Page 102 of Racing for Redemption
The next day, the race starts in light drizzle. I’m determined to salvage something, to claw my way into the points from the back of the grid. My start is electric, jumping five places before Turn 1.
By lap 10, I’m up to P14, hunting down Nicholas, my teammate. He’s been a ghost in the garage lately, showing up late, and reeking of alcohol during morning briefings. But on track today, he’s found some pace.Let’s call that a miracle, because it is.This is the highest this guy has driven in F1.
I close on him through Turns 11 and 12, getting a good exit onto the straight. The gap narrows—three car lengths, two, one. I pull out to overtake, expecting him to yield to the faster car, as is standard team protocol.
He doesn’t. Instead, he moves to defend, forcing me to the outside line. Fine. I’ll take the longer route. I brake later, carrying more speed into the corner.
But Nicholas brakes impossibly late—too late—and loses control. His car slides sideways, directly into my path.
The impact is violent. Everything becomes noise and full throttle motion. My car lifts, flipping once, twice, as it skids along the barrier. I flipped so many times, I don't even know which way I'm facing. Where I am.Fuck. The crunch of carbon fiber. The smell of fuel. Pain spikes through my neck as my head whips against the headrest.
When the movement stops, I’m hanging upside down, still strapped to my seat. The world pulses red and black at the edges.
“William? William, do you copy?” Tom’s voice, distant and frantic in my ears.
“Yeah,” I croak. “I’m okay.”
I’m not okay. My hands shake as the medical team extracts me from the wreckage. The stretcher, the ambulance, the medical center—it all blurs together. Memories come flooding back from my accident back in F4.
Tests. Questions. Lights in my eyes.
“The impact registered at 51 Gs,” the doctor says, examining a tablet. “We need to monitor you for concussion symptoms.”
I nod, wincing at the movement.
“Where’s Violet?” I ask Blake, who appears by my bedside, his face drawn with concern.
“In London. Board meeting.” His eyes soften. “She’s been notified about the crash.”
My phone buzzes on the table beside me. I grab it, hoping.
It’s a team-wide message from operations:Car severely damaged. Will require significant rebuild before the next race.
A message from my mom asking if I'm okay. Another from Felix, asking if I need anything. But nothing from Violet.
The emptiness in my chest eclipses the pain in my neck.
Two months of dreaming about her lips, her laugh, being around her.
Two months of nothing but formal texts and team-wide emails.
Two months craving her so much that, at night, I find myself with eyes closed, breathing ragged, gripping myself, reliving that night, trying to recreate the sensation that made me go over the edge in seconds.
It's almost pathetic how I am right now. I gave myself to her, and she… hasn't. That's how I can sum this up. I accepted this arrangement, but deep down, I desire more from her. I want her to be mine irrevocably.
To wake up next to her every day.
To cuddle together before going to sleep.
To wash her hair, or even cook something together.
I know in my bones that she is the right woman for me. That this is not just attraction. I want this beautiful, force of nature woman to let me in, completely.To be hers. For her to give me the pleasure of saying that she chose me. That she is mine to treasure.
I let my head fall back against the pillow, staring at the sterile ceiling of the medical center.
Maybe I made a mistake entertaining that tension we felt that night.
Maybe I shouldn’t have crossed the line.
