Page 4 of Racing for Redemption (Backmarker Love trilogy #1)

Broken into Fractions

William

H eart pounding. Hands sweating. Anticipation rising. I close my eyes. Headphones on.

I open my eyes and put the headphones down. Sliding my hand over the sleek curves of my car, the raw power hums beneath the surface. Just like me, ready to explode into action.

“You’ve got this, Liam.” James, my manager, claps me on the back as he hands me my helmet and HANS device as I tuck my hair in the balaclava. “Show ‘em what you’re made of.”

I nod, a smirk playing at my lips. “They won’t know what hit ‘em. ”

Sliding into the cockpit, I close my eyes, letting the pre-race jitters wash over me. Then, with a deep breath, I push them aside. Focus. I’ve got this.

The radio crackles to life. “How’re you feeling, William?”

“Like a fucking champion,” I reply, my voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through my veins.

This has been a challenging season. For a big chunk of it, I was nowhere near the top.

Technical problems, and the car not suiting some of the circuits, plagued me.

However, mid-way through the season, I found extra performance in this car, and slowly, I crept closer to Paul Bertrand in the standings.

Last week, after his DNF, I took over the number one place in the standings—just 6 points of difference between us.

I’d love to have just a sliver of luck this time around and snatch it all.

I can almost hear the eye roll in the engineer’s voice. “Just remember, let’s have a clean race. We need this win.”

“Roger that,” I mutter, my mind already on the first turn. I’ve practiced it a thousand times in the simulator. I know every inch of this track like the back of my hand.

The lights flash. I tighten my grip on the steering wheel. This is my territory. My race to lose. My finger is on the clutch, ready to unleash this car with lightning-fast reflexes.

As the final red light blinks out, I floor it. The world blurs as I weave through the pack, my movements fluid, instinctual, choreographed multiple times.

P2. Not bad, but not enough. I need that top spot .

I spot an opening in Turn 1 and dive for it, my heart in my throat as I squeeze past the leader, avoiding being caught by the tangle of cars coming down to the turn. For a moment, I think I’ve miscalculated. Then I’m through, clean and clear.

A whoop of triumph escapes me. “That’s how it’s done, boys!”

As I settle into the lead, a flicker of movement in my mirror catches my eye. Paul Bertrand, hot on my heels. I clench my jaw. Not today, asshole. You’ll be seeing my rear until the end of the race. After two failed attempts, this is my moment of glory.

I push harder, the g-force pressing me into my seat. The world narrows to the track ahead, and the steady thrum of the engine.

Lap after lap, I maintain my lead. The car resembles an extension of my body, responding to the slightest touch. I’m in the zone. Upshifts and downshifts flow smoothly; my reflexes are at their best. It mirrors a well-choreographed dance.

“Box this lap, William.” My race engineer’s voice crackles through the radio.

I grit my teeth. “Copy that.”

As I pull into the pit lane, my heart rate spikes. This is where races are won and lost. I hit my marks perfectly, sliding to a stop.

The pit crew swarms around me, but something’s wrong. I check the mirrors, trying to see what’s going on as the seconds tick by, each one an eternity.

“What’s the holdup?” I growl into my radio.

“Issue with the rear tire gun,” comes the terse reply.

“What? Are you kidding me? ”

Fuck. My knuckles turn white on the steering wheel. I almost sense Paul breathing down my neck. There goes my 20-second lead.

Finally, after what feels like a lifetime, I’m released. Rejoining the track, I dart a glance at my mirrors. “How close are they?”

“Two seconds.”

My stomach drops. Two seconds. That’s all that separates me from the Vortex Academy cars.

And one of them is Paul.

“How bad is it?” I ask, trying to keep the panic from my voice.

“You’ve got this, William,” my engineer says, but the tension in his voice is clear. “Just drive your race. Keep it clean.”

Easy for him to say. He’s not the one with his dream slipping through his fingers because of a poor pit stop.

