Page 44 of Racing for Redemption (Backmarker Love trilogy #1)

“P12,” Tom updates as I rejoin. “Felix and Bertrand are still on track and haven’t pitted.”

Bertrand. The name sends a spike of adrenaline through me. Something in me completely changes whenever I spot him on track. He’s four seconds up the road according to my dash display, but with fresher tires, I’m hunting him down.

For the next eight laps, I whittle away his advantage, pushing the car harder as my confidence grows. The gap shrinks—4 seconds, 3 seconds, 1.5 seconds. Soon, I fill his mirrors, the infuriating Vortex Satellite livery growing larger with each corner.

I study his driving, looking for weaknesses. He’s overdriving the car, sliding more than necessary in the traction zones. Nervous, perhaps. He’s aware of my advancing approach .

“DRS enabled,” Tom confirms as I close within a second of Bertrand’s rear wing.

Down the main straight, I deploy the DRS, gaining precious km/h as the drag reduces. But Bertrand defends aggressively, moving late to block my inside line. I back off slightly, recalibrating. Let’s pressure him.

Next lap, same scenario, but this time, I feint toward the inside, triggering his defensive move, then switch to the outside. We enter Turn 1 side by side, inches apart at over 280 km/h. He tries to squeeze me toward the outside edge of the track, but I hold firm.

Through Turn 2, we’re still together, neither yielding. His front wing is alongside my rear tire—the most dangerous position, where a mistake from either of us means disaster.

I give him just enough space—no more, no less. Into Turn 3, I have the inside line, and physics is on my side. He’s forced to concede, falling in behind me. P11.

“Clean racing,” Tom remarks, a note of relief in his voice.

The battle has cost us time, though, and ahead, Felix Becker’s Baretta is now visible—he’s recovered positions during the pit cycle by going longer with his tires to create a gap to the back. It’s like a flashback to our karting days, chasing each other around circuits across Europe.

For five laps, I hunt him, learning his lines, noting how he’s gentle with the tires through the high-speed sections.

Felix was always smooth—a natural talent who makes everything look effortless.

Tires last a lifetime with him. This guy has a talent many would die for. Maybe he’s going for a one-stop stint.

“Ten laps remaining,” Tom announces. “P11 is good, but keep pushing if you can.”

I’m about to respond when it happens—ahead, smoke billows from one of the Scuderia Nova cars exiting Turn 12. Almost simultaneously, a ProTech Energex car locks up trying to avoid it, sliding straight into the barriers. Yellow flags wave frantically, then...

“Safety car deployed. Safety car deployed.”

This is it—a strategic opportunity. “What do you think?” I ask Tom. “Fresh tires? I’m near the box! Mate, do I go or not?”

“Pit this lap,” he confirms immediately. “Pit, pit, pit!”

The decision is made in a split second, and I dive into the pits as the field slows.

The stop goes without a hitch, not too fast, but without technical issues—they fitted soft tires for the final sprint, designed to perform at their peak for the remaining laps.

This safety car is a blessing in disguise.

And I'm not letting this opportunity slip through my hands.

“P6,” Tom reports as I rejoin behind the safety car. “Six cars stayed out.”

P6. I blink, processing the information. From P12 on the grid to P6. This was a mega pit stop, overtaking five cars. Now, there are six cars ahead of me on old tires, and me with fresh, sticky softs for the restart.

“How many laps left?” I ask, voice tight with tension.

“Five after the restart. ”

Five laps to hold position—or improve it. I prepare methodically, keeping heat in the new tires with gentle weaves as we circulate behind the safety car.

“Safety car in this lap.”

This is it. The most important restart of my young career. I position myself carefully behind the Baretta ahead—not Felix now, but his teammate, Roth.

The safety car lights go out, and Roth controls this midfield pack, slowing us to a crawl before suddenly accelerating. I stay close, not allowing a gap to form. As we hit the main straight, I’m in his slipstream, the additional speed pulling me closer.

Into Turn 1, I send it down the inside, catching him by surprise. The move is aggressive, but fair, and I emerge ahead. P5.

“Great move!” Tom exclaims. “Clear air ahead. Gap to P4 is 4 seconds.”

For the final four laps, I drive with a precision I didn’t know I possessed. Every braking point is exact, every apex clipped perfectly, every exit unwinding the steering smoothly to protect the tires.

“Last lap,” Tom calls. “Just bring it home.”

The final circuit of Albert Park feels like slow motion and hyper-speed simultaneously. Each corner a familiar friend now, each straight a brief respite. As I navigate the last sequence of turns, emotion begins to build in my chest—a pressure that threatens to overwhelm.

I cross the line, and Tom’s voice breaks—actually breaks—as he calls out, “P5! P5, William Daniel Foster! You’ve done it, you bloody legend!”

