Page 41 of Racing for Redemption (Backmarker Love trilogy #1)

Australia's surprises

William

S tepping through the paddock gates, my parents flank me like eager bodyguards.

“Now, remember,” I tell them as we navigate the bustling paddock, “just act natural. These people are used to celebrities and billionaires wandering around, so—”

“William!” Dad interrupts, pointing excitedly. “Is that the five-time champion, Oliver Lenox? ”

I sigh. So much for playing it cool. “Yes, Dad. Please don’t ask for his autograph. I can send it over to you later.”

Mom squeezes my arm. “We’ll behave. But you can’t blame us for being excited.”

They’re like kids at an amusement park, heads swiveling to take in every detail, taking pictures of everything. I guide them toward the Colton Racing motorhome, nodding at familiar faces as we pass. Several people do double-takes at my father’s shirt, which only makes him stand taller.

Inside the motorhome, the team is gathered for breakfast. Blake spots us first, rising from his seat with a warm smile.

“You must be the Fosters,” he says, extending his hand. “Blake Simmons. I’ve heard wonderful things.”

“All lies,” I joke. “Blake is our team manager and operations expert, and the only reason this place functions.”

I introduce them to Tom, my race engineer, whose quiet brilliance has already earned my trust; to Johnson, our lead engineer who speaks six languages, but prefers equations to words; to the mechanics, who’ve spent countless hours ensuring my car will perform today.

My parents absorb each name, each handshake with genuine interest. They’ve been doing this since my karting days—acknowledging every person who contributes to my racing, treating them like an extended family member.

“William speaks so highly of everyone,” Mom tells Tom. “He says you’re a technical genius.”

Tom’s ears redden. “Just doing my job, Mrs. Foster. ”

“Barbara, please,” she insists. “And this is Dan.”

Dad is in the middle of explaining his shirt to an amused group of mechanics when movement on the staircase catches my eye. Violet descends from her office, tablet in hand, sleek in her usual gray suit. Her eyes find mine immediately, then shift to my parents with curious interest.

Something in my expression must give me away, because she walks directly toward us, her professional smile softening into something more genuine.

“Ms. Colton,” I say, suddenly formal. “I’d like you to meet my parents, Barbara and Dan Foster.”

Violet extends her hand. “Please, call me Violet. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you both. William speaks of you often.”

My father engulfs her hand in both of his. “The pleasure’s ours. Thank you for taking a chance on our boy.”

“I assure you, it wasn’t charity,” Violet says, her gaze briefly meeting mine. “Your son is extraordinarily talented.”

“We know,” Mom says proudly. “But it’s nice to hear it from his boss.”

“Team Principal,” I correct automatically. “Violet’s also the CEO.”

Mom looks impressed. “Such responsibility, and so young! William mentioned you’ve been rebuilding the team?”

Violet nods. "But I'm not as young as you may think; I'm in my thirties." I’m a little surprised as she engages my parents in conversation. There’s none of the careful distance she maintains with sponsors or media—she’s warm, attentive, even slightly less formal than usual.

She asks about their drive to Melbourne, genuinely listens to their responses, shares a laugh at my expense when Dad mentions my childhood obsession with racing.

And they play around with the fact that I groveled for a seat in this team, or how to tame my hot-blooded personality.

I’ve never seen her quite like this. It does something strange to my insides, watching her with my family. As though she belongs to it.

“William tells us the car has improved dramatically this season,” Dad says.

Violet glances at me, amusement dancing in her eyes. “Has he? I was under the impression he thought it was still a backmarker.”

I groan. “That was before pre-season testing. I’ve changed my tune, as you well know.”

“Have you?” She raises an eyebrow, a challenge in her voice. “Because I distinctly remember someone complaining about understeer just yesterday.”

“Constructive feedback,” I counter. “That’s different from complaining.”

“Is it? I’ll have to take notes on the distinction.” She smirks at me, and I'm melting on the spot.

My parents watch our exchange like a tennis match, heads swiveling between us. Mom’s expression is particularly knowing, and heat creeps up my neck.

“William needs to prepare for qualifying,” Violet says, checking her watch. “But please, make yourselves comfortable in our hospitality area. Blake will ensure you have everything you need.”

“Thank you,” Mom says sincerely. “We’re just so proud to be here.”

Violet’s expression softens again. “As you should be. You raised a good man, and an even better driver.” She turns to me, all business now. “Briefing in fifteen minutes. Don’t be late.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Vio—boss.”

