Page 30 of Racing for Redemption (Backmarker Love trilogy #1)

Speaking of Nicholas, he saunters into the garage as I’m reviewing data with the engineers.

Even from several feet away, the unmistakable sour-sweet smell of alcohol seeps through his pores.

He’d been partying last night. Before a test session.

Before operating a vehicle capable of speeds over 300 km/h.

My face must betray my thoughts, because Tom leans in and mutters, “Not the first time. Won’t be the last.”

I shake my head in disbelief. In F2, I’d heard rumors about certain drivers hitting clubs before race weekends and test sessions, showing up hungover or worse. But seeing it firsthand in F1—where the stakes, speeds, and dangers are exponentially higher—stuns me.

Nicholas catches my gaze and smirks, as if daring me to comment. I turn back to the data screen, refusing to engage.

How many others do this? How many treat their bodies—their instruments—with such casual disregard? It’s not just unprofessional; it’s disrespectful.

To the team that works endless hours.

To the fans who pay small fortunes to watch.

To competitors who deserve rivals at their best.

I’ve never understood that lifestyle, even when I had the time for it. Parties with strangers, meaningless conversations shouted over pounding music, anonymous hookups—none of it appeals to me. My precious free time is too valuable to waste on empty, quick experiences.

Give me a quiet dinner with close friends. A long trail run at dawn. A small concert venue with musicians who pour their souls into their instruments. Real connections. Authentic experiences. Quality over quantity.

Some call me boring. A homebody. Antisocial even—they’re wrong. I’m selective. Intentional. I’d rather spend three hours with one person who matters than three minutes with sixty people who don’t.

My parents taught me that—the value of genuine connection.

Growing up with so little, we learned that time together was our true wealth.

Game nights around our tiny apartment table.

Dad teaching me chess on a board with missing pieces.

Mom reading aloud from library books, doing all the character voices.

Those moments shaped me more than any luxury ever could.

I glance at Nicholas again, now laughing too loudly with some mechanics who look uncomfortable, but are too professional to say anything.

There’s no sense of superiority, just a profound disconnect.

We’re teammates wearing the same colors, but we’re from different worlds, different value systems, and with different approaches to both life and racing.

Tom interrupts my thoughts. “Debrief in ten minutes. Then lunch, and Nicholas takes over for the afternoon session.”

I nod, gathering my notes. One session down. Two more to go over the next three days. Hundreds of laps, thousands of data points, countless adjustments.

Putting my headphones on, I head out of the garage to our team’s motorhome, ready for the debrief session with the engineers.

This is where races are won and lost—not just in the glamour of qualifying and Grand Prix Sundays, but in the methodical, unglamorous work of testing. In the attention to detail. The communication between driver and engineer. And the relentless pursuit of milliseconds.

Hungover or not, Nicholas is in for a tough comparison when the team reviews our data side by side.

Because while he was drinking last night, I was studying.

While he was partying, I was preparing. While he wasn't giving a crap about his career, I was doing everything I could to be deserving of this seat.

The results speak for themselves—P14 versus P20.

Now, I want to make sure that by the end of testing, the gap has widened.

The afternoon session runs smoothly with Nicholas in the car.

From the garage, his driving style is analyzed through live telemetry—more aggressive inputs than mine, harder on the brakes, quicker to the throttle, but missing apexes by centimeters that add up to lost tenths.

I’m listening to his radio feedback when Violet enters the paddock with Blake beside her, deep in serious conversation.

She looks exhausted, dark circles under her eyes contrasting with her crisp white shirt and tailored team jacket.

Her voice, though hushed, carries an edge of stress as she mentions someone named Belforte, and a meeting that apparently didn’t go as planned .

I straighten slightly, instinctively tuning into their conversation before catching myself.

Not my business. Whatever “Belforte” is—a sponsor, an investor, a technical partner—it’s team management territory, not a driver concern.

Still, the tension in Violet’s shoulders, the tightness around her mouth, tells me it’s significant.

They stop near the back of the garage, Blake nodding sympathetically as Violet runs a hand through her dark curls, momentarily disheveling their perfect arrangement before they fall back into place.

She has never been this openly stressed.

She always maintains such careful composure, especially in the paddock where rival teams are watching, judging.

The strain etched across her features stirs something protective in me. Before I can analyze the impulse, I’m crossing the garage toward them.

“Afternoon,” I say, offering Blake a small smile before turning to Violet. “How’s the session looking from the outside?”

Blake returns my smile with a warm one of his own. “Better than we expected, thanks in no small part to your morning performance. Very consistent lap times.”

“Just doing my job,” I say, then, without thinking, I place my hand on Violet’s shoulder.

The contact is casual, collegial, or it should be.

But instead of the brief touch I intended, I linger, almost caressing the smooth fabric of her jacket, feeling the delicate structure of her shoulder beneath.

It’s an unconscious movement—something I might do with a friend who looks stressed.

But this is Violet. My boss. The Team Principal.

I suddenly become hyper aware of my hand on her shoulder, of the small circling motion my thumb is making against the fabric, of the warmth of her body radiating through the light material.

