Page 63 of Racing for Redemption (Backmarker Love trilogy #1)
Come and get it
William
We're slowly showing some promise on some tracks better suited for my late breaking driving style. Nicholas continues to be super consistent… in last place.
A week later, I spot Violet the moment she enters the Silverstone paddock. Her black curls frame her face, caught by the English breeze as she speaks with Johnson. As he goes away, I jog to catch up, falling into step beside her. “Look who finally remembered where the paddock is.”
She turns, her expression transforming from intense focus to a smile that wraps my heart with a vice-like grip. While this feeling felt foreign a couple of months ago, it’s getting increasingly stronger, and more frequent the more we’re together.
“William. Surprised you recognize me after so long.”
“Hard to forget the woman who signs my paychecks.” I whisper, “And is in my dreams all the time.” I match her stride, our shoulders occasionally brushing. “Though, you might want to fire your travel agent. They’ve been sending you everywhere except race weekend locations.”
She laughs, the sound racing through me, lighting my body on fire. “Believe me, I’d rather be trackside than in stuffy boardrooms explaining why potential sponsors should invest in a team that’s—”
“—currently P9 in the Constructors’, and improving every race?” I finish for her.
“Exactly.” She studies me for a moment. “You seem especially chipper for someone who just had four tough races.”
“It’s Silverstone.” I spread my arms wide, gesturing to the historic circuit around us.
“My favorite track, guaranteed rain this weekend according to forecasts, and—” I drop my voice, leaning slightly closer.
“You’re here. Can’t be more perfect. Well, getting a podium would be nice, but I’m already happy with what I have. ”
Something flickers across her face—surprise, perhaps pleasure, after seeing my enthusiasm—before she schools her features back to professional composure. I can’t get enough seeing her make that slight shift in behavior.
“Focus on the racing first, Foster. Weather looks challenging. ”
“Challenging for them.” I nod toward the other teams’ garages.
“Perfect for me.” Wet racing has been my expertise since my karting days.
When people start being cautious, afraid of crashing, I immediately capitalize as I find grip, and navigate the track with an ease that even for me feels surreal at times.
I’m still not the biggest fan of driving in inters, though.
I much prefer when the track is fully wet, and I can show what I’m made of in wet tires.
“You’re crazy.” She rolls her eyes but can’t quite hide her smile. “FP1 in an hour. Don’t be late.”
“Yes, boss.” I watch her walk away, admiring how she commands attention from everyone she passes.
The practice sessions confirm what my instincts told me—the Colton Racing car likes Silverstone.
The high-speed corners suit our downforce package, and the few slow sections aren’t punishing our traction weaknesses as much as expected.
By FP3, I’m consistently in the top ten.
Nicholas, in the other car, is struggling more with the setup, but even he’s closer to the points positions than usual.
Qualifying becomes a mission. Q1 passes easily, the car feeling balanced and responsive. Q2 requires a perfect lap, the tires delivering peak performance for exactly one flying circuit before fading. I make it through by two-tenths.
For the first time, we get into Q3. This is another feat in a season that could have been more. Well, let's try that rarified air of the top ten shootout. A place Colton Racing hasn’t visited in years .
“Okay, William.” Tom’s voice is steady in my ear as I prepare for my final flying lap. “Sector one looks good for us. Push hard through Copse and Maggotts and Becketts , but be careful with the rear on exit. One lap, everything you’ve got.”
I take a deep breath. The garage silences in my mind. The crowds, the pressure, the championship—everything fades except the track ahead, and the car beneath me.
I fly.
The lap isn’t perfect—a slight twitch through Becketts , a hint of understeer at Vale —but it’s the closest to perfection this car has delivered all season. When I cross the line and hear Tom’s excited “P8! P8, William! Brilliant lap!” I pound the steering wheel in triumph.
"WOOOOOOOOO!" My voice almost cracks with the excitement of bringing this car—that many deem the worst on the grid—to the top 10.
Back in the garage, the celebration erupts.
Mechanics who’ve endured years of disappointing results embrace each other.
Nicholas, who qualified P15—his best since he joined the team three years ago—offers genuine congratulations.
That’s a rarity, but I’ll take it. Tom keeps checking the timing screens as if expecting them to display a mistake.
And then, there’s Violet, standing slightly apart, her eyes shining with a mixture of pride, and pure surprise. I move through the congratulatory crowd until I reach her. Without thinking, I wrap my arms around her, and pull her into a hug.
