Page 49 of Racing for Redemption (Backmarker Love trilogy #1)

A rough patch

William

China. The Shanghai International Circuit. My first time racing here, and it’s turning into a nightmare.

“We thought the safety car would stay out one more lap,” Tom explains, his voice strained. “The others came in early.”

I don’t respond. There’s no point. My tires are shot, and the fresh rubber on everyone else’s cars means I’m a sitting duck. I watch helplessly as Bertrand’s car slides past me on the straight, the smug bastard wagging his fingers as he goes by.

Five laps later, I cross the finish line in P15. No points. Again .

In the cool-down room, I strip off my sweat-soaked fireproofs and check my phone.

Nothing from Violet, just a team-wide message about reviewing performance.

My chest tightens. It’s been weeks since Melbourne, since that night in her hotel room.

Since her lips against mine, her hands in my hair, that whispered agreement about “blowing off steam” whenever we needed it.

Apparently, she doesn’t need it.

I toss my phone into my bag harder than necessary. James, my manager, raises an eyebrow.

“You good?”

“Peachy,” I mutter, pulling on a team shirt. “Just love watching points slip through our fingers because of strategy calls even an F3 team wouldn’t make.”

James pats my shoulder. “One race. We’ll do better in Jeddah.”

We don’t do better in Jeddah.

I qualify P14, drive my heart out for two hours in the Saudi heat, and finish… P14. The car lacks straight-line speed, and every time I find a rhythm in the corners, we hit a straight, and I watch the backs of the same cars pulling away.

I dream of Violet that night. Not even sex dreams—just her smile, the way her eyes crinkle slightly at the corners when she laughs at something I’ve said. The weight of her head on my chest after Melbourne, both of us sticky with sweat and satisfaction.

My text to her after the race— Could use some steam-blowing right about now —sits unread. She’s busy, I know. Board meetings. Sponsor negotiations. Running a struggling F1 team. On the opposite side of the world. But knowing doesn’t make the ache any less real.

Bahrain. The desert air hangs thick with tension as I line up on the grid for the start. P14 again. The lights go out, and I get a decent launch, picking up two places into Turn 1.

Then, I see him—Paul Bertrand. He’s ahead, but struggling for grip on cold tires. A gap appears, and I go for it, sliding my car up the inside into Turn 4. Clean, precise. Professional.

Bertrand doesn’t see it that way. As I pull alongside, he jerks his wheel right, squeezing me toward the barrier.

I lift, avoiding contact, but he’s not done. Down the next straight, he weaves twice in the braking zone, a clear violation of the rules.

“He’s driving like a maniac,” I tell Tom over the radio.

“Noted. We’ll report it.”

"He's really taking that belly dancing experience to new heights…" I vent, as my engineer chuckles like crazy, almost choking.

Next lap, I’m alongside him again. This time, he deliberately runs wide at the apex, forcing me off the track. When I rejoin, he’s there, slamming into my sidepod.

The impact sends me spinning into the gravel. Game over.

In the garage, I rip off my helmet and balaclava, and storm down the paddock toward Vortex Satellite. I spot Bertrand, still in his race suit, laughing with his engineers.

“What the hell was that?” I shout, getting in his face.

He smirks. “Racing incident. Maybe learn to drive, Foster.”

I clench my fist. One punch. Just one to that smug face. The satisfying crunch of cartilage under my knuckles would be worth it. I grab him by the collar, but there are cameras everywhere. Reporters. Team personnel.

I swallow the rage, even as it burns my throat. “You’re a disgrace to the sport,” I spit, turning away.

His laughter follows me down the paddock.

The text comes that night as I lie sleepless in my hotel room.

Heard about Bertrand. Good job not hitting him. That would’ ve been a PR nightmare.

Violet.

My heart rate doubles as I type back: Took everything I had. How are you? Haven’t seen you in forever.

Three dots appear, then disappear. Then: Busy. Board meetings. Trying to keep sponsors happy after today.

I reply: When are you coming back to the paddock?

The dots appear again, lingering for what feels like an eternity.

Not sure. Imola, hopefully. Get some rest, William.

That’s it. No flirtation. No mention of Melbourne, or our arrangement. Just my name, formal and distant.

I stare at the ceiling for hours after that. Did I mess this up? Am I too needy for her? Too immature? Is that what this distance means? I no longer know, and I've been finding reasons as to why she would put distance between us.

The truth is, I'd like to say I've got plenty of experience with relationships, but… I don’t.

Racing has been my whole life. Yeah, sure, I've had one-night stands in my late teens, but I never dated, nor was this invested in someone.

It's a weird feeling, one I can't explain.

One minute, I'm fascinated with her, the next, we're ravishing each other, and the next, I'm alone.

I don't understand this dynamic, and I hate it.

