Page 7 of Racing for Redemption
The F2 Driver’s Championship.
I open my eyes and put the headphones down. Sliding my hand over the sleek curves of my car, the raw power hums beneath the surface. Just like me, ready to explode into action.
“You’ve got this, Liam.” James, my manager, claps me on the back as he hands me my helmet andHANSdevice as I tuck my hair in the balaclava. “Show ‘em what you’re made of.”
I nod, a smirk playing at my lips. “They won’t know what hit ‘em.”
Sliding into the cockpit, I close my eyes, letting the pre-race jitters wash over me. Then, with a deep breath, I push them aside.Focus. I’ve got this.
The radio crackles to life. “How’re you feeling, William?”
“Like a fucking champion,” I reply, my voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through my veins. This has been a challenging season. For a big chunk of it, I was nowhere near the top. Technical problems, and the car not suiting some of the circuits, plagued me. However, mid-way through the season, I found extra performance in this car, and slowly, I crept closer to Paul Bertrand in the standings. Last week, after his DNF, I took over the number one place in the standings—just 6 points of difference between us. I’d love to have just a sliver of luck this time around and snatch it all.
I can almost hear the eye roll in the engineer’s voice. “Just remember, let’s have a clean race. We need this win.”
“Roger that,” I mutter, my mind already on the first turn. I’ve practiced it a thousand times in the simulator. I know every inch of this track like the back of my hand.
The lights flash. I tighten my grip on the steering wheel. This is my territory. My race to lose. My finger is on the clutch, ready to unleash this car with lightning-fast reflexes.
As the final red light blinks out, I floor it. The world blurs as I weave through the pack, my movements fluid, instinctual, choreographed multiple times.
P2. Not bad, but not enough.I need that top spot.
I spot an opening in Turn 1 and dive for it, my heart in my throat as I squeeze past the leader, avoiding being caught by the tangle of cars coming down to the turn. For a moment, I think I’ve miscalculated. Then I’m through, clean and clear.
A whoop of triumph escapes me. “That’s how it’s done, boys!”
As I settle into the lead, a flicker of movement in my mirror catches my eye. Paul Bertrand, hot on my heels. I clench my jaw.Not today, asshole. You’ll be seeing my rear until the end of the race.After two failed attempts, this ismymoment of glory.
I push harder, the g-force pressing me into my seat. The world narrows to the track ahead, and the steady thrum of the engine.
Lap after lap, I maintain my lead. The car resembles an extension of my body, responding to the slightest touch. I’m in the zone. Upshifts and downshifts flow smoothly; my reflexes are at their best. It mirrors a well-choreographed dance.
“Box this lap, William.” My race engineer’s voice crackles through the radio.
I grit my teeth. “Copy that.”
As I pull into the pit lane, my heart rate spikes. This is where races are won and lost. I hit my marks perfectly, sliding to a stop.
The pit crew swarms around me, but something’s wrong. I check the mirrors, trying to see what’s going on as the seconds tick by, each one an eternity.
“What’s the holdup?” I growl into my radio.
“Issue with the rear tire gun,” comes the terse reply.
“What? Are you kidding me?”
Fuck.My knuckles turn white on the steering wheel. I almost sense Paul breathing down my neck.There goes my 20-second lead.
Finally, after what feels like a lifetime, I’m released. Rejoining the track, I dart a glance at my mirrors. “How close are they?”
“Two seconds.”
My stomach drops. Two seconds. That’s all that separates me from the Vortex Academy cars.
And one of them is Paul.
“How bad is it?” I ask, trying to keep the panic from my voice.