I freeze, caught in a moment that has somehow stretched beyond professional boundaries into something undefined.

Violet looks at my hand, then up at me, her dark eyes widening slightly with confusion. Not anger, not discomfort—just genuine puzzlement, as if she’s trying to decode why her new driver is touching her with such unexpected familiarity.

Blake notices, too, his gaze darting between us, a flash of amusement crossing his weathered features.

I should stop touching her. Apologize. Do anything except stand here like an idiot with my hand still resting on my Team Principal’s shoulder.

Instead, I’m smiling at her, forcing a lightness into my voice. “Tough meeting?” I ask, finally removing my hand with what I hope appears to be casual ease, rather than the panicked retreat it actually is.

“Just the usual pre-season sponsorship wrangling,” Violet answers, her professional mask sliding back into place, though her eyes still hold a question. “Nothing for you to worry about.”

“You looked stressed,” I say, as if that explains my behavior. “I mean, we all are. Testing is… well, testing.” I wince internally at the weak wordplay.

Violet’s lips twitch—almost a smile. “An apt description. ”

An awkward silence falls. Blake clears his throat.

“The telemetry from your morning runs is promising,” he says, mercifully changing the subject. “Much better brake modulation than we’ve seen previously.”

I seize the lifeline. “The brake-by-wire system feels different from what I’m used to, but we’re getting there. I think we could adjust the initial bite point to improve trail braking into the slower corners.”

As I launch into technical details, Violet studies me with that same puzzled expression, as if trying to reconcile the professional driver discussing brake systems with the man who just carelessly stroked her shoulder.

“It was a reflex,” I blurt, interrupting my analysis of corner entry speeds. “The shoulder thing. Sorry. I didn’t mean to—” I stop, realizing I’m only making it worse. “Just a habit when someone seems stressed. Shouldn’t have—”

“It’s fine, William,” Violet says, putting me out of my misery with a small, dismissive gesture. “No harm done.”

Blake watches our exchange with barely concealed interest, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

“We should check in with Johnson about the aero readings,” Violet says to Blake, clearly ready to move past the moment.

“Of course,” he agrees, then turns to me. “Good work this morning, William. Keep it up.”

“Thanks,” I manage, relief washing through me that the awkward moment is passing .

Violet gives me a brief nod before walking away with Blake toward the small room at the back of the garage complex. Violet’s confident stride betrays none of the stress I’d witnessed earlier, her straight spine and squared shoulders resuming their usual perfect posture.

Once they’re out of sight, I retreat to my driver’s room, the small, private space allocated to me within the team’s temporary structure.

I close the door behind me, lean against it, and exhale a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

My heart pounds against my ribs like I’ve just qualified on pole position rather than had an awkward social interaction.

“What the hell was that?” I mutter to myself, wiping my palms on my jeans. They’re sweating. Profusely. Like I’m fifteen again, fumbling through my first interaction with a girl behind the bleachers after she’d mentioned liking my race in the regional karting championship.

I push away from the door and drop onto the small couch, running my hands through my hair. The sensation of Violet’s shoulder under my palm lingers like a phantom touch, along with the memory of her surprised expression—those dark eyes widening slightly, lips parting in question.

I haven’t been this nervous around a woman in… I can’t even remember. Years, certainly. Not since before F4, when racing became my entire world, consuming every waking moment, leaving little time or energy for anything resembling a personal life.

Yet, here I am, palms sweating, heart racing, replaying a ten-second interaction like it’s the most significant moment of the day—more significant even than my first official F1 test session.

What is it about her that affects me this way?

It’s not just that she’s beautiful—though she undeniably is, with those expressive eyes, and the way her formal demeanor occasionally cracks to reveal flashes of dry humor and fierce passion.

It’s not just respect for her position, or admiration for her fight to save her family’s team.

It’s something more elusive. The intensity with which she approaches everything. The complexity beneath her controlled exterior. The brief moments when her guard drops, revealing glimpses of vulnerability that make me want to… Want to do what?

Protect her?

Support her?

Know her?

I shake my head, forcing the thoughts away. This is absurd. She’s my Team Principal. I’m a rookie driver with a damaged reputation on a one-year contract. The power dynamics alone make any feelings beyond professional respect inappropriate.

And yet.

The way my body reacted to her presence, making me adjust in my jeans to conceal it, the instinctive desire to offer comfort, the lingering sensation of that brief contact—these aren’t things I can simply rationalize away.

This is clearly more than an innocent attraction for Violet Colton. Something I haven’t anticipated or prepared for .

And judging by the confusion in her eyes, it’s something she wasn’t expecting, either. But she didn't pull away from my touch. She just… stared at me.

Oh fuck. I'm getting delusional. Maybe she didn't pull away so as to not hurt my feelings. She's cold, but not heartless.

I stand, splashing cold water on my face from the small sink in the corner. Testing continues tomorrow. I need focus, clarity, professionalism—not whatever this is.

This feeling won't fade away simply because I want it to.

And that, perhaps, is what unsettles me most of all.