Page 26 of Racing for Redemption (Backmarker Love trilogy #1)

Friends. Family, almost

William

Barcelona tickets confirmed. Three days of testing starts Monday. This is where it begins, Liam.

I set the empty glass down, wiping protein residue from my upper lip. Barcelona—the first real test. My stomach tightens with a familiar blend of excitement and anxiety.

The days since Felix’s visit have blurred into a punishing routine—wake at 5 AM.

Run. Strength training. Simulator work at the Colton facility.

More physical training. Data analysis. Sleep.

Repeat. The band that night was phenomenal, just as I’d promised Felix.

He’d even admitted it wasn’t terrible while massaging his neck the next morning.

But that might have been because he ended up sleeping on my sofa.

Inside, my mind is already racing ahead to Barcelona—Circuit de Catalunya with its technical combination of high and low-speed corners, the perfect testing ground for a new car’s strengths and weaknesses.

I finish my breakfast—six egg whites, avocado, whole grain toast—and head to my home gym.

It’s nothing fancy, just a converted spare bedroom with free weights, a rowing machine, and specialized equipment for neck and core training.

No personal trainer today. Just me and the brutality of the routine James and I designed together.

Two hours later, sweat-soaked and pleasantly exhausted, I stretch out on my yoga mat, feeling the deep burn in my core.

An F1 car generates up to 5 Gs of force on corners, crushing your body, fighting your control.

Every muscle needs to be conditioned to withstand it, especially the neck.

I’ve seen drivers who weren’t prepared, their heads lolling like bobbleheads by race end, performance deteriorating with each lap.

That won’t be me.

I shower, then settle at my desk, pulling up technical diagrams of the Barcelona circuit on my laptop.

I’ve driven it dozens of times in junior categories; I know every apex, every breaking point by heart.

But now, I need to recalibrate for F1 speeds, for the Colton Racing’s car specific handling characteristics.

My phone buzzes again. James has sent the flight details, hotel information, and a meticulously organized schedule for the three testing days.

Each driver gets a day and a half in the car—morning session on day one, full day on day two for me; afternoon session on day one, full day on day three for Nicholas.

I scan the schedule, noting the media commitments, engineer briefings, and debriefs. The days will be long and intensive, with every minute accounted for. Just how I like it.

Testing in Barcelona is the first time all ten teams bring their new cars to the same track.

No hiding, no sandbagging—though some always try to hide how fast they truly are to take everyone by storm when the season truly begins.

Pre-season testing is where we get our first real sense of the pecking order, where the whispers begin about who’s found speed over the winter, and who’s fallen behind.

For Colton Racing, coming off a last-place finish last season, expectations are minimal. The media has already written us off. Nicholas’ poor performance, and my weird status as a hot-headed rookie who couldn’t win F2 three times in a row make us easy to dismiss.

That suits me fine. Better to be underestimated than overhyped.

I close my eyes, picturing myself in the cockpit, the vibration of the engine transferring through the carbon fiber seat into my spine, the weight of the car shifting as I thread it through Barcelona’s technical middle sector.

Nothing calms me down more than visualizing the track.

The data from simulator sessions suggests our car might perform decently there—the new floor design providing better stability in the quick direction changes.

But simulators can only tell you so much.

The real car, on real asphalt, with real tires degrading in real time, facing ever-changing weather conditions —that’s the test that matters.

And beyond the car’s performance, it’s a test of my performance.

My speed, my technical feedback, my ability to extract the maximum from whatever machinery I’m given.

My thoughts drift to the other teams—to Felix at Baretta Racing, to the Scuderia Nova duo, to the dominant Vortex Racing pair led by the three-time champion James Farrant.

The man is as arrogant as he is fast, which is saying something.

The Red Devil, they say. Indeed, he is. I’ve never spoken to him directly, but his reputation precedes him—brilliant, ruthless, and utterly contemptuous of anyone he considers beneath him. Which is basically everyone.

Will the Colton Racing car allow me to fight anywhere near them? Realistically, no. Not yet. Our target has to be the midfield—Azzurro Speedworks, Klip Motorsports, Velocity Racing. Point finishes on good days. Respectable performances on bad ones.

