Page 51 of Racing for Redemption (Backmarker Love trilogy #1)

When the snakes start to sing

William

Halfway to the Colton Racing garage, a voice stops me.

“William Foster.” The accent is crisp, English boarding school polished to a shine. “Nasty crash. Glad to see you on your feet.”

I turn to find Dominic Harrington—Team Principal of Vortex Racing—leaning against a hospitality unit. His silver hair is immaculate despite the desert heat, his tailored suit unwrinkled. The embodiment of F1 "pseudo" royalty .

“Mr. Harrington,” I say, straightening despite the pain in my back. In F1, there are people you’re casual with, and people you’re not. Harrington belongs firmly in the latter category.

“Please, Dominic.” He smiles, all teeth and no warmth. “Walk with me?”

It’s not really a question. In the F1 hierarchy, when someone like Dominic Harrington suggests a walk, you walk.

This is one thing I hate here, part of the elitism of this sport.

The dinosaurs of the sport—regardless if talented or not—get all the limelight, and if a rookie driver ignores them, they are shunned, criticized and removed from any "good driver" lists.

I was problematic in the past, with my temper flaring almost all the time.

I was "damaged goods." I don't intend to have such a title here, so, I oblige.

We move away from the busy paddock area, toward the quieter space near the garages and through the back. Harrington maintains a respectful distance, hands clasped behind his back.

“That was some drive in Melbourne,” he says. “P5 in that...” He pauses. “...challenging machinery. Impressive.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“No need for ‘sir.’ We’re colleagues.” His smile widens. “Or perhaps future colleagues.”

My pulse quickens. This isn’t a casual chat.

“I’ve been watching your career with interest, William.

F3 champion. Would have been F2 champion if not for Bertrand’s…

tactics. Which was a pity, but you understand business, don’t you?

” He makes a dismissive gesture. “Then, extracting performance fr om that Colton Racing shopping trolley that, frankly, doesn’t deserve to be in the points. ”

I remain silent, unsure where this is heading.

“You deserve better equipment,” Harrington continues. “A proper team. Real opportunities.”

“I’m happy at Colton Racing,” I say automatically.

Harrington chuckles. “Loyalty. Admirable. But misplaced.” He stops walking, turning to face me. “I’ll be direct. I’m offering you a seat. Either alongside Bertrand at Vortex Satellite—”

I can’t help the grimace that crosses my face. Paul Bertrand; the man who deliberately had his teammate crashing into me to win the F2 title. My teammate? Is this old guy tripping? Who would even accept that?

“—or,” Harrington continues, noting my reaction, “replacing Kikuchi alongside James Farrant at Vortex Racing proper.”

My breath catches. Vortex Racing. The reigning champions. Alongside James Farrant, three-time world champion. The sort of offer drivers kill for.

The professional mask I reserve for the media slips over my face. “That’s flattering, but any discussions about my future should go through my manager, James Pierce. I’m committed to my current contract.”

“Contracts can be bought out.” Harrington waves a dismissive hand. “Money is no object for us.”

“It’s not about money,” I say, my tone cooling. “I believe in what we’re building at Colton Racing. There’s potential there.”

Harrington’s expression shifts, the cordial mask slipping just slightly.

“Potential?” He laughs—a sharp, unpleasant sound.

“William, let’s be realistic. Colton Racing is a shitbox with wheels.

The only reason it’s not dead last in the championship is because you occasionally drag it into the points, or close to it. ”

I tighten my jaw. “We’re making progress—”

“ You’re making progress,” he corrects. “The team is a joke. Has been since Frederick Colton died.” His lip curls. “And especially now, with his spoiled daughter playing Team Principal.”

Something hot and dangerous flares in my chest. How dare you speak of her like that, you snake. “Ms. Colton is an excellent Team Principal.”

“Ms. Colton,” he mimics, “is a trust fund kid who got Daddy’s team, because no one else wanted the headache.

She has no business running an F1 operation.

What has she done in the past? Managed a tire company?

That type of experience doesn't translate to F1. She doesn't know how to handle the pressure, intensity, and stress. She’s slowly but surely breaking.”

I take a careful breath, trying to maintain composure. “With all due respect, you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t I?” Harrington steps closer. “The team’s a disaster. Strategy calls that would embarrass an F3 outfit. Engineering that can’t keep up with basic development. And let’s not even discuss Nicholas Davanti—the walking definition of a pay driver who can’t even pay enough to justify his seat.”

“We’re working through challenges—”

“The only challenge that matters is Violet Colton’s incompetence,” he snaps. “The team was circling the drain before she took over, and she’s only accelerating the flush.”

I clench my fists. “Don’t you dare talk about her like that.”

“Like what? Truthfully ?” Harrington narrows his gaze. “This is business, William. And I’m offering you an escape from a sinking ship. Take it.”

“No.” One word, hard as stone.

“No?” His surprise seems genuine. “You’d rather waste your prime years in a backmarker than drive a championship-capable car?”

“I’d rather work with people I respect.”

Something ugly flashes across Harrington’s face. “Respect,” he repeats, drawing the word out. “Is that what you call it? Your… arrangement with Violet Colton?”

Ice floods my veins. “What are you talking about?”

“Please.” He smirks. “The paddock notices things. Late-night strategy meetings? Melbourne celebrations that continued well past the team dinner? Your escapades in the UK to small concert venues?”