I push harder, willing every ounce of speed from the car. But as the laps wind down, they appear in my mirrors—getting closer. And closer.

My tires are starting to give in. The grip is fading, the car sliding just a fraction in the corners.

Ten laps to go.

I won’t be able to hold him off.

I grit my teeth, fighting the car through every turn. The pressure is crushing, a physical weight on my chest that is starting to take over my psyche. I can’t let them pass. I won’t.

Suddenly, a flash of blue in my peripheral. Impossible. You can't cut the corner like that. One of the Vortex Academy cars dives for the inside, far too late to make the corner cleanly .

“ No! ” I shout, but it’s useless.

The impact is violent, jarring.

My world spins in a dizzying blur of screeching metal and burning rubber, a horrifying symphony of destruction conducted by that asshole. Silence descends, broken only by the hiss of escaping steam, and I’m facing the wrong way, smoke billowing from my wrecked car, the heat intense on my face.

“William, are you okay?” The radio crackles to life.

I want to scream, to curse, to break something. Instead, I swallow hard and respond in a voice cold as ice, “I’m fine.”

Unclipping my seatbelt, I climb out. I can’t bear to let anyone see my face right now. As I walk away, I turn for one last look at my mangled dream. Fuck my life .

It hits me like a punch to the gut. Tears stream down my face.

I can’t breathe.

My head hurts.

My heart is breaking.

Fuck. Fuck. FUCK!

Those Vortex bastards. One hits me, and the other wins. This wasn’t an accident; it was a hit job. Paul Bertrand will become champion and advance to F1, confirming the year-long rumors, while I remain the perpetual runner-up in F2.

I cover the visor, trying to hide my shame. My anger. My pain.

The rage builds inside me, a living thing clawing to get out. Three years. Three fucking years of being so close, I could almost taste it. And now? Now, I’m a joke.

The almost-champion .

The could’ve-been.

The washed-up driver.

That’s my dream up there… in someone else’s hands.

And it hurts .

I can already hear the whispers, see the pitying looks. Even James, my manager, can’t shield me from this. It’s everywhere, suffocating me. Burying me alive.

I clench my fists at my sides. I want to hit something. Someone. If anyone so much as looks at me wrong, I swear I’ll—

The safety car deposits me in the garage like unwanted cargo. I stride in, a storm of barely contained fury ready to be unleashed on anyone. Anything. The pit crew scatters, averting their gaze. Smart move.

I rip off my helmet, the cool air hitting my tear-stricken face. The balaclava follows, yanked off with such force, it nearly takes my ears with it. My curls are matted, probably sticking up in all directions. I couldn’t care less.

“William, wait—” James’ voice, urgent behind me.

I don’t slow down. Don’t look back. My racing boots echo on the concrete as I barrel towards the exit.

“We need to discuss the incident report—”

Incident report. As if what happened out there could be summed up in some sterile paperwork. My dream, shattered into a thousand pieces of carbon fiber and disappointment, reduced to a few checkboxes and signatures. Laughable.

I burst into the paddock, the sudden sunlight momentarily blinding me. The buzz of activity—crew members, journalists, fans—becomes a dull roar in my ears. I scan for an escape route, somewhere I can just… breathe. Cry. Hate myself.

“At least tell me you’re not injured,” James persists, matching my pace.

The concern in his voice should touch me. It doesn’t. Not now. I grunt; the closest thing to communication I can manage without losing it completely.

A flash goes off to my left. Some vulture with a camera, no doubt salivating over the dejected almost-champion. I turn, ready to unleash my pent-up rage, but James’ hand on my shoulder stops me cold.

“Not here,” he murmurs. “Not like this.”

I shrug him off, but the moment of clarity is enough. I can’t give them the satisfaction. Can’t let them see me break.

I keep walking, each step carrying me further away from the dream I’ve chased for so long, yet it seems like it’s not meant to be.

And with every step, a mantra builds in my head: This isn’t over. I’m not done. Not by a long shot. This can’t be my end.