I stand, stretching my back, feeling the pleasant exhaustion in my muscles. There’s more work to do today—a video call with Johnson to discuss initial setup options for Barcelona, a review of tire degradation patterns from last year’s Spanish Grand Prix, and more physical training this afternoon .

But first, I allow myself a moment of pure anticipation.

In less than a week, I’ll be in a proper F1 car— my F1 car—pushing it to its limits on one of the world’s great circuits.

The culmination of every sacrifice, every brutal training session, every moment of doubt and determination that has defined my life since I first sat in a go-kart.

I realize I’m smiling. Despite the pressure, despite the thousand things that could go wrong, despite the massive challenge ahead—I’m genuinely happy. This is all I’ve ever wanted. The chance to prove myself at the highest level, against the best in the world.

Barcelona is where it starts.

Where theory becomes reality.

Where potential meets performance.

Where the real work begins.

I glance at the clock. Time to get back to preparation. The countdown to Barcelona has begun, and I intend to arrive ready for whatever challenges await.

James’ office sits wedged between a laundromat and a kebab shop in a forgotten corner of Birmingham.

No chrome. No reception area. No pretense.

Just a scuffed door with “Pierce Sports Management” stenciled in simple black letters.

I climb the narrow staircase, each step creaking under my weight.

The place smells of old paper and cheap coffee—oddly comforting, like James himself.

This tiny space launched careers, saved mine, and housed dreams within its peeling walls.

I knock thrice—our code since the early days.

“It’s open,” comes the rumbling response.

I push through to find James hunched over his ancient desk—a chaos of papers, coffee mugs, and dog-eared racing magazines surrounding his laptop.

The office hasn’t changed in the ten years I’ve known him—same faded racing posters on the walls, same battered couch in the corner, same view of the brick wall of the neighboring building through the single window.

James looks up, his broad face breaking into a genuine smile. The dark hair tied back in his signature bun is showing more gray than last month. His large frame unfolds from the creaking office chair as he stands to greet me.

“There he is,” he says, clasping my hand firmly before pulling me into a quick embrace. “Formula 1’s new driver, and future champion.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” I say, but I’m smiling, too.

James gestures to the couch. “Sit. Coffee? It’s terrible as usual.”

“When has that ever stopped me?” I settle onto the couch, which stirs up dust and memories. The cushion has a perfect James-shaped depression from years of use.

He pours from a pot that looks like it hasn’t been cleaned since the last F2 season, handing me a chipped mug with “Brazil 1997” printed on the side. The coffee is indeed awful—burnt and bitter—but I sip it anyway.

“So,” James says, leaning against his desk rather than returning to his chair. It puts us on more equal footing—intentional, knowing James. “Barcelona on Monday.”

“Yeah.” I hold the warm mug between my palms. “A certain someone sent the details.”

“I know. It was me. Unless you’ve changed managers and didn’t let me know.” He smirks.

“You know what I mean.”

He chuckles, then his expression softens. “How are you, Liam? Really.”

Not “How’s the car?” or “How’s your fitness level?” or “Have you studied the track data?” Just “How are you?” This is why I trust him with my career, my future, my insecurities; he sees the human before the driver.

I take another sip, buying time. “I’m good. Excited. Nervous.”

James watches me, patient, seeing through the standard response. “And?”

I sigh, setting the mug down on a stack of magazines. “And, I’m terrified of screwing this up. One shot at F1. One season to prove myself. If I fail…”

“You won’t.” Simple. Certain.

“You can’t know that.”

“Actually, I can.” James crosses his tattooed arms. “I’ve managed ten drivers over fifteen years.

Seen the great ones, the good ones, the ones who had everything except what mattered.

” He taps his chest, then his temple. “Heart and head. You’ve got both.

You’re a generational talent. People just haven’t noticed it. ”

Heat rises to my face. James isn’t liberal with praise, which makes his words hit harder when they come.

“The car’s a backmarker,” I say quietly.

“For now,” he counters. “Listen to me.” James pushes off from the desk, moving to sit beside me on the couch.

The ancient springs groan in protest. “Your goals this season are simple. One: consistently outperform your teammate. Two: extract maximum performance from the car, whatever its limitations. Three: build relationships within the team, especially technical staff. Four: stay out of trouble. No repeats of Abu Dhabi.”