Page 31 of Racing for Redemption (Backmarker Love trilogy #1)

Past and Present

William

T he day’s debrief wraps up as the Mediterranean sun sinks toward the horizon, painting the paddock in amber light.

My neck aches from the G-forces, and my mind buzzes with setup changes and ideal racing lines.

I grab my backpack from the driver’s room, nodding goodbyes to the engineers still hunched over screens.

Day two complete. Not perfect, but promising.

I push through the paddock exit, already thinking about the protein shake and hot shower waiting back at the hotel—then stop dead.

Paul Bertrand leans against the barrier, arms crossed, smirking like he’s been waiting just for me. Tension coils in my stomach.

Paul notices me immediately, his smirk widening into something predatory.

He stands straighter, all six feet of him clad in Vortex Satellite team gear, his blond hair perfectly styled despite a full day of helmet-wearing.

We haven’t spoken since Abu Dhabi—since I wanted to kill him for using his teammate to take me out, and winning the F2 Championship that should have been mine.

The championship that catapulted him to F1, while I had to grovel for a seat at Colton Racing.

He raises his hand in an exaggerated wave, the gesture dripping with condescension. “William Foster! The man himself. How’s life treating you these days?”

I could walk past him. Should walk past him. James would tell me to keep moving, to not engage. But something in me refuses to give him the satisfaction of thinking he can intimidate me.

“Paul,” I acknowledge flatly, stopping a few feet away from him. “Didn’t expect to see you lurking by the exit.”

“Not lurking. Waiting for my physio.” His accent—posh British boarding school with French undertones—somehow makes everything he says sound smug. I usually love the accent, but this guy makes it insufferable. “Saw you heading this way and thought I’d say hello to an old… competitor.”

The pause before “competitor” is deliberate. We both know what he wanted to say: “loser.”

“How thoughtful.” My tone could freeze mercury.

Paul pushes off from the barrier, stepping closer. “How was your winter break? Spend a lot of time looking at that runner-up trophy? Second place is still quite an achievement for someone like you.”

And there it is—the dig, the bait, the invitation to lose my temper, just like I did in Abu Dhabi.

Someone like me. I curl my hands into fists at my sides, pulse pounding in my throat.

The memory of that race flashes through my mind—the deliberate moves by Paul and the other Vortex driver, the radio messages between them that were later deemed normal by the stewards, the crash that ended my race—and my championship hopes.

My jaw aches from clenching it so hard. If this were six months ago, I’d have already taken the bait, would already be in his face, would already be giving the photographers undoubtedly watching exactly what they want—another “William Foster meltdown” to splash across racing sites.

Not today.

I force my hands to relax, my breathing to steady. “Actually, I had a great winter break,” I say, my voice surprisingly level. “Spent time with friends, trained hard, signed my F1 contract. You know, the usual.”

Paul raises his eyebrows slightly, perhaps surprised by my calm response. “Ah yes, Colton Racing. Bottom of the grid, wasn’t it? Nowhere to go but up, I suppose.”

“Precisely,” I agree, as if he’s made an excellent point. “And today’s testing showed we’ve made progress already. P14. Not bad for a team that was last all through last season.”

“Fourteenth,” Paul repeats with a mocking chuckle. “Setting your sights high, I see.”

I smile—a genuine smile, which seems to unsettle him more than anger would have.

“I have a team that actually believes in me, Paul. People who hired me for my talent, not my daddy’s money, or academy connections.

People who work together rather than sabotaging each other for personal gain.

” I shift my backpack to my other shoulder, casual as can be.

“How’s that working out for you at the Vortex Satellite team, by the way?

I heard Mendoza isn’t exactly the supportive teammate type. ”

His right eye twitches as he tries to mask it with another smirk. I’ve clearly hit a nerve. Mendoza, Paul’s veteran teammate, is notorious for his cutthroat approach to intra-team competition. He's the king, and the others have to obey him.

“Cesar and I have a perfectly professional relationship,” Paul says stiffly.

“Professional. Right.” I nod, as if convinced. “That must be why he was quoted saying you were ‘still driving like you’re in F2’ after your closed doors test.”

Paul tightens his jaw. “Taking an interest in my career, Foster? I’m flattered.”

