Racing for Love (Backmarker Love Trilogy #2)

Chapter 1

Everything Ends

William

December, Off Season

The simulator room door hisses open, and EJ pokes his head in, ready to take my seat. Eighteen years old, and already faster than half the grid just from comparing his simulator times to real race times. Also taller.

Wait.

Did this guy have a growth spurt or something? He’s taller than me now. What do kids eat these days? I want some of that!

His sandy-blond hair sticks up like he's been electrocuted, and I struggle not to crack up at what he did when he took off his balaclava a couple of hours ago.

"You're still here? I thought you had that concert." He takes a seat on the small bench next to our lockers and grabs a towel.

I grab my backpack. "Yeah, lost track of time. I'm going now."

"Sick. Tell Felix I said hi." He flashes that child-like grin. "But not too late, right? We've got testing for the rest of the week."

I ruffle his hair as I pass. "Yes, Mom."

The team has a much different vibe these days. Lighter. More focused.

Nicholas is gone—thank fuck—replaced by EJ, who soaks up knowledge like a sponge instead of complaining about the car while popping bottles in Monaco.

The kid's raw, hungry, and genuinely grateful to be here.

Makes me feel ancient at twenty-five, but I'll take it. He’s like a little brother to me now.

My phone buzzes. It’s Felix.

Where the hell are you? Band starts in 30. I'm the one being dragged to this and I arrived earlier than you, dude!

I text back one-handed while pushing through the exit doors.

Coming. Traffic.

Move your ass, Foster.

The grimy side door looks like it leads to nowhere—just a rusted metal slab wedged between a defunct textile factory, and a greasy shop with health code violations I don't want to think about.

When I arrive, Felix leans against the brick wall, scrolling through his phone, his face ghostly in the blue light.

I could spot him from a mile away. Black leather jacket despite the warm night, blond, wavy hair perfectly styled, even for a place where no one gives a shit. This guy could be a model if he wanted.

"Took you long enough," he says without looking up.

"Traffic was shit." I bump his shoulder with mine. "Miss me?"

He pockets his phone and gives me a once-over. "Nice shirt. Very original."

I glance down at my faded Emporium of Souls tee.

The band has hit it big and went from the underground concert venues to now headlining music festivals and going on a world tour.

Their rise in fame in just a few months is impressive.

A couple of lads from Manchester blowing everyone’s minds with their hardcore rock and emotional lyrics.

Their merch has always been to my taste—not that I’m picky about it—so I wear these shirts everywhere.

"Says the guy who looks like he raided a teenage goth's closet. I mean, I know you're an EDM type of guy, but this is… You look like you googled 'how does a metalhead dress' and just went with whatever was in the first article that appeared. Surprised you even had anything black in your wardrobe."

The playful jab hangs there without the usual counterattack. Something's off. Before I can press, the door swings open, belching out a wave of sound, sweat, and cigarette smoke.

The basement venue hits all your senses at once. Bass so heavy, it rattles your teeth. Air thick enough to chew. Lights that strobe and flash, turning everything into stop-motion violence. Brick walls covered in band stickers, graffiti, and what might be dried blood or spilled beer—or both.

We navigate through the crowd, and the best thing is that here, no one cares who we are. Here, we can be whoever we want. No fear of being judged. It’s liberating.

The band on stage tears into their set with equal parts precision and violence. The vocalist, shirtless and covered in sweat and tattoos, screams into the mic with a ferocity that splits the air and ear drums. It's brutal yet surgical, just like a perfect qualifying lap.

We approach the bar at the back, and I grab a beer, handing it to Felix. He takes it without really looking, eyes focused on somewhere in the distance.

"Hey," I say, nudging him. "You're not even nodding your head to the music. Since when do you stand still?"

Felix blinks, coming back from wherever his mind wandered. "Just drained. Some of us don't have anything to look forward to, you know?"

I do know; that’s why I brought him with me to the concert.

"Come on. Get in the pit with me. Let it out. I have your back."

"I'll pass." He steps back, clutching his beer like a lifeline. "The last time I was in one wasn't by choice. Too claustrophobic."

"That's the point. You can't breathe, can't think, can't worry about—"

I stop myself before saying what we're both thinking: his career up in the air, the fact that Baretta Racing dropped him, and that no team picked him up.

"About what?" His eyes narrow.

"Anything." I shrug. "That's why it works."

"I prefer to appreciate the music without breaking my nose, thanks."

"That's because you're getting old, man. All those years sitting pretty at Baretta made you soft."

"I'd rather appreciate the technical skill you say they have without some sweaty dude's armpit in my face, thanks."

"Purist."

"Masochist."

For a brief moment, a flash of the old Felix appears—the quick-witted driver who could out-banter anyone in the paddock. But it fades quickly, replaced by that distant look again.

"Your loss," I tell him, backing up toward the pit. "Nothing clears the head like letting go in a mosh pit."

