Page 27 of Racing for Redemption (Backmarker Love trilogy #1)

I wince at the mention of my meltdown. “I’ve got that under control.”

“I know you do. If there’s a unique thing about you, it’s that you’re quick to learn from mistakes.” James places a heavy hand on my shoulder. “That’s why I believed in you when others didn’t. Why I went to bat for you with Colton, even if the idea seemed stupid at the time.”

The weight of his faith in me settles in my chest. When I was dropped by my previous manager after beating another driver back in F4, calling me “problematic”, “not worth the hassle” and “unmanageable,” James appeared—a former mechanic turned successful manager who saw potential where others only saw risk.

“What about championships? Points?” I ask .

James shakes his head. “Don’t think about the results. Think about the process. Perfect execution every session, every lap. The results will follow. I can add that as a goal later, if I see you taking that car to impossible places.”

This is the kind of advice that bears repeating. Especially now, with the pressure of F1 looming.

“How’s your mind?” he asks after a moment. "Are you feeling okay since that situation a couple of years ago?"

He means my mental health—something we’ve discussed openly since the dark period back in F4, in which I almost destroyed my career, because of something I don’t really wanna talk about now.

“Better,” I say honestly. “Therapy helps. So does meditation, even though I still feel stupid doing it.”

“But you do it anyway. That’s what matters.”

I nod, staring into my coffee. “And about the anger management… I still have moments—flashes of anger, frustration—when I feel my control disappearing. But I’m recognizing them earlier, managing them better.”

“Good.” James squeezes my shoulder once, then releases it. “What about outside racing? Any balance in your life? Friends? Dating?”

I think of Felix, of our night at the metal show. “Some. Not much time for dating.”

“Make time,” James says firmly. “Racing can’t be everything, Liam.

I’ve seen what happens to drivers who have nothing else.

When performance dips or injury hits, they shatter, because they have no support.

But also, don't focus too much on those relationships to the point that they negatively impact your performance. It's a tricky balance.”

“I know.” And I do. I’ve seen it, too—champions reduced to shadows when the spotlight fades.

“What about tonight? This band you’re seeing—who are you going with?”

“I’m going alone.” I shrug. “It’s fine. I like it that way sometimes.”

James frowns slightly. “You work hard. You deserve to play hard, too.”

“Says the man who’s been married to his desk for two decades.”

He laughs, a deep rumble that fills the small office. “Touché. But do as I say, not as I do. Also, I have a lovely wife, so my marriage is not only to this desk.”

We sit in comfortable silence for a moment. Outside, rain begins to patter against the single window, painting blurry streaks across the glass.

“Are you happy, Liam?” James asks suddenly.

The question catches me off guard. Happy? It seems almost irrelevant to the pursuit I’ve dedicated my life to. Success, achievement, validation—these are the metrics I’ve always lived by.

“I’m… getting what I’ve always wanted,” I answer carefully.

“Not what I asked. ”

I consider the question more deeply. The thrill of driving the Colton Racing car for the first time. The satisfaction of solving a technical problem with the engineers. The quiet mornings running through the countryside near my house. The pulse of bass through my chest at a concert.

“Yes,” I say, surprising myself with the certainty in my voice. “In my own way, I am.”

James nods, satisfied. “Good. Because that matters, too. Not just the trophies, or the contracts, or the lap times. Being happy with the journey.”

Something occurs to me as I look at this large, tattooed man who’s become so much more than my manager. “Are you happy, James?”

His eyes widen slightly, unused to the question being turned back on him. Then he smiles, lines deepening around his eyes. “Managing you? It’s a headache.”

“Seriously.”

“Seriously?” He considers. “I’m happy when my drivers succeed. When they achieve what their talent deserves. When they grow not just as racers, but as people.”

“So your happiness depends on others?” I lean back on the sofa.

“Not entirely. But a big part, yes.” He shrugs. “I made peace with that a long time ago.”

I realize in that moment how much I owe this man—not just for salvaging my career, but for seeing me as more than a commodity, more than a percentage of future earnings .

“Thank you,” I say, the words inadequate for what I’m trying to express.

James understands anyway. He always does. “Barcelona,” he says, changing the subject before emotions deepen further. “Call me after each session. Full debrief. I want to hear everything, not just what makes it to the press releases.”

“You know I will.”

“And remember—first tests can be deceiving. Don’t get too high with good results, or too low with bad ones.”

“Balanced perspective. Got it.”

James glances at his watch. “What time’s your show?”

“Doors open at eight. But I like to get there early, watch the opening acts as there are some cool underground bands in these types of shows.”

“Always studying, even at concerts.” James shakes his head, amused. “Some things never change.”

I stand, setting my half-finished coffee aside. “I should get going. Traffic will be a nightmare.”

James rises, too, his bulk making the couch groan in relief. “Enjoy the show. And Liam?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m proud of you. Not just for making it to F1. For how you’ve handled everything—the setbacks, the criticism, the anger management, the… trauma, and the doubts. You’ve grown.”

The simple words hit me with unexpected force. I swallow hard, nodding .

“Thanks to you,” I manage.

James waves this away. “You did the work. I just pointed in the right direction.”

We shake hands, then embrace briefly—the kind of hug between people who don’t need words to express what matters. Fuck, he’s going to make me go to the show with bloodshot eyes.

As I head for the door, James calls after me. “Oh, and Liam? Try not to break your neck in the mosh pit. Barcelona starts Monday, and I can’t market a driver in a cervical collar.”

I grin over my shoulder. “No promises.”

The door closes behind me, but I carry the warmth of our conversation down the creaking stairs and out into the rain-washed street. Beyond manager and driver, beyond mentor and protégé, James and I have become something rare in the cutthroat world of motorsport.

Friends. Almost family.