Page 29 of Racing for Redemption (Backmarker Love trilogy #1)

Sixteen again

William

B arcelona’s Circuit de Catalunya stretches before me like a puzzle waiting to be solved.

Morning sun glints off carbon fiber and chrome as mechanics push cars toward garages, the air thick with anticipation, and the acrid scent of fuel.

Testing. No points, no podiums, no champagne—just pure data acquisition, and the first true measure of where we stand.

I adjust my Colton Racing cap, steeling myself as I approach our garage.

This is it. The moment when simulation becomes reality, when all the winter talk finally faces the stopwatch’s brutal honesty.

The paddock buzzes with controlled chaos.

Engineers huddled over laptops, team principals strategizing in glass-walled hospitality units, journalists prowling for any hint of innovation or controversy.

Testing has its own peculiar atmosphere—professional yet relaxed, competitive yet collaborative.

Without the pressure of championship points, there’s a different energy.

More scientific. More methodical. The calm before the twenty-three-race storm.

Our garage sits at the far end of the pit lane, territory reserved for last season’s backmarkers.

I nod to several mechanics I recognize, exchanging brief greetings as I make my way through.

The car sits partially disassembled, bodywork removed to expose the intricate systems beneath.

Even naked like this—perhaps especially so—it’s beautiful.

A symphony of engineering, each component meticulously designed, manufactured, and fitted.

“Well, look who decided to join us. The poor boy from Michigan.”

Nicholas’ voice cuts through my appreciation. He’s lounging against a tool cabinet, dressed in the team gear that somehow looks like designer wear on him. His smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Morning, Nicholas,” I respond neutrally, refusing to take the bait. "I see you've woken up on the asshole side of the bed."

His eye twitches. “Sleep well in your budget hotel room? Mine had a jacuzzi, and a view of the city.” He examines his manicured nails with exaggerated interest.

A hot spike of anger flares in my chest. After our confrontation during the media day, he’s clearly decided antagonism is our default relationship. Fine. I can work with that.

I force a smile. “I slept perfectly, thanks. Been reviewing data since 5 AM.” I move past him toward my side of the garage, where my race suit hangs ready.

“Such dedication,” he calls after me, voice dripping with mockery. “Trying to compensate for something? ”

I clench my jaw so hard, my teeth ache. This is exactly what James warned me about—needless provocation, attempts to destabilize my focus. I won’t give Nicholas the satisfaction of seeing me react. Instead, I channel the anger into focus, into determination to let my driving speak for itself.

My race engineer, Tom, approaches with a tablet as he fixes his glasses. “Ready to get started? We’ve got the initial program mapped out.”

“Absolutely.” I take the tablet, scanning the test sequence—installation lap, systems check, baseline setup evaluation, then progressively pushing performance variables. “Looks good.”

I change into my race suit in the small driver’s room, methodically going through my pre-drive routine.

The suit fits perfectly, custom-tailored to my body.

The helmet and HANS device wait on the shelf above.

I reach for my balaclava, pulling it over my head, feeling the familiar confinement as the Nomex material covers my face, leaving only my eyes exposed.

The helmet comes next—carbon fiber shell encasing my head, visor clicking into place.

The world narrows, sounds are muffled, and breathing is restricted to the flow through the small ventilation system.

Some drivers hate this feeling of confinement.

I find it oddly comforting—a cocoon of focus, stripping away everything but the essentials.

This can also be my introverted side enjoying silence.

Isolation. Peace. Either way, I like it .

Tom returns as I’m securing my gloves. “Car’s ready. Initial setup is conservative; we’re prioritizing reliability over performance for the first runs.”

I nod, following him out to where the car waits. The mechanics part like water from oil, creating a path to the cockpit. I place my hand briefly on the nose of the car—a small ritual, a moment of connection before we dance together.

Sliding into the cockpit feels like coming home.

The seat, moulded precisely to my body during my fitting session months ago, cradles me perfectly.

Hands on the wheel, feet finding the pedals, eyes scanning the displays.

The team attaches the steering wheel, connects the radio, secures the safety belts with practiced efficiency.

“Radio check, William,” comes Tom’s voice in my ear.

“Loud and clear,” I respond.

