Page 51 of Racing for Redemption
“It’s open,” comes the rumbling response.
I push through to find James hunched over his ancient desk—a chaos of papers, coffee mugs, and dog-eared racing magazines surrounding his laptop. The office hasn’t changed in the ten years I’ve known him—same faded racing posters on the walls, same battered couch in the corner, same view of the brick wall of the neighboring building through the single window.
James looks up, his broad face breaking into a genuine smile. The dark hair tied back in his signature bun is showing more gray than last month. His large frame unfolds from the creaking office chair as he stands to greet me.
“There he is,” he says, clasping my hand firmly before pulling me into a quick embrace. “Formula 1’s new driver, and future champion.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” I say, but I’m smiling, too.
James gestures to the couch. “Sit. Coffee? It’s terrible as usual.”
“When has that ever stopped me?” I settle onto the couch, which stirs up dust and memories. The cushion has a perfect James-shaped depression from years of use.
He pours from a pot that looks like it hasn’t been cleaned since the last F2 season, handing me a chipped mug with “Brazil 1997”printed on the side. The coffee is indeed awful—burnt and bitter—but I sip it anyway.
“So,” James says, leaning against his desk rather than returning to his chair. It puts us on more equal footing—intentional, knowing James. “Barcelona on Monday.”
“Yeah.” I hold the warm mug between my palms. “A certain someone sent the details.”
“I know. It was me. Unless you’ve changed managers and didn’t let me know.” He smirks.
“You know what I mean.”
He chuckles, then his expression softens. “How are you, Liam? Really.”
Not “How’s the car?” or “How’s your fitness level?” or “Have you studied the track data?” Just “How are you?” This is why I trust him with my career, my future, my insecurities; he sees the human before the driver.
I take another sip, buying time. “I’m good. Excited. Nervous.”
James watches me, patient, seeing through the standard response. “And?”
I sigh, setting the mug down on a stack of magazines. “And, I’m terrified of screwing this up. One shot at F1. One season to prove myself. If I fail…”
“You won’t.” Simple. Certain.
“You can’t know that.”
“Actually, I can.” James crosses his tattooed arms. “I’ve managed ten drivers over fifteen years. Seen the great ones, the good ones, the ones who had everything except what mattered.” Hetaps his chest, then his temple. “Heart and head. You’ve got both. You’re a generational talent. People just haven’t noticed it.”
Heat rises to my face. James isn’t liberal with praise, which makes his words hit harder when they come.
“The car’s a backmarker,” I say quietly.
“For now,” he counters. “Listen to me.” James pushes off from the desk, moving to sit beside me on the couch. The ancient springs groan in protest. “Your goals this season are simple. One: consistently outperform your teammate. Two: extract maximum performance from the car, whatever its limitations. Three: build relationships within the team, especially technical staff. Four: stay out of trouble. No repeats of Abu Dhabi.”
I wince at the mention of my meltdown. “I’ve got that under control.”
“I know you do. If there’s a unique thing about you, it’s that you’re quick to learn from mistakes.” James places a heavy hand on my shoulder. “That’s why I believed in you when others didn’t. Why I went to bat for you with Colton, even if the idea seemed stupid at the time.”
The weight of his faith in me settles in my chest. When I was dropped by my previous manager after beating another driver back in F4, calling me “problematic”, “not worth the hassle” and “unmanageable,” James appeared—a former mechanic turned successful manager who saw potential where others only saw risk.
“What about championships? Points?” I ask.
James shakes his head. “Don’t think about the results. Think about the process. Perfect execution every session, every lap. The results will follow. I can add that as a goal later, if I see you taking that car to impossible places.”
This is the kind of advice that bears repeating. Especially now, with the pressure of F1 looming.
“How’s your mind?” he asks after a moment. "Are you feeling okay since that situation a couple of years ago?"
