Page 55 of Racing for Redemption (Backmarker Love trilogy #1)

Time to Impress

William

I slip the balaclava over my head, my skin still buzzing from seeing her this morning.

Two months. Two fucking months of nothing but texts about race strategy and performance metrics.

And then, she walks in, all business in that black suit, and I’m right back where I started—wanting something I think I have, but can’t fully have.

The familiar weight of my helmet comes next, grounding me.

Focus, William. There’s a race to drive.

“You listening, William?” Tom’s voice cuts through my thoughts.

“Yeah, sorry. Go on.” I adjust my gloves, forcing my attention back to the qualifying strategy laid out before me.

Tom sighs. “As I was saying, Imola’s a technical bastard. Overtaking’s near impossible, so qualifying position is everything. We need to push for Q2 minimum, otherwise, we're stuck in the back forever.”

I nod, scanning the telemetry data. “The car feels better after the tweaks. More stable through sector two. In comparison to last year's car, we have everything to push it harder, and get closer to the results we want.”

“Who’s the suit with Violet?” I ask, trying to sound casual, gesturing toward the tall, imposing man I’d seen entering the motorhome earlier. He’d looked like someone who broke kneecaps for a living, but Violet and Blake had greeted him like an old friend.

“Potential sponsor, I think. Belforte Construction.” Tom shrugs. “Italian company. Big money.”

Big money. Exactly what we need. One more reason to push today—show this Belforte guy his investment would be worthwhile.

“Well then,” I say, standing up. “Let’s give him something to write checks for.”

The garage hums with pre-qualifying energy—mechanics making final adjustments, engineers huddled over computers, the occasional burst of power tools cutting through the buzz of conversation. I close my eyes for a second, breathing in the familiar scents of rubber and fuel.

Imola stretches out before us, a ribbon of asphalt winding through the Italian countryside. It’s old school, unforgiving—a real driver’s track. The kind where talent can still overcome machinery, at least partly. Where mistakes cost seconds, not tenths .

Q1 passes in a blur. The car feels alive beneath me, responding to each input with newfound precision. I push harder through Acque Minerali , the backend stepping out slightly before catching it. The lap time flashes on my dash—P14. Enough to squeeze into Q2 by two-tenths.

“Nice work, William.” Tom’s voice crackles in my ear. “Box this lap, we’ll prep for Q2.”

"Did I qualify?"

"Yes, the other cars running behind you came close, but didn't have the pace," he adds.

The pit crew swarms around the car, fresh tires going on in a choreographed dance of efficiency. The more we work together, the more in sync they become. I gulp water through my helmet tube, heart still hammering from the qualifying lap.

“How’s the car?” Tom asks.

“Loose in the high-speed corners, but manageable.”

Q2 is all about precision. I visualize each corner before hitting it, braking later, carrying more speed through the apexes. The lap feels good—clean, aggressive, on the limit without crossing it. When I cross the line, I hold my breath, waiting for the time.

“P11, William. P11!” Tom’s voice explodes with excitement. “Just missed Q3 by a tenth, but that’s our best qualifying of the season.”

A mix of pride and frustration washes over me. So close to Q3. Still, P11 gives us options for tomorrow’s race—free tire choice, clean side of the grid .

“Good job, team,” I say, genuinely pleased as I return to the garage. “The car’s really coming alive.”

As I climb out, I scan the garage for a glimpse of Violet. She’s deep in conversation with that Belforte guy, Blake hovering nearby. She doesn’t look my way, but the subtle tension in her shoulders is evident, the way she stands just a bit taller when she’s in business mode. Fuck, I’ve missed her.

Race day dawns clear and warm. The pre-race rituals ground me—same breakfast, same warmup exercises, same visualization techniques, same music on my headphones.

But there’s an extra edge to my focus today.

Her. Also, the potential sponsor is watching.

Maybe the simple hunger to prove we belong among the points.

“Remember, clean start,” Tom reminds me on the grid. “P11 puts us in a good position if we can stay out of trouble in the first lap.”

I nod, lowering my visor. The five red lights illuminate one by one.

And then, they’re out—and I’m going nowhere.

The anti-stall kicks in as I release the clutch, the car juddering as other drivers stream past. Fuck! I fight the wheel, getting the power down, but the damage is done. By Turn 1, I’ve dropped to P16.

“Anti-stall triggered,” I report, frustration burning in my chest. “Working on recovery.”

“Copy that. Stay calm, long race ahead.”

I settle into a rhythm, analyzing the cars ahead, looking for weaknesses. Nicholas is already having problems, his sidepod damaged from contact at the start. By lap 20, the team confirms he’s retiring the car.

