Page 8 of Racing for Redemption
“You’ve got this, William,” my engineer says, but the tension in his voice is clear. “Just drive your race. Keep it clean.”
Easy for him to say. He’s not the one with his dream slipping through his fingers because of a poor pit stop.
I push harder, willing every ounce of speed from the car. But as the laps wind down, they appear in my mirrors—getting closer. And closer.
My tires are starting to give in. The grip is fading, the car sliding just a fraction in the corners.
Ten laps to go.
I won’t be able to hold him off.
I grit my teeth, fighting the car through every turn. The pressure is crushing, a physical weight on my chest that is starting to take over my psyche. I can’t let them pass. I won’t.
Suddenly, a flash of blue in my peripheral. Impossible. You can't cut the corner like that. One of the Vortex Academy cars dives for the inside, far too late to make the corner cleanly.
“No!” I shout, but it’s useless.
The impact is violent, jarring.
My world spins in a dizzying blur of screeching metal and burning rubber, a horrifying symphony of destruction conducted by that asshole. Silence descends, broken only by the hiss of escaping steam, and I’m facing the wrong way, smoke billowing from my wrecked car, the heat intense on my face.
“William, are you okay?” The radio crackles to life.
I want to scream, to curse, to break something. Instead, I swallow hard and respond in a voice cold as ice, “I’m fine.”
Unclipping my seatbelt, I climb out. I can’t bear to let anyone see my face right now. As I walk away, I turn for one last look at my mangled dream.Fuck my life.
It hits me like a punch to the gut. Tears stream down my face.
I can’t breathe.
My head hurts.
My heart is breaking.
Fuck. Fuck. FUCK!
Those Vortex bastards. One hits me, and the other wins. This wasn’t an accident; it was a hit job. Paul Bertrand will become champion and advance to F1, confirming the year-long rumors, while I remain the perpetual runner-up in F2.
I cover the visor, trying to hide my shame. My anger. My pain.
The rage builds inside me, a living thing clawing to get out. Three years.Three fucking yearsof being so close, I could almost taste it. And now? Now, I’m a joke.
The almost-champion.
The could’ve-been.
The washed-up driver.
That’s my dream up there… in someone else’s hands.
And ithurts.
I can already hear the whispers, see the pitying looks. Even James, my manager, can’t shield me from this. It’s everywhere, suffocating me. Burying me alive.
I clench my fists at my sides. I want to hit something. Someone. If anyone so much as looks at me wrong, I swear I’ll—
The safety car deposits me in the garage like unwanted cargo. I stride in, a storm of barely contained fury ready to be unleashed on anyone. Anything. The pit crew scatters, averting their gaze. Smart move.