The release is instant and overwhelming. I pound the steering wheel, shouting into my helmet, letting out three years’ worth of pent-up emotion.

P5. Colton Racing’s best result in a decade. Points on my debut—not just points, but a haul of them.

I’m crying inside the helmet. Fuck. I…I did it. On my first race in F1, no less.

The cool-down lap passes in a blur of waving to crowds, acknowledgements from other drivers, and Tom’s continuous updates about the finishing order. As I pull into parc fermé , the reality begins to sink in. This isn’t just a good result for a backmarker team— it’s a statement .

I climb out of the cockpit, legs shaky from the physical strain and adrenaline crash. The weight checks and formalities blur together as I remove my helmet, sweat-soaked hair plastered to my forehead.

Then, I’m released back to the paddock, and everything explodes. The Colton Racing garage erupts as I enter—mechanics, engineers, caterers, everyone cheering and applauding. Tom is there first, hugging me with uncharacteristic emotion, then the crew swarms around me.

“Historic,” someone says. “Bloody historic.”

Through the crowd, I spot my parents near the back wall. Dad is openly weeping now, Mom beside him with tears streaming down her face. I push through to them, falling into their embrace like I’m eight years old again after my first kart win.

“You did it,” Dad chokes out. “Son…You really did it.”

“I told you,” I manage, my own voice thick. “I told you we could.”

“We are so proud,” Mom whispers as she controls her sobs. “So, so proud!”

We cling to each other, the years of sacrifice and struggle crystallized in this perfect moment. They believed when no one else did. They imagined this day when it seemed impossible.

When I finally pull back, wiping my eyes unashamedly, I scan the garage for her. For Violet. The team’s celebration continues around me, but she’s not part of it.

Then, I see her.

She’s on her knees in the corner of the garage, hands pressed to her mouth, tears streaming down her face. Not tears of sorrow—tears of release.

Of vindication.

Of redemption.

Of a burden slightly lightened after years of crushing weight for this team.

I move without thinking, pushing through the crowd until I reach her. She looks up at me, mascara slightly smudged, vulnerability raw on her face in a way I’ve never witnessed before.

“Violet,” I say softly, extending my hand.

She takes it, allowing me to pull her to her feet. And then I’m hugging her, pulling her against me with a desperation I don’t fully understand. She’s rigid for only a moment before melting into it, her arms wrapping around my back.

“I did it,” I whisper into her hair. “I fucking did it, Violet.”

Her hands fist in the back of my race suit, simultaneously grounding and taking me to heaven in a split second. “You did it,” she confirms, voice thick with emotion.

We stand like that, oblivious to the cameras capturing the moment, to the team watching with knowing smiles, to the world outside our bubble.

When I pull back slightly, it’s only to look at her tear-streaked face. “I’m cashing in that hug,” she says with a watery laugh.

“Good.” I grin, framing her face with my hands. “Because I want to cash in my reward from winning our bet. I scored points—a lot of them.”

Her eyes shine with tears and something else—something that makes my heart race faster than any straight-line speed.

“I guess you did,” she acknowledges. “A metal show it is.”

“Next weekend,” I confirm. “After Bahrain. I know a place.”

We’re still too close, still touching in ways that cross the nebulous boundary between professional and personal. Neither of us seems inclined to step away. It’s too comfortable, and to me… it feels like a deserved reward for my hard work. Another excuse to hold her close against me.

“I should let you go,” she says finally, making no move to do so. “The media pen is waiting. They’ll have a thousand questions.”

“Let them wait,” I reply, gently wiping tears from her cheeks. “This is more important. ”

I bury my head in her neck and cry for this win. For this team. For her. This is for her. This is for all the assholes that wrote us off.

She caresses the back of my head, goosebumps all over my skin as I sneakily brush my lips on her neck. Her arms tighten around me, her hand dropping to pat my back.

“William,” she begins, then stops, seemingly unable to find words.

“I know,” I say simply, because somehow, I do.

I reluctantly drop my hands, aware that the moment has stretched beyond what can be explained as professional celebration. But I can’t bring myself to regret it. I wipe my tears on my sleeves. I'm a mess right now.

“Go charm the press,” she says, composing herself. “It's your moment—enjoy it!"

“Oh, you know that's my thing.” I wink and make a promise. “This is just the beginning, Violet.”

I’m not talking about points or positions anymore, and from the way her breath catches as I touch her hand, she knows it.

As I turn toward the media pen, heart still thundering in my chest, I take one last look at her—Violet Colton, standing amid the celebration she’s fought so hard to create. Going to my parents’ side to hug them. That's a view I could get used to.

God… This fire burning inside me can’t be contained any longer.