Page 43 of Racing for Redemption (Backmarker Love trilogy #1)

Racing for Redemption

William

I adjust my noise-cancelling headphones, letting the heavy guitar riffs wash over me.

It’s the same album Violet and I listened to that night in Birmingham—the underground metal band that had her hesitantly headbanging by the end of the show.

I close my eyes, remembering her face in the dim light, the way she’d looked at me when I slipped those high-fidelity earplugs into her palm, our fingers brushing.

The memory burns brighter than it should on race day, when every neuron should be focused on the track ahead.

But somehow, that memory centers me. Grounds me in a way pre-race rituals never have before.

The garage comes into view as I round the corner, already thrumming with pre-race energy.

Mechanics perform their final checks, engineers huddle over data screens, and in the midst of it all—Violet.

She sits alone in the far corner, tablet in hand, probably checking last-minute emails or race projections.

The morning sun catches her profile, highlighting the sharp line of her jaw, the slight furrow between her brows as she concentrates.

I pull my headphones down to rest around my neck, the music fading as I approach her.

“Shouldn’t you be mingling with the bigwigs in hospitality?” I ask, leaning against the workbench beside her.

She looks up, momentarily startled, before her features settle into something warmer. “Shouldn’t you be in your pre-race zen bubble?”

I tap my headphones. “I was. Decided human interaction might be nice for a change.”

“Bold choice on race day.” She scans my face, assessing. “Nervous?”

“Terrified,” I admit with a half-smile. “Excited. Ready. All of the above.” Couldn't get any sleep, because you're in my every waking thought — sweet torture during a night I should have rested.

She sets her tablet aside, giving me her full attention. The gesture shouldn’t feel as significant as it does.

“P12 is a strong starting position for us,” she says, slipping into Team Principal mode. “But I need you to be smart today, William. This isn’t about heroics.”

“No heroics,” I agree. “Just clean racing.”

“Especially with Bertrand.” Her voice hardens slightly.

“What he tried in qualifying was borderline dangerous. He’ll do worse than impeding today if given the opportunity.

" Our complaints to the stewards earned him a two place grid penalty, and he'll be starting behind me, so I inherited P12, Colton Racing's best start in a decade.

I nod, surprised by her protectiveness. “I’ll steer clear.”

“And Nicholas—” She hesitates, choosing her words carefully. “He tends to be… aggressive in the first corner. Especially after a poor qualifying, which is always the case.”

“You mean he divebombs like an idiot and takes out half the backmarkers and field?”

A flash of a smile crosses her face. “I couldn’t possibly comment on the driving style of my own driver.”

“But you’re not denying it.” I chuckle.

“Just… stay away from him. If you see him in the rearview mirrors, juke to the other side.” The concern in her eyes makes my chest tighten. “I want to see both cars cross the finish line.” Her gaze falls to the floor for a split second as she tries to be nonchalant.

She’s worried. Not just about the team’s performance, but about me. The realization warms something in my chest.

“Hey,” I say, reaching out to poke her cheek gently. “Stop frowning. You’ll get wrinkles.” That makes her look even more beautiful, lines that show how expressive she is despite hiding it.

She swats my hand away, but there’s no heat in it. “I’m not frowning.”

“You absolutely are.” I lean closer, invading her personal space just enough to make her eyes widen slightly. “Relax, boss. I’ve got this locked and loaded. Only way I don’t finish is if some asshole puts me in the wall, or the car breaks down. ”

“That’s not as reassuring as you think it is.”

I can’t help myself; I reach out again, this time cupping the cheek I poked. Her skin is warm beneath my palm, soft in a way that makes my fingertips tingle.

“I promise to give you a performance you won’t forget,” I say, my voice dropping lower than intended.

Her eyes darken, pupils dilating just enough for me to notice. For a moment, neither of us breathes. Don't give me hope, Violet.

“Bold promise,” she finally says, her voice slightly unsteady. “Care to make it interesting?”

I raise an eyebrow. “A bet? Now you’re speaking my language.”

“If you score points—actual championship points—today…” She pauses, considering. “I’ll let you choose the next team dinner venue.”

“Boring,” I counter. “If I score points today, you have to come to another show with me. And hang out with me afterwards.”

Her lips twitch. “And if you don’t?”

“Then I’ll attend any stuffy PR event you want. No complaints.”

She considers for a moment, then extends her hand. “Deal.”

