Page 9 of Racing for Redemption (Backmarker Love trilogy #1)

"I missed this," I say suddenly. "Missed you."

Anna's expression softens. "Me too. Video calls aren't the same. "

"No, they're not." I kick at a small stone on the path. "We should do this more often. Meet somewhere in the middle of our crazy lives."

"Singapore next time?" she suggests. "I can fly direct from Tokyo."

"I’ll see about that, but it’s a tentative date." I’m already mentally calculating when I might have a free weekend during the Asian leg of the F1 calendar.

We reach a small pier extending into the calm waters of the bay. The morning sun has burned away the last wisps of dawn mist, revealing water so clear, we can see fish darting among rocks below. We sit at the pier's edge, legs dangling above the gentle waves.

"What about you?" Anna asks after a comfortable silence. "We've talked about my life, but you've been deflecting questions about yours since we checked in at the airport."

I sigh, knowing she's right. "It's complicated."

"I'm a literal tech scientist, Vi. I can handle complicated."

That makes me laugh. "Fair point." I gather my thoughts, trying to articulate the swirl of pressure, determination, and doubt that defines my current existence. "The team is... struggling. But you saw what happened in Abu Dhabi, or even the news prior to that."

She nods, waiting for me to continue.

"What the news doesn't cover is how the board is breathing down my neck, how the last sponsor is threatening to leave, how every decision I make feels like it could be the one that dooms us completely.

" I stare out at the horizon, where the blue of the sea blends seamlessly into the sky.

"Sometimes, I think I'm in over my head. "

"Everyone feels that way sometimes," Anna says gently.

"Not Dominic Harrington," I counter, thinking of Vortex Racing's confident Team Principal. "Not James Farrant."

"Please. Those men were born with an unearned confidence that would make dictators blush," she scoffs. "Besides, they have the luxury of being judged solely on results. You're being judged on results, plus being a woman in motorsports, plus being Frederick Colton's daughter."

She's right, of course. The triple burden I carry shapes every interaction in the paddock.

"What I'm trying to say," Anna continues, "is that you're doing an impossible job under impossible scrutiny. The fact that you haven't had a public meltdown, or punched a journalist, is already impressive."

I smile despite myself. "There was that one time I nearly threw a clipboard at a journalist..."

"See? Restraint!" She bumps her shoulder against mine. "But seriously, Vi. I know you. You'll find a way through this. You always do."

Her confidence in me is like oxygen—something I didn't realize I was starving for until it filled my lungs. Here, removed from the paddock's politics and pressure, I almost believe her.

The sun climbs higher as we sit, talking more about our respective worlds—the challenges and triumphs, the mundane details that make up daily life.

Anna describes the view from her apartment, the routine of going to her favorite coffee shop, the way Tokyo transforms during cherry blossom season.

I tell her about Blake's unwavering support, and how he's almost like the team's "dad", the engineering team's dedication despite our results, and the rare, perfect moments when a strategy call doesn’t leave us in last place by the end of a race.

Eventually, we check the time and realize we should head back to meet our driver. As we walk along the shore one last time, Anna links her arm through mine.

"Thank you for today," she says. "For agreeing to come to Bali, for getting up at dawn for this adventure."

"Thank you for kidnapping me," I reply with a smile. "I needed this more than I realized."

And it's true. Away from the constant noise of the paddock—the media questions, the technical debates, the political maneuvering—I’m aware of my own thoughts again.

I remember why I took on this challenge in the first place: not just to preserve my father's legacy, but because I love the sport, the strategy, the constant push to improve and innovate.

As we approach the village center where our driver will be waiting, I take one last look at the peaceful bay with its colorful fishing boats and clear waters.

No cameras here, no microphones thrust toward my face, no analysts dissecting my every decision.

Just me, my oldest friend, and the simple pleasure of exploring something new together.

In the last couple of days, I've been receiving tons of notifications.

The Bali sun beats down on my bare shoulders as I stretch out on the lounger, waves lapping at the shore just feet away.

But I'm no longer relaxed. Instead, my mind races, wondering what those notifications say.

My phone buzzes for the third time in twenty minutes.

Another email from Blake. I ignore it, tossing the device aside with more force than necessary.

"Vi, you promised," Anna chides, lowering her sunglasses to fix me with a pointed look. "No work, remember?"

I sigh, forcing a smile. "You're right. Sorry." God, I need help.

"You're such a workaholic. Honestly, just enjoy the nice weather, and the fact that there are no cameras judging you, okay?" Anna's tone is light but carries the weight of genuine concern.

Anna returns to her romance novel—one with a shirtless man and swooning woman on the cover—but I can't seem to quiet my mind.

Behind my own sunglasses, I close my eyes, trying to focus on physical sensations: the warmth on my skin, the distant crash of waves, the occasional burst of laughter from other beachgoers.

It works for approximately thirty seconds .

My fingers twitch with the urge to check my phone again. Just one quick look at the latest testing data Blake promised to send. Just a brief scan of the motorsport news to see what our competitors are saying.

I resist, focusing instead on the horizon where blue meets blue in a perfect, unbroken line. This is ridiculous. I'm in paradise with my best friend, and all I can think about is whether our front wing modification will deliver the promised two-tenths per lap.

My phone buzzes again.

"I swear to god, Vi," Anna mutters without looking up from her book. "I'm going to throw that phone into the water if you touch it."

"I'm not touching it," I protest, raising both hands in surrender. "See? Hands phone-free."