“Engine start in thirty seconds.”

I run through my final mental checklist, hands positioned at nine and three, fingers hovering over the clutch paddles. The countdown continues in my ear, and then—

The engine roars to life behind me, vibrations traveling up through the seat and into my spine. Power. Raw and barely contained. I ease the car forward, the team guiding me out of the garage and into the pit lane.

The first lap is cautious—an installation check to ensure all systems function properly.

I focus on feeling the car, building a dialogue with this complex machine.

The steering is heavy but responsive. Brakes are firm.

Power delivery is smooth. Temperature gauges climb steadily toward operating range.

I radio back initial impressions as I complete the first lap. “Car feels balanced. No obvious issues. Ready to push on the next lap.”

“Confirmed. Green light for lap two.”

Now the real work begins. I push harder into the first corner, getting a sense for how the car responds to increased loads. The front end grips well but seems slightly reluctant to turn in. Through the fast sweeping Turn 3, the rear feels planted—good news for stability in high-speed corners.

Lap by lap, I build up speed, exploring the car’s behavior, storing observations to relay to the team.

The chicane exposes a weakness—the car doesn’t like rapid direction changes, becoming unsettled over the curbs.

The engine appears strong, but we’re clearly down on straight-line speed compared to the cars I’m occasionally catching and allowing past.

After six laps, I radio in. “Front end needs work. Understeer in medium-speed corners. Sector two specifically, Turn 7-8 sequence, the car doesn’t want to rotate. Suggest we try reducing front wing angle by two degrees, and soften the front anti-roll bar.”

“Copy that.” Tom sounds pleased with the detailed feedback. “Box this lap. We’ll make those changes.”

I bring the car in, mechanics swarming as I stop on my marks. The car disappears beneath their coordinated assault—tire temperatures checked, bodywork removed, adjustments made with precision and speed.

Tom leans in when they pull the engine cover off. “Good initial times. How’s the brake balance?”

“Needs to be more rearward in high-speed braking zones. Turn 1 especially, I’m locking the fronts.”

He nods, making notes. “Observed that in the data. We’ll adjust.”

Twenty minutes later, I’m back out. The changes are immediately noticeable; the car rotates more willingly now, allowing me to hit the apexes with greater precision.

I push harder, finding the limits, occasionally exceeding them with small lockups, or moments of oversteer that I catch and control.

These are mistakes I’m allowed to make right now. Not so much during a race weekend.

During the morning session, we cycle through various setup changes—wing angles, suspension settings, brake bias adjustments. Each time, I provide detailed feedback, suggesting further refinements based on feeling rather than just data.

“The kerbs at Turn 5—we’re losing time there. The car bounces rather than absorbing the impact. Could we try softer springs, but with more rebound control?”

“The engine mapping feels too aggressive in the mid-range. Can we smooth the torque delivery between 8,000 and 10,000 rpm? I’m getting wheelspin on exit.”

After nearly three hours, Tom calls me in for the last time before lunch. “Good session, William. Very consistent lap times. ”

I climb out, muscles aching pleasantly from the physical demands of driving. The simulator prepared me for most aspects, but nothing can fully replicate the G-forces, the heat, the constant vibration of a real F1 car. I’ll need some physio after this.

Peeling off my helmet and balaclava, I’m hit by the relative cool of the garage air. Sweat plasters my hair to my forehead. I accept a water bottle from one of the mechanics, draining half of it in one long pull.

“How did we look?” I ask Tom, who’s scrolling through data screens.

“P14 overall,” he says, a note of cautious optimism in his voice. “Most cars are faster as we expected, but you’re consistently quicker than Klip Motorsports, and one of the Velocity Racing.”

Fourteen out of twenty. Not great, but better than last. Baby steps.

“And Nicholas?” I ask, trying to sound casual.

Tom’s expression says everything before he speaks. “P20 in the simulator. We'll have to wait to see him on track in the afternoon, but we're not anticipating much improvement. It seems he's extracting everything he can on his end.”

Dead last. I suppress the slight flare of satisfaction. It’s not about beating Nicholas; it’s about maximizing the car’s potential. Still, outpacing my teammate in my first official session isn’t a terrible start.