Page 9 of Racing for Redemption
I rip off my helmet, the cool air hitting my tear-stricken face. The balaclava follows, yanked off with such force, it nearly takes my ears with it. My curls are matted, probably sticking up in all directions. I couldn’t care less.
“William, wait—” James’ voice, urgent behind me.
I don’t slow down. Don’t look back. My racing boots echo on the concrete as I barrel towards the exit.
“We need to discuss the incident report—”
Incident report. As if what happened out there could be summed up in some sterile paperwork. My dream, shattered into a thousand pieces of carbon fiber and disappointment, reduced to a few checkboxes and signatures. Laughable.
I burst into the paddock, the sudden sunlight momentarily blinding me. The buzz of activity—crew members, journalists,fans—becomes a dull roar in my ears. I scan for an escape route, somewhere I can just… breathe. Cry. Hate myself.
“At least tell me you’re not injured,” James persists, matching my pace.
The concern in his voice should touch me. It doesn’t. Not now. I grunt; the closest thing to communication I can manage without losing it completely.
A flash goes off to my left. Some vulture with a camera, no doubt salivating over the dejected almost-champion. I turn, ready to unleash my pent-up rage, but James’ hand on my shoulder stops me cold.
“Not here,” he murmurs. “Not like this.”
I shrug him off, but the moment of clarity is enough. I can’t give them the satisfaction. Can’t let them see me break.
I keep walking, each step carrying me further away from the dream I’ve chased for so long, yet it seems like it’s not meant to be.
And with every step, a mantra builds in my head:This isn’t over.I’m not done. Not by a long shot. This can’t be my end.
Chapter 3
Rock bottom
Violet
The scorching Abu Dhabi sun beats down as I step onto the tarmac. The paddock bustles with activity, but I’m isolated in a sea of noise. The F2 feature race is approaching its last laps, and we're just a couple of hours away from the last F1 race of this season.
My phone buzzes. Anna’s name flashes on the screen, accompanied by a flurry of supportive messages. I smile faintly, grateful for her unwavering friendship, but my fingers hover over the keys. What can I say? That I’m fine? That I’m not crumbling under the pressure?
I settle for a simpleThanks, Annie. Talk later in the hotel, and pocket the device.
As I exit our motorhome, a commotion erupts nearby. William Foster storms through the paddock, his face contorted with rage. He’s shouting, gesticulating wildly, nearly coming to blows with anyone who dares look his way.
Blake calls me and stops me in my tracks before someone's shoulder slams into mine. I turn around and lock eyes with William Foster's, burning with frustration and fury.
For a moment, time stands still. His hazel eyes, usually alight with determination and known for their warmth in the paddock, now burn with an intensity that mirrors my inner turmoil. A tattoo on his neck constricts as he tightens his jaw threateningly. I see it then, deep down—the desperation, the fear of failure. His eyes are bloodshot. It’s like looking in a mirror.
“Watch where you’re going!” he snarls, his voice raw with emotion.
I straighten, my mask of icy professionalism sliding back into place with an extra edge I didn’t know I possessed. “Perhaps you should take your own advice, Mr. Foster.”
He scoffs, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. “Oh, that’s rich coming from you. What’s next, Colton? Gonna give me racing tips? Your team’s a joke! If your team was in F2, you’d be running last!”
His words sting more than they should, but I don’t let it show. Instead, I arch an eyebrow, my voice dripping with faux concern. “Rough day, Mr. Foster? I heard about the accident. Such a shame. Gunning for the championship again next year?”
Witnessing the moment he snaps, he rears his arm back. Then he punches the wall to his side. His jaw clenches, gaze on the floor. His breathing is all over the place. As he gets closer, his manager grabs him, trying to pull him away.
William’s eyes flash with rage, but beneath it, I glimpse something else. He’s hurting. Vulnerable. On the verge of crying.
“You knownothing,” he hisses, his face inches from mine. “You were born into this world. Some of us had to claw our way up, and it’s still not enough.Neverenough.”
His words hit harder than any physical blow. Because he’s right; I was born into this world, and look what I’ve done with it. En route to drive my Dad’s legacy into the ground.