But as Anna returns to her book, my thoughts drift back to the paddock, to Dominic's smug face on the TV, to the media tearing us apart, piece by piece. I can pretend I'm okay, but that eats me up inside.

Everything is coming back. I want to enjoy the nice weather, all the massages Anna took me to, forcing me to relax, the nice lunches with a view of beautiful turquoise waters, the good vibes at the lounge parties we've been attending.

My body may be here, but my head is somewhere else—working, strategizing, worrying.

A waiter approaches with a tray of drinks—something fruity and tropical with tiny umbrellas that Anna ordered earlier. As I reach for one, my phone buzzes again ; a text this time, not an email. Unable to resist, I glance at the screen.

An unknown number: Miss Colton, this is James Pierce, William Foster's manager. We'd like to schedule a meeting upon your return. We've got a matter we'd like to discuss with you. Please let me know your availability. Thank you.

I blink, reading the message twice. William Foster? The hot-headed F2 driver I'd nearly come to blows with in the paddock? The same William Foster who'd dismissed me as "not having the credibility to give him tips"?

"Everything okay?" Anna asks, noticing my frown.

I nod absently, my mind whirling. What could Foster possibly want? To apologize? Unlikely. To gloat? Even less likely, given his own disastrous season finale in F2.

Unless...

The pieces click into place with an almost audible snap. My breath catches. Oh. Oh, no. Is he actually considering joining Colton Racing?

"Anna," I say, sitting up abruptly, my drink forgotten. "I need to cut this trip short."

"No way." She lowers her book completely this time, pushing her sunglasses up into her hair. "We've got three more days. Whatever it is can wait."

"It's William Foster's manager," I explain, showing her the text. "He wants a meeting. "

"So? Tell him you'll see him next week when you're back. That's what out-of-office messages are for." She gives me a pointed look. "The one you were supposed to set up before we left."

"You don't understand. Foster is—" I hesitate, trying to find the right words. "He's complicated. Talented, but volatile. And if he's reaching out now, through his manager..." I trail off, my mind racing ahead to implications and possibilities.

Anna studies my face, her initial annoyance softening into understanding. "You think he's considering signing with you? The guy who publicly called you incompetent?"

"I never said he was consistent," I reply with a wry smile. "But yes, that's my guess. And if I'm right, this could be huge for the team."

Anna sighs dramatically, but the corners of her mouth are twitching. "Fine. Tell me why this hot-headed driver is worth cutting our vacation short."

I take a deep breath, organizing my thoughts.

"Foster is... exceptional. His race craft is instinctual, almost supernatural.

He sees gaps that don't exist and somehow makes them work.

His qualifying pace is consistently among the best in F2, and his wet weather driving is.

.." I shake my head, remembering a particularly impressive performance at a rain-soaked Silverstone. "It's something else."

"Sounds like you admire him," Anna observes, her tone deliberately neutral.

"Professionally, yes," I admit. "He possesses raw talent that can't be taught. But personally?" I grimace. "He's abrasive, hot-blooded, and has the emotional regulation of a toddler on a sugar high."

Anna laughs at that. "Charming."

"The thing is," I continue, warming to my subject, "he's been stuck in F2 for a while. Not because he lacks ability, but because he had major altercations in the paddock that penalized him. And this year… Well, what happened was weird. Word in the paddock is that no one wants him."

"So, he's talented, but difficult and overlooked," Anna summarizes. "I can see why you might relate to him."

I shoot her a look. "I am nothing like William Foster."

"Aren't you? Talented, underestimated, passionate about racing to the point of obsession... You can become violent if people steal sweets from you…" She ticks off points on her fingers. "Plus, you both have something to prove."

"That's different," I protest, though something uncomfortable stirs in my chest at the comparison.

"If you say so." Anna's tone makes it clear she doesn't believe me. "So, this potential driver who is definitely nothing like you—what would signing him mean for Colton Racing?"

I pause, considering the question seriously. "Best case? He delivers performances that attract attention and sponsorship. He helps us develop the car faster with better feedback. We move up the grid, maybe even fight for points consistently."

"And worst case? "

I grimace. "He clashes with the team, crashes the car repeatedly, and publicly blames me for every failure while demanding to be released from his contract."

Anna whistles low. "High risk, high reward."

"Welcome to Formula 1," I say dryly.

She studies me for a long moment, then sighs in defeat. "When would we leave?"

"Tomorrow morning?" I suggest tentatively. "That would still give us tonight. We could do that seafood dinner we talked about, maybe hit one more beach club..."

Anna shakes her head, but she's smiling now. "Only you would negotiate for one more night of fun before rushing back to work." She reaches over to squeeze my hand. "But I get it. This is important."

Relief washes through me. This is why Anna has been my closest friend for over two decades—she understands the core of who I am, even the parts I sometimes wish I could change.

"I'll make it up to you," I promise.

"I'm holding you to that." She picks up her book again. "Now, are you going to reply to his text, or just anxiously stare at your phone for the rest of the afternoon?"

I laugh, already typing a response: Meeting Monday, 10 AM at Colton HQ. I look forward to discussing matters with you and Mr. Foster.

"There," I say, setting my phone down decisively. "Now, I can relax. "

Anna snorts. "Liar. You're already planning what to wear to intimidate him, aren't you?"

She knows me too well.

"Maybe," I admit. "But I promise to be present for our last night in Bali. No more work talk."