I shake it, holding on perhaps a second longer than necessary. “Better clear your calendar.”

The moment breaks as more team personnel flood into the garage. I reluctantly step back, switching gears mentally as Tom approaches with my race strategy sheet.

“We need to talk about tire management,” he begins, all business.

I glance over my shoulder as Violet walks away. She looks back once, and the small smile she offers feels like a talisman—a private good luck charm just for me.

The grid is a swarm of activity—last-minute adjustments, flash media interviews, the ceremonial clearing of the track as start time approaches.

From my P12 slot, I see the front-runners going through their routines.

The crowd in the grandstands is a blur of color and movement, their energy and excitement palpable.

I like to think that people are looking at this black and red car, and thinking it is awesome that we dragged it from last place to the midfield.

Inside my helmet, it’s quiet. Just my breathing, and the occasional crackle of the radio as Tom checks in. I go through my mental checklist, visualizing each corner of Albert Park one more time.

“Two minutes to formation lap,” the race engineer announces.

I adjust my gloves, flexing my fingers. The butterflies in my stomach have transformed into a steady, focused energy. This is it. My first Formula 1 race.

“Remember the plan,” Tom says calmly in my ear. “Conservative start, watch for gaps, protect the tires through the first stint.”

“Copy that.”

The formation lap passes in a blur of visual checks and brake warming.

As I take my position on the grid for the final time, I scan my mirrors.

Felix’s Baretta is two rows in front of me in P8.

Nicholas is a distant P20. And a place behind me, in the midfield tangle, Paul Bertrand waits like a predator.

Five red lights appear above the track.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Lights out, and away we go!

I react instantly, muscle memory taking over as I release the clutch. The start is good—not spectacular, but clean. Three cars immediately surge past me on the left—Paul, Louis and Kal—but I hold my position on the right, slotting into the pack as we hurtle toward Turn 1.

The first corner looms—a funnel of twenty cars converging at over 200 km/h. I brake late, but not recklessly, finding a gap between a Vortex Satellite, and a Klip Motorsports. We emerge in a different order, and I’ve gained one position. P11.

“Good start,” Tom confirms. “Cesar ahead. Louis and Bertrand behind.”

I push through the next sequence of corners, testing out the car’s balance on full tanks. It’s heavier than in qualifying, less responsive, but stable. As the field begins to spread out slightly across the track, I settle into a rhythm, hunting down Cesar’s Vortex Satellite machine.

Then it happens—in my mirrors, chaos erupts at Turn 3. A flash of the familiar Colton Racing livery, spinning, collecting one of the Klip cars. Nicholas. As I slow down, Bertrand overtakes me.

“Yellow flags, sector two,” Tom reports. “Safety car deployed. Nicholas and Hayashi are out.”

I keep my thoughts to myself, focusing on maintaining temperature in my tires as the safety car picks up the field.

For six laps, we circulate in formation, the marshals clearing debris from Nicholas’ overeager move.

If this is going to be him this year, crashing a million-dollar car every weekend, it’ll be hard for Colton Racing to not be in debt.

“Safety car in this lap,” comes the call finally.

I prepare, positioning myself carefully behind Bertrand, looking for any weakness as the pack bunches up for the restart. The safety car peels into the pits, and Bertrand accelerates too early, having to brake again—the rookie error I was hoping for.

I pounce immediately, getting a better exit from the final corner and drafting him down the main straight. Into Turn 1, I feint to the outside, then cut back to the inside as he over-commits to defending. Clean, clinical overtake. Back in P11.

“Nice move,” Tom approves. “Also, Thomas just pitted due to a slow puncture, so you’re in the points. P10. Keep it there.”

The points. Reality hits me; I’m running in a championship points position in my first F1 race. But there’s a long way to go, and the cars ahead have pulled a gap during my battle with Bertrand.

For the next twenty laps, I settle into the grueling rhythm of Grand Prix racing.

Every corner is a negotiation with physics, every straight a calculation of risk versus reward.

The cockpit is sweltering, and I’m struggling a bit.

I take a sip of water and continue focusing on my task.

The car feels good, but the tires begin to degrade around lap 25, the rear becoming increasingly skittish on the corner exit.

“Box this lap,” Tom calls. “Box, box.”

I acknowledge, preparing for my first Formula 1 pit stop. The choreography is perfect—I hit my marks, the crew swarms the car, and four seconds later, I’m released with fresh medium tires.