Page 64 of Racing for Redemption (Backmarker Love trilogy #1)

As I park in parc fermé —alongside James Farrant’s Vortex and Oliver Lenox’s ProTech Energex—the Colton team is assembled at the barriers. In the center, her face radiant with joy, stands Violet.

And in that moment, surrounded by rain and triumph, I realize I’m exactly where I belong.

I climb out of the car, rain still pelting my helmet, my race suit soaked through. Doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except this moment. Third place. Podium. The first time Colton Racing will stand on an F1 podium in a decade.

My first podium in F1. The first of many , I promise myself.

My legs shake slightly as I place my feet on the ground, not from exhaustion, but from a surge of adrenaline that makes everything brighter, sharper, more real. The team erupts into cheers as I approach, a wall of black and red uniforms blurring through the water streaking down my visor.

My pit crew reaches for me, patting my back, gripping my shoulders.

I pull off my helmet, and the rain hits my eyes directly, cool and cleansing.

Someone—Tom, I think—crushes me in a bear hug.

Johnson, usually stoic and analytical, has tears in his eyes as he grabs my hand.

Mechanics who’ve worked endless hours, who’ve rebuilt this car from nothing, try to circle around me.

This may be a fluke. We may not repeat this for the rest of the season, but hell if it doesn’t feel good.

Their faces reveal a decade of frustration washing away in the Silverstone downpour.

I let the rain ease my worries. Clear my mind.

Take away those doubts, that fear, that stress that has plagued me for years.

Through the crowd, I spot her. Violet stands slightly apart, her professional composure cracking under the weight of emotion. Her suit is already darkened with rain, hair plastered to her cheeks. She’s smiling wider than I’ve ever seen.

I don’t think. Don’t calculate. I simply move.

The small railing separating us is an afterthought; I vault over it like it’s nothing. Team members part as I make my way to her. When I reach Violet, I wrap my arms around her waist and lift her off the ground, spinning once in the rain.

“Sorry.” I laugh against her ear, her body pressed against mine. “I’m soaking wet.”

“I don’t care,” she replies, her voice thick with emotion. She tightens her arms around my neck .

I set her down but don’t release her. Instead, I remove my balaclava, rain immediately slicking my hair to my forehead.

Our eyes lock, and for a suspended moment, I consider kissing her—right here, surrounded by the team, cameras, and thousands of fans.

The urge is nearly overwhelming. Claiming her would be too easy.

But I don’t. Not publicly. Not yet .

Instead, I tighten my grip on her waist, pulling her slightly closer. I lower my head to the curve where her neck meets her shoulder, brushing my nose against her skin.

“You did it,” she whispers as I pull back, her hands still on my shoulders.

“ We did it,” I correct, finally releasing her. The lack of her warmth is immediate, but the FIA officials are already gesturing for me to follow them for the post-race procedures.

The scale confirms I’m well above the minimum weight requirement, despite sweating through the intense race.

An FIA official directs me toward the cool-down room, where the top three drivers gather before the podium ceremony.

I wipe my face with a towel, my heart still reeling from the race—and from Violet.

The cool-down room is oddly quiet when I enter.

Oliver Lenox sits on one of the chairs, already wearing his team’s rain attire on top of his racing suit.

His five championship trophies have made this routine for him.

At 35, he’s the elder statesman of the grid, respected for his clinical precision on track, and thoughtful comments off it .

“Impressive drive,” he says, genuine appreciation in his voice. “That move on Marquez was particularly ballsy in these conditions. Bloody impressive, mate.”

“Thanks,” I reply, slightly starstruck despite myself. This is a five-time F1 World Driver’s Champion, one of the few people on the grid who I’ve admired for years. “Means a lot coming from you.”

The door opens again, and James Farrant struts in.

The current World Champion surveys the room with the casual arrogance of someone who believes his talent entitles him to victory.

At 27, he’s already secured three championships, and shows no signs of slowing down.

His fiery red hair is perfectly styled despite the helmet and rain, as if even the elements dare not disturb his appearance.

His gaze lands on me, and he raises an eyebrow. “Well, look who crawled out of the back of the grid. Foster, right? Didn’t know that trash box you’re driving could make it to parc fermé without breaking down.”

The flush of anger is immediate, heating my neck and cheeks. I’ve dealt with arrogant drivers my entire career, but Farrant elevates it to an art form.

“Funny,” I reply, keeping my voice level. “I was just thinking the same about your personality.”

Oliver snorts quietly from his corner. Farrant’s gaze narrows.

“Enjoy your charity podium,” he says dismissively. “Rain makes everyone look good temporarily. Next dry race, you’ll be back fighting for scraps with the other backmarkers where you belong.”

I step forward, muscles tensing, but an FIA official enters before I can respond.

“Gentlemen, podium in two minutes. Please standby."

Farrant smirks and turns away. Oliver catches my eye and gives a small shake of his head—a veteran’s advice to not take the bait. I exhale slowly, forcing my fists to unclench. This moment is too important to be tainted by Farrant’s toxicity.

We line up behind the stage. I hear the announcer’s voice booming through the speakers, the roar of the crowd responding. Despite the continuing rain, the grandstands remain packed with fans unwilling to miss this moment.

“In third place, scoring Colton Racing’s first podium in ten years… William Foster!”

I step onto the podium, blinking against the rain and camera flashes.

The trophy presenter—some local dignitary—hands me the weighty bronze cup.

I raise it above my head, eyes closed, and scream.

Not words, just a primal release of everything—the struggle, the doubt, the endless work, the redemption.

This year has been tough, and we deserve it.

A small breather. A reward for our relentless work with a scrappy, minimal budget in comparison with the two teams sharing this podium with me.

When I open my eyes, I immediately search for Violet in the crowd below. She stands at the front of the Colton team, her gaze fixed on me, pride radiating from her entire being. Our eyes meet, and I smile softly at her .

The anthems play. Farrant preens during “The Soldier's Song,” while Oliver stands respectfully still. I can barely contain my energy, shifting weight from foot to foot, the trophy still clutched in my hands.

Then comes the champagne. Farrant shakes his bottle vigorously, aiming directly at my face when he uncorks it.

The cold, sweet liquid hits me like a pressure washer, but I laugh and retaliate.

Oliver joins the battle with unexpected enthusiasm, drenching both of us thoroughly.

For these brief minutes, even Farrant seems to shed his arrogance in favor of childlike joy.

The celebration continues as we descend from the podium. I’m ushered toward more media obligations, but not before I catch another glimpse of Violet. She’s speaking with Blake, gesturing animatedly, her rain-soaked suit clinging to her curves. She looks happier than I’ve ever seen her.

This is perfect. Too perfect. The podium, the team’s elation, Violet’s pride.

I want to freeze this moment, preserve it against the inevitable challenges ahead.

Our car is gonna suck for the rest of the season; it’s not optimized for any of those tracks, and it struggles in high temps.

But time marches forward, and I’m guided toward the waiting journalists, the trophy— my trophy—still clutched in my hands.

It’s hard to believe this isn’t a dream—the kind you fight to stay inside when morning threatens to break its spell.

But the weight of the trophy in my hands, the ache in my muscles, the dampness of my clothes—all confirm this is gloriously real.

And as I answer questions about the race, I’m already planning how I’ll celebrate with Violet later, away from cameras and expectations.