No one knows. We’ve been careful. This is a bluff. But then again, how does this asshole even know that? I'm starting to think that this man is more dangerous than what he lets on. This is next-level stalker shit.

“You’re out of line,” I warn, voice dropping.

“Am I?” Harrington presses. “Tell me, is sleeping with the boss part of your contract, or is that a… performance bonus? ”

My helmet hits the ground before I realize I’ve dropped it. Red clouds my vision. Oh fuck .

“Never,” I say, each word sharp enough to cut, “speak about Violet Colton that way. Ever .”

He leans in, voice low. “Poor William. Fallen for the ice queen? Do you think you’re the first driver she’s manipulated? Frederick Colton’s daughter knows how to keep her pets loyal—”

" Lies! " The crack of my fist against his face echoes in the narrow space between motorhomes.

Harrington staggers back, blood streaming from his nose. For a split second, shock registers on his face—then something worse. Satisfaction. He's grinning. The son of a bitch is grinning, and only then do I realize what I just did. I fell into his fucking trap.

“William!” Tom’s voice breaks through the red haze as my engineer rushes toward us. “What the hell—”

But it’s too late. The sound has drawn attention.

Phones are out, cameras flashing. A cluster of journalists rounds the corner, capturing the tableau: Dominic Harrington, blood streaming down his designer suit, and me, fist still clenched, body humming with rage, trying to rein in my desire to throttle him so badly, no one would recognize his face again.

Harrington dabs at his nose, examining the blood with an almost clinical detachment. Then he looks at me and—unbelievably—smiles.

“Thank you, William,” he says, voice carrying just enough to be heard by the gathering crowd. “That will do nicely. ”

Tom grabs my arm, pulling me away. “What were you thinking?”

I wasn’t thinking. That’s the problem. All I could see was Violet’s face, hear her name on Harrington’s sneering lips.

“The stewards will have your head for this,” Tom mutters as he hustles me toward our garage. “Assaulting a Team Principal? You’ll be lucky if they don’t ban you.”

Around us, phones buzz with notifications. The paddock’s fastest product has always been gossip, traveling at speeds that make F1 cars seem sluggish. By the time we reach the garage, everyone knows.

I glance at my throbbing hand, knuckles already swelling. Tom hands me an ice pack. The momentary satisfaction of feeling Harrington’s face give way beneath my fist evaporates, replaced by cold dread. What have I done? I'm back to square one.

My phone vibrates endlessly in my pocket. Messages from my manager. From other drivers. From journalists seeking comment.

Nothing from Violet.

An official in an FIA jacket approaches, expression grave. “Mr. Foster, you’re requested to report to the stewards immediately regarding the incident with Mr. Harrington.”

Tom squeezes my shoulder. “Go. Be respectful. Apologize. We’ll sort this out.”

But as I follow the official, I glimpse a headline already circulating on a nearby screen :

“FOSTER PUNCHES VORTEX BOSS, DISGRACES STRUGGLING COLTON RACING.”

And beneath it, a subheading that makes my stomach lurch: “Team Principal Violet Colton Unavailable for Comment as Crisis Deepens.”

I’ve made everything worse. The team. My career. Might as well say goodbye to any chance with Violet.

In the stewards’ office, I sit stiffly, admitting fault, offering no excuses. Yes, I struck Mr. Harrington. No, there was no physical provocation. Yes, I understand the seriousness of my actions.

Their verdict is swift and merciless—a substantial fine, official reprimand, and worst of all, the removal of all championship points I’ve scored this season; the ten precious points of mine from Melbourne that had given Colton Racing their first taste of success in a decade.

Back to zero. As if Melbourne never happened.

I trudge back to my driver's room, ignoring the stares and whispers that follow me through the paddock. Inside, I collapse into a chair, head in my hands.

My phone buzzes again. James.

“What the hell were you thinking?” he demands without preamble.

“I wasn’t,” I admit.

“Clearly. Do you have any idea what you’ve done? What you just did, my friend, is beyond stupid. The board will be furious. Sponsors will be reconsidering. And Violet—”

“Don’t.” I can’t bear to hear her name right now. It hurts, because I'm ashamed of what I did, and of the repercussions for the team. It hurts, because I miss her so much, I'd punch a hundred guys in the paddock just to see her again.

“This could end your career at Colton Racing before it’s properly begun, William.

Harrington baited you, and you bit like an amateur.

Playing mind games is that guy's modus operandi.

You should know that he was the reason you were screwed last year.

He doesn't play fair in any capacity. And he has a grudge with Colton Racing!”

“He said things about Violet—”

“I don’t care if he insulted your mother, the King, and every saint in the calendar,” James cuts in. “You don’t punch a Team Principal. Ever. Even if he’s a fucking prick!”

I have no defense. He’s right.

“Fix this,” James says, his voice softening slightly. “Whatever it takes.”

The call ends, and I’m left staring at my phone screen. No messages from Violet. No acknowledgment that I just torpedoed my career defending her honor. Just silence.

I close my eyes, leaning back against the wall. Dominic Harrington’s bloodied smile floats in my memory. He wanted this. Provoked it. But why?

The answer comes with sickening clarity: to hurt Colton Racing. To hurt Violet. And I played right into his hands. Her only sound choice is to fire me, and the team is back to square one. Where Harrington wants her to be.

Some defender I turned out to be.