“Just keeping tabs on old friends.” I give him a smile that doesn’t reach my eyes. “So, how’s the Vortex hierarchy treating you? Must be challenging being in the B-team while watching Farrant and Kikuchi get all the glory in the main outfit.”

“It’s a two-year plan,” Paul says, a defensive edge creeping into his voice. “Learn the ropes, prove myself, move up to the main team.”

“Sure, sure.” I wave my hand dismissively, echoing his own patronizing tone from earlier. “I’m sure they’ll promote you over the other five academy drivers they’ve got lined up. Any day now. ”

The tension between us thickens. Several team personnel walk by, slowing to observe our exchange. Paul straightens his posture, aware of the audience.

“At least I’m in a real team,” he says, voice lower but sharper. “Not some family business running on candles, mold and nostalgia. How many points do you honestly think you’ll score this year, Foster? One? Two, if you’re lucky?”

“More than you scored in your last three races before the finale in Abu Dhabi,” I counter smoothly. “Remind me how those went? DNF, P18, DNF, wasn’t it?”

Paul’s cheeks flush. Those races were disastrous, and the reason it opened the doors for me to fight for the F2 title until the season finale. It seemed like he was breaking under pressure. “Teething problems. This season will be different.”

“I’m sure it will.” I adjust my cap, the picture of relaxed confidence despite the anger still simmering below the surface. “For both of us.”

A sleek black car pulls up near the exit—Paul’s ride, based on how he glances at it. His opportunity to exit the increasingly uncomfortable exchange.

“Well,” he says, recovering his smug demeanor, “it was fascinating catching up. I’ll be sure to wave when I lap you in Australia.”

“Bold of you to assume you’ll be far enough ahead to lap anyone,” I reply with a pleasant smile. “But I appreciate the optimism. Best of luck with Mendoza. I hear he likes to play politics with team resources. But I’m sure you’re used to that kind of environment.”

Paul’s gaze narrows at the pointed reference to the Vortex Academy tactics that helped him win in F2. For a moment, it seems he might abandon his composure and say something genuinely revealing. Instead, he forces a laugh.

“Politics is part of F1, Foster. But I wouldn’t expect someone driving for a Team Principal’s charity case to understand the complexities of real racing politics.”

The jab about being Violet’s “charity case” stings, but my expression remains neutral. “You know what, Paul? I genuinely hope you have a great season.”

He blinks, thrown by the apparent sincerity. “What?”

“I mean it. I hope you do well. I hope you score points, impress your team, prove your worth.” I step closer, lowering my voice.

“Because I want to beat you fair and square, on equal footing, no excuses. I want to demolish you on pure talent, not because your car failed, or your team strategy was wrong. Just you and me, man to man, driver to driver.”

Paul stares at me, momentarily speechless.

“See you on the grid,” I say, moving past him toward the parking lot.

I continue walking, sensing his gaze on me but refusing to look back. My heart pounds in my chest, adrenaline coursing through me from the confrontation, but there’s something else there, too—pride. Not in winning the exchange, but in not losing myself to it .

Six months ago, that encounter would have ended with security intervention. Today, I walked away on my terms, said my piece without losing control, and defended myself without derailing my focus.

Progress. Growth. Maturity.

I reach my rental car, tossing my backpack into the passenger seat. As I start the engine, I glance in the rearview mirror to see Paul still standing by the exit, still watching me. I give him a small nod—not friendly, not hostile, just acknowledgment—before driving away.

The old rivalry isn’t over. If anything, it’s just beginning its evolution into something more complex in the F1 arena. But I’m not the same William Foster who wanted to throttle him in Abu Dhabi. I’m becoming someone stronger, more controlled, more strategic.

Someone who might just surprise everyone this season—Paul Bertrand included.

The restaurant’s sign flickers neon blue against the darkening Barcelona sky—“El Buffet Internacional”—nothing fancy, just honest food in generous portions.

Colton Racing team members are already claiming a section near the back, engineers and mechanics piling plates high with paella and grilled meats.

Nicholas is conspicuously absent, probably dining at some Michelin-starred establishment instead.

I can’t help but smile. Violet Colton runs a multi-million dollar racing team, yet chooses a family buffet for the team dinner.

Cost-cutting measures, probably. But I don’t mind.

Reminds me of the places my parents would take me as a treat after successful race weekends—when a big meal meant victory, not an everyday expectation.