Page 114 of Racing for Redemption
“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 thepower 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 fromRivazza, 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 intoTamburello. 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 atAcque 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 atVariante 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 VortexRacing. They’re fighting each other so hard, they don’t see me coming, both taking defensive lines intoTamburello. 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.