“Nicholas is out,” Tom informs me. “All focus is on your race now. We’re looking at Plan B.”

Plan B—the undercut. We’re running P16, stuck behind Paul Bertrand’s Vortex Satellite. Their pace is good on the straights, making overtaking nearly impossible, but they’re killing their tires in the corners.

“Box this lap,” Tom calls on lap 30. “Undercut attempt on Bertrand.”

The pit stop is clean, even if slow—3.1 seconds for a fresh set of hards. I exit the pit with clear air, pushing flat out to make the strategy work. Bertrand pits two laps later, emerging just behind me. The undercut worked.

The middle stint passes in focused concentration. The hard tires feel good—consistent, predictable. I’m making up positions as others pit, climbing to P13.

“How are the tires?” Tom asks around lap 49.

“Still good. Plenty of life left. ”

A pause. “We’re thinking about something aggressive for the final stint. Thirteen laps to go, fresh softs. Thoughts?”

It’s a gamble. The soft tires weren’t lasting at the start of the race, graining quickly in the heat. But with a light fuel load and cooler track temperatures now…

“Let’s do it,” I decide. “Be aggressive.”

The final stop is perfect—2.5 seconds. I emerge P16 again, but with a massive tire advantage. The softs immediately bite into the asphalt, giving me confidence to attack.

First target: Louis’ Klip Motorsports, struggling on old mediums. I get a good exit from Rivazza , closing the gap down the straight. He defends the inside, but I feint a move there before switching back, carrying more speed around the outside into Tamburello . Clean pass.

“Nice move,” Tom encourages. “Next up, Petrovich—three seconds ahead.”

The fresh rubber lets me push harder, taking risks through the corners that would be impossible on older tires. I catch Petrovich quickly, pressure him into a mistake at Acque Minerali , and slip past.

P14.

My heart pounds as I hunt down the next car; a Baretta Racing limping on ancient hards. Easy prey. Then, an Azzurro Speedworks, a mistake at Variante Alta, opening the door.

P12.

Five laps to go, and I’m closing in on a battle for P10 between the Baretta Racing of Felix Becker, and Yuki Kikuchi’s Vortex Racing.

They’re fighting each other so hard, they don’t see me coming, both taking defensive lines into Tamburello .

I split the difference, braking impossibly late, threading the needle between them in a move that has me holding my breath until I’m clear.

“Fucking hell, William!” Tom shouts in my ear. “That was incredible! Overtake of the season! P10, two laps to hold on!”

The final laps are a masterclass in defense. My tires are starting to go off, but I manage the grip, placing the car perfectly to prevent any counterattack. When I take the checkered flag in P10, securing another point for the team, the relief is so intense, I let out a whoop of celebration.

“Brilliant drive!” Tom’s voice is jubilant. “Absolutely brilliant! The team is going crazy here.”

I pump my fist as I pass the pit wall, seeing the crew members jumping and cheering. This is what we race for—these moments where strategy, skill, and courage come together perfectly. After the mess of the previous races, it's good to see there's more to us.

Back in parc fermé , I climb out, pulling off my helmet and balaclava.

Sweat pours down my face, my race suit clinging to my body, but I couldn’t care less.

Another points finish. More proof that Colton Racing is climbing back from the abyss.

We’re getting there. With hiccups, but we’re getting there.

The garage is electric when I return. Mechanics high-five me, engineers clap me on the back. Tom pulls me into a bear hug.

“That final stint was inspired,” he says. “Absolutely inspired.”

I scan the celebration, looking for her. For Violet. But she’s not here. Neither is Blake, or that Belforte guy. Something deflates slightly inside me. I’d wanted to see her face when we secured another point. Wanted to share this moment with her.

“They had to see the potential sponsor out,” Johnson explains, noticing my searching gaze. “But they were watching the whole race. Violet couldn’t take her eyes off the monitors. The Belforte guy almost became your cheerleader.”

I nod, forcing a smile. “Business first. I get it.”

And I do get it. But I don’t have to like it.

The celebration continues, and I let myself enjoy it. The team deserves this; they’ve worked miracles with this car, transforming it from a backmarker into a points-scorer. I pose for photos, give a quick interview to the waiting press in the media pen, and praise the strategy and execution.

But underneath it all, there’s a hollow feeling. After months without seeing her, she returns, only to disappear again. This is exactly what she warned me about in Melbourne—that work would always come first. That anything between us would always be secondary to the team, to Colton Racing.

Either way, I have to chin up and take what I can get, because the alternative—not having her in my life at all—is unthinkable.