And worse yet, I can't speak of this to anyone.

She's forbidden, off limits. This is actually frowned upon in the paddock, so I can't even go to Felix for advice.

I’m alone.

Qualifying for the next race is a disaster. P19. I can barely look Tom in the eye when I return to the garage.

“Weather changed too fast,” he says, but we both know the team should have recognized the darkening clouds, and called me in earlier for wet tires.

And even with those tires, I was distracted and making mistakes left and right.

The glory of Melbourne is nowhere to be found.

To give me all that joy, then throw me into a pit of despair is a unique brand of torture as an athlete.

The next day, the race starts in light drizzle. I’m determined to salvage something, to claw my way into the points from the back of the grid. My start is electric, jumping five places before Turn 1.

By lap 10, I’m up to P14, hunting down Nicholas, my teammate. He’s been a ghost in the garage lately, showing up late, and reeking of alcohol during morning briefings. But on track today, he’s found some pace. Let’s call that a miracle, because it is. This is the highest this guy has driven in F1.

I close on him through Turns 11 and 12, getting a good exit onto the straight. The gap narrows—three car lengths, two, one. I pull out to overtake, expecting him to yield to the faster car, as is standard team protocol .

He doesn’t. Instead, he moves to defend, forcing me to the outside line. Fine. I’ll take the longer route. I brake later, carrying more speed into the corner.

But Nicholas brakes impossibly late—too late—and loses control. His car slides sideways, directly into my path.

The impact is violent. Everything becomes noise and full throttle motion.

My car lifts, flipping once, twice, as it skids along the barrier.

I flipped so many times, I don't even know which way I'm facing.

Where I am. Fuck . The crunch of carbon fiber.

The smell of fuel. Pain spikes through my neck as my head whips against the headrest.

When the movement stops, I’m hanging upside down, still strapped to my seat. The world pulses red and black at the edges.

“William? William, do you copy?” Tom’s voice, distant and frantic in my ears.

“Yeah,” I croak. “I’m okay.”

I’m not okay. My hands shake as the medical team extracts me from the wreckage. The stretcher, the ambulance, the medical center—it all blurs together. Memories come flooding back from my accident back in F4.

Tests. Questions. Lights in my eyes.

“The impact registered at 51 Gs,” the doctor says, examining a tablet. “We need to monitor you for concussion symptoms.”

I nod, wincing at the movement.

“Where’s Violet?” I ask Blake, who appears by my bedside, his face drawn with concern .

“In London. Board meeting.” His eyes soften. “She’s been notified about the crash.”

My phone buzzes on the table beside me. I grab it, hoping.

It’s a team-wide message from operations: Car severely damaged. Will require significant rebuild before the next race.

A message from my mom asking if I'm okay. Another from Felix, asking if I need anything. But nothing from Violet.

The emptiness in my chest eclipses the pain in my neck.

Two months of dreaming about her lips, her laugh, being around her.

Two months of nothing but formal texts and team-wide emails.

Two months craving her so much that, at night, I find myself with eyes closed, breathing ragged, gripping myself, reliving that night, trying to recreate the sensation that made me go over the edge in seconds.

It's almost pathetic how I am right now. I gave myself to her, and she… hasn't. That's how I can sum this up. I accepted this arrangement, but deep down, I desire more from her. I want her to be mine irrevocably.

To wake up next to her every day.

To cuddle together before going to sleep.

To wash her hair, or even cook something together.

I know in my bones that she is the right woman for me. That this is not just attraction. I want this beautiful, force of nature woman to let me in, completely. To be hers . For her to give me the pleasure of saying that she chose me. That she is mine to treasure .

I let my head fall back against the pillow, staring at the sterile ceiling of the medical center.

Maybe I made a mistake entertaining that tension we felt that night.

Maybe I shouldn’t have crossed the line.

Maybe I'm still just a kid, and busy people are supposed to feel like this—alone, dejected… abandoned.

That's such a shitty feeling. And here I thought being in the same sport would help us be together more frequently. Boy, was I wrong. I've never felt this much distance in my life.

“Blake,” I say quietly, “is she coming to the next race?”

He hesitates, just long enough for me to know the answer before he speaks.

“She’s dealing with Gritt Tires. They’re threatening to pull sponsorship after today’s crash.”

Another piece of bad news in a growing pile. My shoulders slump. “Tell her I’m terribly sorry,” I say, though I’m not sure what exactly I’m apologizing for. The crash? Missing her? Wanting more than she’s willing to give?

Blake squeezes my shoulder. “Rest up, kid. This streak of bad luck won’t last forever. You showed us that early this season.”

But as I close my eyes, all I can think is that the best thing that’s happened to me so far this season—Violet Colton—might already be slipping through my fingers, like so many missed opportunities on track. And I don’t know how to hold on and not lose her.