Page 49 of Racing for Redemption
I abruptly change the subject. “How long are you in town for?”
“Just tonight and tomorrow. Team wants me back at the factory in Switzerland on Thursday.” He sets the glass down. “Any plans while I’m here? Please don’t say simulator work; I didn’t come here to work.”
“Actually, there’s this band playing tomorrow night. Local hardcore 5-piece band called Ember's Edge. They’re incredible live.”
Felix groans dramatically. “Not your metal music again. My ears are still ringing from the last show you dragged me to.”
“It’s not metal, it’s hardcore punk with post-rock influences,” I correct. “And you had fun last time. I saw you in the pit. I envied you.”
“I got pushed in! There’s a difference between participation and survival.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “Come on. It’ll be good for you to experience some real music instead of that overproduced pop you listen to.”
“It’s electronic dance music, thank you very much.” Felix puts a hand over his heart in mock offense. “And at least people can actually dance to it, not just… What do you call that thing you do? Headbanging until you get whiplash?”
“It’s called feeling the music in your soul,” I say with exaggerated seriousness.
“Your soul must have serious neck problems.”
I grab my phone, pulling up a track from Ember's Edge. “Just listen to this. It’s their new single with a new frontman, and he's got so much power in his voice.”
The song explodes through my kitchen speakers—distorted guitars, pounding drums, and raw, powerful vocals that seem to tear through the very fabric of sound. I close my eyes, letting the music wash over me. This is what powers me through my most grueling training sessions, what plays in my headphones before I step into the car, what helps me push past my limits.
When I open my eyes, Felix is watching me with a curious expression.
“What?” I ask, turning down the volume slightly.
“Nothing. Just… I sometimes forget how passionate you get about certain things. One minute, you’re all controlled and calculating, and the next, you’re practically vibrating with intensity.”
I shrug, slightly embarrassed. “Music matters to me. Always has.”
“I know.” Felix’s tone softens. “Remember when you used to blast that ancient MP3 player with cheap earphones in the karting paddock? All the other kids thought you were weird.”
“Iwasweird,” I admit with a laugh. “Still am, probably.”
“Definitely.” Felix drains the last of his juice. “Fine, I’ll go to your hardcore show. But you owe me earplugs, and the first round of drinks.”
“Deal.”
“And maybe afterward, we can find a proper club where people dance instead of trying to murder each other.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” I counter.
Felix shakes his head, a smile playing at his lips. “You’re impossible, Foster.”
“Part of my charm.”
“What charm?”
I toss a dish towel at him, which he catches effortlessly. This easy banter with Felix is one of the rare moments I truly feel like myself—not William Foster, the now F1 driver, not the professional I present to the team—just me.
“So,” Felix says, settling onto one of my kitchen stools. “Tell me more about this car of yours. Is it actually going to make it to the finish line, or should I invest in some ‘Go William!’ signs for when you’re pushing it across the checkered flag?”
“Funny.” I deadpan, but I can’t help smiling. Even his teasing feels like home.
And for the next hour, we talk racing and music and life, the conversation flowing as easily as it did when we were teenagers with nothing but dreams and battered karts, the weight of F1 pressures temporarily lifted from my shoulders. And I needed that more than he knew.
Chapter 15