She rolls her eyes at the nickname, but there’s the ghost of a smile as she walks away. I watch her for a moment too long before turning back to my parents.

“She seems lovely,” Mom says immediately.

“She’s my boss,” I remind her, though the words ring hollow even to my ears.

Dad snorts. “Boss, right. That’s why you two were practically finishing each other’s sentences.”

I usher them toward the hospitality area, hoping to change the subject. “Let’s get you settled with coffee before—”

“You’re smitten, aren’t you?” Mom interrupts, her voice low but certain.

I stop walking, blindsided by her directness. “What? No, I’m—”

“William Daniel Foster,” she says, using my full name like she did when I was a child lying about taking an extra cookie. “I know that look. I’ve seen it only twice before—Martha Jenkins in tenth grade, and that Brazilian driver in Formula 4.”

“Gabriela,” Dad supplies helpfully. “The one that—”

“Yes, thank you, I remember,” I cut him off, glancing around to ensure no one’s listening. “It’s not like that. Violet and I are… friends.”

The word tastes wrong now, a far cry from what we are. From what I want us to become. But what else can I call it?

Dad studies me, more perceptive than most give him credit for. “Is she the reason you haven’t had any outbursts lately? James mentioned you’ve been remarkably calm.”

“That’s in my contract,” I protest. “Zero tolerance for temper tantrums or violence.”

It’s true, technically. But not the whole truth.

Since the end of last season, I've made time to go to a therapist to control my emotions and keep the anger at bay, to not take over. Also, the memory of Violet’s face when I snapped at her in the paddock last year—that has done more to temper my reactions than any contractual obligation.

“Sure, sure,” Dad says, clearly unconvinced. “Well, your mother and I think she’s wonderful. Professional, but not cold. Sharp, but not unkind. Has a kind smile, as well.”

Mom nods enthusiastically. “And the way she looks at you when you’re unaware…”

“Mom,” I groan. “Please stop analyzing my boss.”

“Team Principal,” she corrects with a grin. “And CEO. And her eyes soften when she looks at you, Will.”

I check my watch, grateful for the excuse. “I have to go. Qualifying starts soon.”

They both hug me, suddenly serious .

“Drive smart,” Dad says, the same words he’s said before every race since I was eight.

“We love you,” Mom adds. “No matter where you qualify.”

“Love you, too,” I manage, emotion thickening my voice.

As I head toward the garage, their words echo in my mind. The way she looks at you when you’re unaware. Is it possible? Or just my parents seeing what they want to see?

No time to dwell on it now. I have qualifying to focus on—my first in Formula 1. Everything else will have to wait.

The garage is a hive of controlled chaos—engineers checking systems, mechanics making final adjustments, the air thick with anticipation, and the acrid smell of rubber.

I take my headphones off and slip into my fireproof underwear and race suit in the small changing area, mind already shifting into race mode. Fifteen minutes until Q1.

Tom approaches with my data sheet. “Weather’s stable. Track temperature’s rising. We’re looking at two flying laps on the first set of softs, then the same on the second if needed.”

I nod, scanning the numbers. “What about sector three? Still losing time in Turn 13 according to projections and yesterday' s data?”

“Your line was better in FP3. Just remember—late apex, smooth on exit.” He taps the sheet. “P14 is realistic. Maybe P13, if you nail every single turn.”

For most drivers, this would be disappointing news. For me, in this car, and our expectations for this season, it mirrors being told I might win the lottery.

“P14 gets us to Q2,” I say, the reality of it sinking in. Colton Racing, advancing past the first qualifying session. When was the last time that happened?

The final preparations blur together—the balaclava tight against my skin, helmet secure, radio check, gloves. I slide into the cockpit, the car embracing me like an old friend. My heartbeat steadies, the familiar ritual calming my nerves.

As they wheel me out to the pit lane, Violet is standing at the pit wall, her expression intent. Our eyes meet briefly. She nods once—the smallest gesture of confidence.

Then, the pit lane opens, and everything else falls away.

The first lap is a warm-up, getting heat into the tires, feeling out the track. Melbourne’s Albert Park circuit unrolls before me—a ribbon of asphalt cutting through green parkland, demanding respect at every turn.

“Box this lap,” Tom’s voice crackles in my ear. “Prepare for flying lap next time around.”

I acknowledge with a simple “Copy,” already preparing mentally. As I exit the pits on fresh softs, the extra grip is immediately apparent. The car dances on the edge of adhesion as I push through the first sector .