Page 66 of Racing for Redemption (Backmarker Love trilogy #1)

Looking forward, not back

William

I clench my fist around the steering wheel, counting to ten as the car limps back to the pits.

Another technical failure. Another race gone.

By the end of the season, it’s normal for things to be on their last legs.

The disappointment hangs heavy, but beneath it, something else flickers—pride in how far we’ve come, even on these broken wings.

I shut off the engine and exhale, just a moment before the team swarms the car.

The American leg of the season has been brutal.

The street circuits already exposed our car’s weaknesses, but the gearbox problems in Miami, and the battery issues in Austin, have turned potential points into painful what-ifs.

I climb out of the cockpit, my race suit sticking to my back with sweat, and hand my helmet to the nearest mechanic as I arrive at our garage.

“Sorry about that, William,” Tom says, clapping my shoulder. “P12 isn’t terrible, considering. ”

“Considering the car was practically begging to be put out of its misery?” I force a smile. “We need that new power unit yesterday.”

Tom nods, his clipboard tucked under his arm. “Johnson’s already pulling the data. We’ll get it sorted.”

The highlights of the season feel like a distant memory now—those magical points in Melbourne, the podium at Silverstone.

Glimpses of what Colton Racing could be with the right development.

With me behind the wheel. The thought sends a flush of pride through me.

I can make amazing things happen with this team. I know it. I feel it.

I trudge back toward the motorhome, muscles aching from fighting the car for ninety minutes. The cool air inside is a relief, but it’s the flash of violet in my peripheral vision that truly lifts my spirits. I still can’t believe what we’ve become.

She’s standing in the common area, animated in conversation with a kid—can’t be more than eighteen—who’s nodding enthusiastically at whatever she’s saying. Blake stands nearby with another man in a sharp suit, shaking hands over what looks like… a contract?

My curiosity piqued, I make my way over. The kid notices me first, his brows lifting slightly. He’s all lean muscle and eager energy, like a coiled spring. He’s in the junior formulae, for sure.

“William!” Violet says, her professional smile warming to something more personal for just a flash, before returning to Team Principal mode. “Perfect timing. I’d like you to meet someone. ”

I extend my hand. “William Foster.”

“I know,” the kid blurts, then immediately looks embarrassed. “I mean—I’m Ethan Jordan. It’s an honor, sir.”

I laugh. “Sir? Christ, I’m only twenty-four. Call me William.”

Violet watches our exchange with something like satisfaction in her eyes. “Ethan is our new reserve driver, and he’ll be replacing Nicholas next year.”

I raise my own eyebrows, processing this new information. “That’s fantastic, man. Congratulations.” I mean it, despite my surprise. “Where are you racing now?”

“F3,” Ethan replies, standing a little straighter. “I’m leading the championship by a few points.”

“He’s been exceeding expectations all season,” Violet adds, and the pride in her voice isn’t lost on me. She’s like a proud parent right now, and it’s adorable.

“Nicholas know yet?” I ask quietly, glancing around to ensure the man in question isn’t lurking nearby.

Violet’s expression tightens. “He does. And he’s pulling Gritt Tires’ sponsorship for the remaining races. A parting gift, apparently.”

“Bit childish for a twenty-eight-year-old multimillionaire,” I mutter.

“ Bit ,” she agrees, a sardonic twist to her lips that makes me want to kiss her, right here in the middle of the motorhome.

Instead, I turn back to Ethan. “Let me guess—simulator time tomorrow? First time at our headquarters?”

He nods eagerly .

“I’ll join you. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

His face lights up like I’ve offered him the moon. “That would be amazing! I’ve been studying your telemetry data, especially from Silverstone. The way you took Turn 6 was—”

The kid’s enthusiasm is infectious, and we end up discussing racing lines and brake balance as we move to the seating area. Ethan absorbs everything like a sponge, asking smart questions that reveal he’s done his homework. By the time Blake joins us, I’m genuinely impressed.

“Keeping our new talent entertained?” Blake asks, settling into a chair.

“More like he’s schooling me on my own driving,” I reply. “Kid knows his stuff.”

Ethan blushes. “I’ve just been watching a lot.”

Blake chuckles. “Violet had the same impression when William joined earlier this year. Wasn’t expecting such maturity from someone his age.” He winks at me. “Seems we’re collecting grown-up whiz kids now.”

“Building for the future,” I say, and it feels good to imagine being part of that future. Being something permanent at Colton Racing.

The weeks pass quickly after that. I take Ethan under my wing, showing him the ins and outs of the team beyond what happens in the garage.

He shadows me during media days, soaking up how I deflect the more intrusive questions.

I introduce him to my training regimen, and we spend hours in the simulator together, comparing notes and pushing each other.

“You’re good with him,” Violet tells me one night when it’s just us, tangled in hotel sheets after a race weekend. “He really looks up to you.”

