Page 74 of Racing for Redemption
I press my hands to my cheeks, surprised to find them warm. This isn’t me. I don’t get flustered by men. I’m the picture of coolness. I especially don’t get flustered over my drivers; that’s a complication I can’t afford.
But as I close my eyes, exhaustion finally catching up to me, it’s William’s goofy smile I see. William’s warm laugh I hear. William’s touch I feel, lingering like a promise. William that I wan—
He's a friend, I remind myself firmly.
That’s all this is. That’s all it can be.
Chapter 20
Home is where they are
William
Ipace the length of the rented living room, checking the vintage watch on my wrist—a gift from my grandpa—for the fourth time in two minutes. The car should’ve been here by now. My stomach knots with anticipation—it’s been a year since I’ve seen them. A whole year of video calls and voice messages that never quite fill the gap that their absence leaves. A whole year of "I love you" and "I miss you" that feel like they're missing something. The warmth, smell, and familiarity that make me feel at home. The window offers a view of the suburban Melbourne street, lined with eucalyptus trees swaying in the autumn breeze. Then, I spot it—a white sedan turning the corner. My heart hammers against my ribs like I’m takingEau Rougeat full throttle.
“They’re here,” I whisper to nobody.
I’m out the door before the car fully stops, standing on the short concrete path that bisects the postage-stamp front lawn.The rear door opens, and my mother emerges first—her face breaking into the smile that’s carried me through twenty-four years of life.
“William!” she cries, and I’m already moving.
I wrap her small frame in my arms, lifting her slightly off the ground. She smells the same—that peculiar mixture of home-baked bread, and the jasmine perfume she’s worn since I was a kid. Her salt-and-pepper hair looks absolutely adorable.
“My boy, my beautiful boy,” she says into my shoulder.
My father is next, extracting himself more slowly from the cab. Years working multiple jobs did a number on his back, and as he gets older, he moves slower and slower. His eyes are already glistening when I release Mom and turn to him. He’s aged a bit—more gray at his temples, lines a bit deeper around his eyes—but his hug is as solid and comforting as ever.
“Look at you,” he says, holding me at arm’s length. “Our boy is a Formula 1 driver now.”
My throat tightens. “Yeah, Dad. All thanks to you guys.”
The swell of emotion catches me off guard—a rush of gratitude and love that threatens to spill over. These two sacrificed everything for me. Sold their retirement fund. Worked three jobs between them. Drove me to every kart race across the country. And now, here we are.
“Let’s get your bags inside,” I say, clearing my throat. “The house is nice—nothing fancy, but the team helped me find something close to the track for you to stay during the weekend.” Actually, as soon as Violet and Blake heard I was trying toget my parents to the race weekend, they both offered to help. Violet paid for their stay from her own pocket, or so Blake later whispered to me. I owe her now. Big time.
I grab their suitcases while Dad pays the driver. The rental is modest—two bedrooms, a small kitchen/dining area, and a living room with worn but comfortable furniture. Nothing like the luxury accommodations the top drivers get, but it’s clean and cozy.
“Where are you staying?” Mom asks, already examining the kitchen with a critical eye.
“Hotel downtown with the rest of the team. Colton Racing has a block of rooms.” I set their suitcases down in the master bedroom. “It’s all part of the package.”
Dad whistles. “Formula 1. Still can’t quite believe it.”
“That makes two of us.” I smile, though it’s partially true. Sometimes, I wake up convinced it’s all been a dream—that I’m still in Formula 2, watching my chances drift away season after season.
“How is it?” Mom asks, her voice soft. “The team, I mean. We’ve read some… Well, some concerning things. A lot of people make fun of them.”
I lean against the door frame. “It’s better than the press makes it sound. Colton Racing has struggled, yeah, but Violet—Ms. Colton—is turning things around.”
“Violet?” Dad raises an eyebrow. “First-name basis with theboss already?”
I ignore the implication, the back of my neck getting increasingly warmer. “This year’s car is better than last year’s. Pre-season testing went well. I’m not saying we’ll challenge for wins, but points aren’t out of the question.”
“And London?” Mom asks, unpacking with the practiced efficiency of someone who’s lived out of suitcases for their son’s career. “Have you made friends? Is the farmhouse working out for you?”
“London’s London—rain and terrible food.” I grin. “The farmhouse is good. Outside the city center. Isolated, cozy, just mine. I’m at the simulator most days anyway, so I only go home to take a shower and sleep.”
Dad sits on the edge of the bed. “And the other drivers? They giving you a hard time, being the new kid in the paddock?”