“P8,” I whisper against her hair. “I love this track, and the car is perfect right now.”
She tightens her arms around me momentarily before she pulls back. “Less touchy-feely in the paddock, William,” she murmurs, but the reprimand lacks heat. She pats my back professionally. “Amazing job. Truly.”
Her praise warms me more than the entire garage’s celebration. I reluctantly release her, aware of curious gazes, and head toward the media pen with a lightness in my step that has everything to do with the woman behind me, and the race ahead.
Sunday arrives with dark clouds, and spattering rain—exactly as predicted. The grid forms under increasingly heavy precipitation, and by the time we complete the formation lap, it’s a proper downpour. Full wet tires for everyone.
The start is chaotic. Two backmarkers tangle before the first corner, visibility slightly compromised by the spray. Safety car deployed immediately. I maintain P8, focusing on keeping temperature in the tires during the slow laps behind the safety car.
“Safety car in this lap,” Tom announces. “Ready, William?”
“Born ready.”
The restart is clean. I defend against Diego Marquez’s Scuderia Nova for two laps before settling into a rhythm. The rain intensifies, creating rivers across the track. This is where experience counts. This is where driver skill overrules car performance. This is where I shine.
The pit window opens. Teams gamble on strategy, some pitting early for fresh wets, others staying out. Tom’s voice is calm. “Box this lap, William. Box, box.”
The Colton pit crew performs flawlessly—2.5 seconds, and I’m away, emerging ahead of Felix Becker and Paul Bertrand, but losing a couple of places as other drivers choose not to pit now, and continue their race ahead of me. Still, the undercut worked perfectly. P7 as I speed by Diego Marquez.
“Nice work,” I say over the radio. “Perfect stop.”
The cars ahead are struggling. Pierre spins his Scuderia Nova, dropping behind me. Thomas Roberts slides wide at Copse , opening the door for my pass. Suddenly, I’m P5, with 25 laps remaining.
My concentration narrows to a laser focus. Each lap, each corner, each braking point executed with precision. The car feels alive beneath me, responding to my inputs like an extension of my body. The rain continues falling, but I’ve found the rhythm of this dance.
The Vortex Racing of Yuki Kikuchi looms ahead, his gold and blue car a beacon through the spray.
I study his lines, noting his caution through the high-speed sections.
Three laps of stalking, then I pounce—a dummy to the inside at Stowe, followed by an actual pass around the outside.
Risky in these conditions, but beautifully executed .
P4. Tom’s voice crackles with barely contained excitement. “Great move, William! Mendonza twenty seconds ahead, but he’s stopping soon.”
Mendonza—one-time Driver's Champion now racing for Vortex Satellite—emerges behind me after going to the pits due to a slow puncture. P3. My heart hammers against my ribs. A podium. A fucking podium at Silverstone. I have to go and get it.
I push harder, extracting every fraction of performance from the Colton Racing car. The kerb at Chapel vibrates through the steering wheel as I clip it, slightly too aggressively.
“Track limits, car 64,” Tom warns. “Stewards are watching.”
“Copy that. Sorry.” I refocus, adjusting my line slightly.
Five laps to go. My tires are fading, grip becoming more tenuous with each corner. In my mirrors, Felix’s Baretta Racing car grows larger. He’s charging on fresher rubber. Oh, look at you, buddy, coming from the back, just like old times.
“Becker catching at one second per lap,” Tom reports. “Five seconds gap.”
I grit my teeth. Not today. Not at Silverstone. Not with Violet watching.
Four laps. Three laps. Becker now just three seconds behind. My tires feel like they’re driving on ice, but I push through the discomfort. He’s ruthless, just like back in the day in karting. I just need to match his lap times as best as possible to keep at bay.
“Two laps, William. Becker 2.5 seconds behind. ”
When the final lap arrives, Felix is within DRS range, charging hard. I defend the inside line into Stowe , forcing him wide. He tries again at Vale , but I position the car perfectly, leaving no gap.
The final corner. The checkered flag waves through the rain as I cross the line, Felix mere car lengths behind. For a moment, I’m unsure of my position, until Tom’s voice erupts through the radio.
“P3! P3, William! You’ve done it! First podium for Colton Racing in ten years! Incredible drive!”
I scream into my helmet, a primal release of emotion. The team’s celebration floods the radio channel—cheers, applause, someone crying. I pump my fist as I navigate the cool-down lap, waving to the drenched but ecstatic British fans.