Page 101 of Racing for Redemption
My text to her after the race—Could use some steam-blowing right about now—sits unread. She’s busy, I know. Board meetings. Sponsor negotiations. Running a struggling F1 team. On the opposite side of the world. But knowing doesn’t make the ache any less real.
Bahrain. The desert air hangs thick with tension as I line up on the grid for the start. P14 again. The lights go out, and I get a decent launch, picking up two places into Turn 1.
Then, I see him—Paul Bertrand. He’s ahead, but struggling for grip on cold tires. A gap appears, and I go for it, sliding my car up the inside into Turn 4. Clean, precise. Professional.
Bertrand doesn’t see it that way. As I pull alongside, he jerks his wheel right, squeezing me toward the barrier.
I lift, avoiding contact, but he’s not done. Down the next straight, he weaves twice in the braking zone, a clear violation of the rules.
“He’s driving like a maniac,” I tell Tom over the radio.
“Noted.We’ll report it.”
"He's really taking that belly dancing experience to new heights…" I vent, as my engineer chuckles like crazy, almost choking.
Next lap, I’m alongside him again. This time, he deliberately runs wide at the apex, forcing me off the track. When I rejoin, he’s there, slamming into my sidepod.
The impact sends me spinning into the gravel. Game over.
In the garage, I rip off my helmet and balaclava, and storm down the paddock toward Vortex Satellite. I spot Bertrand, still in his race suit, laughing with his engineers.
“What the hell was that?” I shout, getting in his face.
He smirks. “Racing incident. Maybe learn to drive, Foster.”
I clench my fist. One punch. Just one to that smug face. The satisfying crunch of cartilage under my knuckles would be worth it. I grab him by the collar, but there are cameras everywhere. Reporters. Team personnel.
I swallow the rage, even as it burns my throat. “You’re a disgrace to the sport,” I spit, turning away.
His laughter follows me down the paddock.
The text comes that night as I lie sleepless in my hotel room.
Heard about Bertrand. Good job not hitting him. That would’ve been a PR nightmare.
Violet.
My heart rate doubles as I type back:Took everything I had. How are you? Haven’t seen you in forever.
Three dots appear, then disappear. Then:Busy. Board meetings. Trying to keep sponsors happy after today.
I reply:When are you coming back to the paddock?
The dots appear again, lingering for what feels like an eternity.
Not sure. Imola, hopefully. Get some rest, William.
That’s it. No flirtation. No mention of Melbourne, or our arrangement. Just my name, formal and distant.
I stare at the ceiling for hours after that.Did I mess this up? Am I too needy for her? Too immature?Is that what this distance means? I no longer know, and I've been finding reasons as to why she would put distance between us.
The truth is, I'd like to say I've got plenty of experience with relationships, but… I don’t. Racing has been my whole life. Yeah, sure, I've had one-night stands in my late teens, but I never dated, nor was this invested in someone. It's a weird feeling, one I can't explain. One minute, I'm fascinated with her, the next, we're ravishing each other, and the next, I'm alone. I don't understand this dynamic, and I hate it. And worse yet, I can't speak of this to anyone. She's forbidden, off limits. This is actually frowned upon in the paddock, so I can't even go to Felix for advice.
I’m alone.
Qualifying for the next race is a disaster. P19. I can barely look Tom in the eye when I return to the garage.
“Weather changed too fast,” he says, but we both know the team should have recognized the darkening clouds, and called me in earlier for wet tires. And even with those tires, I was distracted and making mistakes left and right. The glory of Melbourne is nowhere to be found. To give me all that joy, then throw me into a pit of despair is a unique brand of torture as an athlete.
