counter, heading for the kitchen. “Drink? I’ve got that mango juice you like. ”

“The one from that obscure farm market? Hell yes.” Felix follows me, leaning against the counter as I pull two glasses from the cabinet. “So, Colton Racing. How’s that going?”

I pour the bright mango juice, sliding one glass toward him. “Good. Better than I expected, honestly.”

“Considering they were dead last in the championship last year, that’s not saying much.” Felix takes a long pull of his drink. “God, that’s good. I need to find this place you get it from.”

“I’ll text you the address.”

“So, come on, details. How’d you even land the seat? Last I heard, you were persona non grata in the paddock after the Abu Dhabi incident.”

I lean against the opposite counter, sipping my juice and considering how much to share. Felix is a friend—probably my closest in the racing world—but he’s also a competitor. Still, if I can’t trust him, who can I trust?

“I basically groveled,” I admit with a self-deprecating smile.

“James, my manager, said it was impossible for her to even take me in after my stupid outburst after the Abu Dhabi fiasco. But I still asked him to set up a meeting with Violet Colton. I think she only agreed because she knew my results, but she was clear about what I need to do regarding my… anger. And she created some rules.”

“Smart woman.”

“Very.” I nod, remembering that first meeting. “I laid it all out for her—my performance data, my simulator results, my consistency in varying conditions, especially my expertise in the rain. That I want to be the best for her team.”

“And she bought it?” Felix raises an eyebrow.

“I think she saw an opportunity. I was cheap, hungry, and desperate enough to sign any contract they put in front of me. I just wanted the seat, ya know?” I take another sip of juice. “Plus, I may have charmed everyone on the technical team during the first days I was there.”

“Ah, the Foster charm offensive. I’ve seen it in action.”

“It’s not a—” I stop at Felix’s knowing smirk. “Fine. I made sure to learn everyone’s names. Brought coffee for the garage team. Stayed late to discuss data with the engineers.”

“Classic William. You’ve been doing that since karting.” Felix shakes his head. “Always the hardest worker in the room.”

“It’s called professionalism.”

“It’s called being an overachiever.” Felix’s tone is teasing, but fond. “So, how’s the Team Principal? I’ve only seen her in passing at events. Intense woman. Slightly distant at times.”

Something shifts in my chest at the mention of her. “She’s… dedicated. Smart. Knows the business inside and out.”

“And terrifying, according to paddock rumors.”

I frown. “She’s not terrifying. She’s just focused on saving her family’s team. That’s a noble, if almost impossible, task.”

“Defensive, are we?” Felix’s gaze narrows with interest. “Is she interesting in person then? The cameras make her look like a model who accidentally wandered into the paddock. ”

“She’s my boss,” I say firmly, ignoring the heat creeping up my neck. “I don’t think about her that way.”

But even as I say it, it’s not entirely true.

It’s not that way, but I think about her.

At times. Many things about Violet draw me in—her determination, her intelligence, the rare moments when her professional mask slips and reveals glimpses of passion underneath.

The way she speaks about racing with such reverence, the subtle curve of her lips when something amuses her, the scent of her perfume lingering in a room after she’s gone…

“Will.” Felix waves his hand in front of my face. “You completely zoned out. What were you thinking about? Or should I say, who?”

I abruptly change the subject. “How long are you in town for?”

“Just tonight and tomorrow. Team wants me back at the factory in Switzerland on Thursday.” He sets the glass down. “Any plans while I’m here? Please don’t say simulator work; I didn’t come here to work.”

“Actually, there’s this band playing tomorrow night. Local hardcore 5-piece band called Ember's Edge. They’re incredible live.”

Felix groans dramatically. “Not your metal music again. My ears are still ringing from the last show you dragged me to.”

“It’s not metal, it’s hardcore punk with post-rock influences,” I correct. “And you had fun last time. I saw you in the pit. I envied you. ”

“I got pushed in! There’s a difference between participation and survival.”

I laugh, shaking my head. “Come on. It’ll be good for you to experience some real music instead of that overproduced pop you listen to.”

“It’s electronic dance music, thank you very much.” Felix puts a hand over his heart in mock offense. “And at least people can actually dance to it, not just… What do you call that thing you do? Headbanging until you get whiplash?”

“It’s called feeling the music in your soul,” I say with exaggerated seriousness.

“Your soul must have serious neck problems.”

I grab my phone, pulling up a track from Ember's Edge. “Just listen to this. It’s their new single with a new frontman, and he's got so much power in his voice.”

The song explodes through my kitchen speakers—distorted guitars, pounding drums, and raw, powerful vocals that seem to tear through the very fabric of sound.

I close my eyes, letting the music wash over me.

This is what powers me through my most grueling training sessions, what plays in my headphones before I step into the car, what helps me push past my limits.

When I open my eyes, Felix is watching me with a curious expression.

“What?” I ask, turning down the volume slightly.

“Nothing. Just… I sometimes forget how passionate you get about certain things. One minute, you’re all controlled and ca lculating, and the next, you’re practically vibrating with intensity.”

I shrug, slightly embarrassed. “Music matters to me. Always has.”

“I know.” Felix’s tone softens. “Remember when you used to blast that ancient MP3 player with cheap earphones in the karting paddock? All the other kids thought you were weird.”

“I was weird,” I admit with a laugh. “Still am, probably.”

“Definitely.” Felix drains the last of his juice. “Fine, I’ll go to your hardcore show. But you owe me earplugs, and the first round of drinks.”

“Deal.”

“And maybe afterward, we can find a proper club where people dance instead of trying to murder each other.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” I counter.

Felix shakes his head, a smile playing at his lips. “You’re impossible, Foster.”

“Part of my charm.”

“What charm?”

I toss a dish towel at him, which he catches effortlessly. This easy banter with Felix is one of the rare moments I truly feel like myself—not William Foster, the now F1 driver, not the professional I present to the team—just me.

“So,” Felix says, settling onto one of my kitchen stools. “Tell me more about this car of yours. Is it actually going to make it to the finish line, or should I invest in some ‘Go William!’ signs for when you’re pushing it across the checkered flag? ”

“Funny.” I deadpan, but I can’t help smiling. Even his teasing feels like home.

And for the next hour, we talk racing and music and life, the conversation flowing as easily as it did when we were teenagers with nothing but dreams and battered karts, the weight of F1 pressures temporarily lifted from my shoulders. And I needed that more than he knew.