Page 35 of Racing for Redemption
The marketing intern—a young woman with pink-rimmed glasses, and a nervous smile—nods politely while checking her phone. Probably counting the minutes until this is over. I know I am.Get me outta here; this guy is shallow as fuck.
“Nicholas,” the marketing director cuts in. “Could we stay focused on Formula 1?”
He rolls his eyes. “Fine, fine. Formula 1 is cool, too. But let’s be real—the after-parties are where it’s at. Vegas was insane last year. There was this pop star, can’t say who, but we ended up in her hotel suite with—”
“Is this seriously what we’re doing today?” I finally snap, but keep my voice low.
Nicholas turns to me, eyebrows raised. “What?”
“This.” I gesture at him. “The whole ‘look how rich and connected I am, women love me’ routine. Is that all you’ve got? Is this your entire personality?”
A strange silence falls over the studio. The cameras are still rolling. Part of me knows I should shut up, but something hot and angry pulses beneath my skin. It would be so easy to throttle this guy, then get all the media day stuff done in peace and quiet.
Nicholas smirks. “Sorry, didn’t realize I was bothering you. Thought you’d be used to it by now, being around success.”
“Success?” I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “Is that what you call it?”
“What wouldyoucall it?” He leans back, a challenge in his eyes.
I meet his gaze. “Privilege.”
“Oh, here we go.” He rolls his eyes. “Let me guess—you worked hard for everything, pulled yourself up by your bootstraps, blah blah blah. Spare me the poor boy narrative, Will. We’re the same, you and I.”
And there it is. The assumption that’s been crawling under my skin since we met.
“We’re not the same,” I hiss.
“No?” He laughs. “Rich parents bought you a seat in karting, right? That’s how it works. That’s how you ended up here. That’s how everyone ended up in Formula 1.”
The studio lights suddenly feel too hot. I curl my hands into fists, but force myself to relax. I won’t lose control. Not like last time.
“My parents weren’t rich,” I say, each word careful and precise. “They were public school teachers in Michigan.”
Nicholas snorts. “Right.”
“They sold our house. Cashed in their retirement funds. Moved us to the UK when I was seven, because that’s where you have to be to make it in this sport, and they couldn't afford the constant traveling from the US to the UK." I tighten my fists. "They sold their wedding rings to pay for my first racing suit.”
The memories flood back—the tiny, cockroach-riddled apartment in Milton Keynes. My parents left everything behind. Our house, their friends, my grandparents. When we arrived in the UK, finding work was hard for them. So my dad ended up working as a mechanic during the day, and a security guard at night. Mom waitressed and worked at a contact center at night. I helped out at the garage after school to pay for tires.
“They gave up everything they built, so I could chase this dream.”
Nicholas’ smirk falters slightly. “That’s why you run the United Kingdom flag in your driver's suit, and not the United States one?”
I don’t owe him an answer as to why I have dual citizenship. This country opened the doors in my career, and things came easier in Europe if I was British. Not that it’d matter or would make sense to someone like Nicholas.
“While you were flying private to Monaco, or wherever the hell you lived, I was sleeping in the back of our van at race weekends.” I can’t seem to stop now. “As I grew up, my race suits were secondhand. My helmet was the cheapest one that still met safety standards. Every win meant another few weeks we could afford to keep going.” Felix Becker, one of the veteran driverscurrently in Formula 1, actually handed me down some of his suits and helmets when I hit my teens.
The studio is completely silent now. Even the camera operators have stopped fidgeting.
“Every penny they made went into my career. Every holiday, every luxury, every new pair of shoes they needed—all sacrificed. For years. So no,” I finish, looking him straight in the eye. “We’renotthe same.”
Nicholas stares back, something uncertain crossing his face. Then, the mask slips back on. “Touching story. Really. Should sell it to a video streaming platform, or make a movie out of it, I don't care.”
I shake my head, deflating slightly. What did I expect? Understanding?
The director clears her throat. “Maybe we should take a break?”
“No need,” Nicholas says, suddenly all business. “I can be professional. Unlike some people who get emotional on camera.”