I trace patterns on her bare shoulder. “He reminds me of me, before all the bullshit with Paul, and minus the anger management issues, of course.”

She doesn’t press for details, and I’m grateful. Some wounds are still raw.

The points drought continues through the final races, but I’m consistently knocking on the door—P11 in Singapore, P13 in Brazil after a strategic gamble with tires that almost paid off, if not for a last-minute safety car.

Never last, always fighting. It’s not the headline-grabbing results I dreamed of, but there’s a quiet satisfaction in wringing every last drop of performance from an underperforming car .

By the time we arrive in Abu Dhabi for the season finale, there’s a different energy in the garage.

James has flown in, ostensibly to watch the race, but really to hammer out contract details with Violet.

My current one-year deal expires after this race, and the thought of officially committing to Colton Racing for longer makes my stomach flip in the best way.

“Ready for this?” James asks as I suit up for practice.

“Always,” I reply, even as I eye Nicholas across the garage, studiously ignoring everyone on the team. His silent treatment has grown old, but at least he’ll be gone after this weekend.

Practice goes surprisingly well. The car is balanced, and I manage P11, just missing out on the final segment by a tenth. This could be a sign; we could end this season on a high note.

But qualifying turns into a nightmare. Halfway through the session, Farrant bins his Vortex in the barriers after a heated tangle with Lenox, bringing out red flags and much tension to a drama-riddled season for both their teams. By the time the track is cleared, there’s only a minute left on the clock.

“Get out there, now!” Tom shouts through the radio as I wait at pit exit, watching the seconds tick down.

I floor it, but my tires are stone cold as I start my flying lap. The car slides through the first corner, costing me precious tenths. By the time I cross the line, I’m only P18—sandwiched between Paul Bertrand and Nicholas for the race start.

A literal nightmare scenario.

“Sorry about that,” I mutter into the radio as I drive back to the pits .

“Not your fault,” Tom replies. “We’ll make it up in the race. Debrief and strategy meeting in 30.”

The media pen is another test of patience. My answers are short and professional, despite the disappointment churning in my gut. Next to me, Paul Bertrand is holding court with a group of journalists, his voice just loud enough to carry.

“Well, of course, I know how to handle pressure at Abu Dhabi despite a poor place at the starting grid,” he’s saying, smirking. “Last year’s F2 championship proved that. Poor William crashed out— sadly —but that’s racing, isn’t it? The best man won.”

I tighten my jaw. He knows damn well his teammate deliberately took me out to secure his championship. The mockery in Paul’s tone makes my blood boil.

“William, any response to Paul Bertrand’s comments about last year?” a journalist calls out, sensing drama.

I take a deep breath. “Looking forward, not back. Tomorrow’s race is my focus.”

It’s the mature answer, but as I walk away, I can’t help adding under my breath, “Even if I have to start behind that asshole.”

Race day dawns hot and bright, the desert sun already fierce as I walk the track in the early morning.

My race engineer lays out our strategy—aggressive undercut on the first pit stop, push hard on fresh tires, aim for the overcut on the second stint.

It’s a bold plan that could gain us several positions if executed perfectly.

“Let’s give them something to remember us by,” I say to the team as I pull on my gloves.

The formation lap passes in a blur of nervous energy. Then, we’re on the grid, engines growling, lights counting down. The start is clean—I pull away from Nicholas, but Paul closes the door brutally into Turn 1. We settle into a DRS train, cars running nose-to-tail through the opening laps.

Paul’s driving like he has a personal vendetta, weaving on the straights whenever I get close, braking later than necessary into corners. After ten laps of this, my patience wears thin.

“Tom, options?” I ask through the radio.

“Stick with him. Tires are his weakness—he’s overheating the rears. Three more laps, and he’ll be struggling.”

Tom’s right. By lap thirteen, Paul’s rear end is twitchy through the fast corners.

I hang back slightly, giving myself space to line up the perfect attack.

The opportunity comes at Turn 9—a demanding left-hander that has enough space for two cars to be wheel to wheel, despite the tight exit.

Paul defends the inside line, but I feint that way before switching back to the outside, carrying more speed through the apex.

He tries to squeeze me on exit, but I’ve already got the better line. I surge past, my front wing clearing his rear tire by inches.

“Nice move,” Tom says, his smile evident through the radio. “Now push. ”

I do, the weight lifting from my shoulders as Paul’s car shrinks in my mirrors.

One small victory in a season of struggle.

The rest of the race is uneventful. James Farrant is a four-time World Champion.

Vortex Racing is the Constructors’ Champion–again.

And I wrapped up the race in P11 after a couple of good strategy calls that helped me maintain my position.

Not perfect, but neither was this season.

Now, I just want to get out of the car and see if a new contract is ready to be signed.