"Well, don't expect me to call your boss saying her star driver has a broken nose before testing," he says as he walks to the bar stool in the far back of the small club.

I give him the finger as I continue to walk backward.

He almost smiles. Almost. "Go get your ass kicked, William. I'll wait here like a civilized human."

I turn and plunge into the swirling mass of bodies, but part of my mind stays with Felix.

I’m intimately familiar with what he's feeling—that spiral of doubt, the suffocating pressure of an identity built entirely around something that's been taken away. I've been there. The difference is, I clawed my way back out, because I’m a stubborn bastard. Felix was always an amazing driver. I reckon he never imagined he’d be without a drive until he retires, so this is hitting him hard. He’ll turn things around as well; I believe in him.

And if I can, I’ll find something for him to do.

He’s too talented to be stopped for a full year, or longer.

The pit swallows me whole. Bodies slam against mine from all directions—elbows, shoulders, the occasional head—as we all surrender to the primal rhythm enveloping us.

The drummer hits a blast beat that sounds insane, and the crowd responds, transforming from individuals into a single, writhing organism running in circles.

I let go completely, letting the current take me where it will.

My body instinctively takes over as my mind shuts off.

Push.

Pull.

Brace.

Release.

It's like hydroplaning at 300 km/h in Eau Rouge—you can fight it and crash, or you can ride it out and survive.

A guy with liberty spikes nearly impales my cheek as he spins past. I sluggishly duck, pivot, and crash into someone else—a blur of tattoos and sweat.

We both laugh through the collision. There's an understanding here that doesn't exist anywhere else in my life.

We're all consenting to this beautiful violence, this controlled chaos.

No judges, no stewards, no penalties—just pure, physical release.

The vocalist screams something unintelligible about death, anxiety and rebirth.

Fitting. Each impact kills something in me—the pressure, the expectations, the constant awareness of being William Foster, F1 driver.

Even the lingering fear of having my arrangement with Violet uncovered.

Each impact births something simpler—just a body in motion, anonymous and free.

The lights strobe faster—disorienting and perfect.

In the fractured visibility, everything becomes a series of snapshots: a girl with half her head shaved, throwing herself backward, a massive grin on her face while living her best life.

A shirtless guy with FUCK YOU tattooed across his chest, moving like a human battering ram.

A wall of bodies surging left then right.

The music builds to another crescendo as the crowd tightens, compressed by the growing intensity. We're packed in like sardines now, the impacts harder, faster.

Someone steps on my foot.

I barely feel it.

Someone else's sweat drips into my eye.

I blink it away.

Then—a flash of movement in my peripheral. Something coming fast.

I start to turn, but too late. The beer is now affecting my reaction time, making me slower than usual, and when I notice, fire explodes across my right eye socket and ear.

Sharp, sudden, blinding pain. Not a fist—an elbow, hard bone connecting with soft tissue.

My vision whites out for a second, then returns, speckled with floating black dots.

I stagger backward, momentum broken. My hand goes to my face automatically. Comes away wet. Blood? Sweat? Both?

My equilibrium's shot. The room tilts and spins. The music suddenly seems distant, like I'm hearing it underwater. My right eye's already swelling shut, the socket throbbing in time with my heartbeat. Fuck.

Someone grabs my arm—hard, insistent. I half-turn, ready to shove them away, thinking it's just another mosher.

It's Felix. His face is a mask of concern and exasperation.

Oh boy, I’ve fucked up.

"You asshole," he mouths, or maybe shouts—I can't hear him over the ringing in my ears.

He yanks me toward the edge of the pit, cutting through the crowd with the determination of someone who's navigated tighter spaces at 300 km/h.

Bodies part for us—or for him, rather. Even in a place like this, he moves with the unconscious authority of someone who's stood on podiums, who's had millions watch his every move. And he’s also a tall dude with a grumpy vibe tonight, so I guess that also helps.

I let him pull me along, my eye throbbing with each step.

We break free of the pit's gravity well. The air suddenly cools, becoming less dense. Felix maneuvers me against a wall, tilting my face toward one of the few functioning lights.

"Jesus Christ," he says, loud enough that I can hear him now. "Your eye's already turning black. What did you get hit with, a sledgehammer?"

I try to grin, though it probably looks more like a grimace. "Guy had elbows like concrete. He was probably two meters tall or something."

Felix shakes his head. "You're fucking insane. You know that, right? Absolutely mental."

"Look at you," I say, blinking through the pain as I clap his shoulder. "Finally making eye contact. Had to get half my face caved in to get your attention."

His expression shifts—irritation to surprise to something like guilt.

"Don't make this about me," he snaps, but there's no heat in it. "You're the one bleeding at a shitty metal show three weeks before pre-season starts."

"It's not that bad."

"Your eye is swollen shut."

"I've had worse."

"That's not the flex you think it is." He grabs a handful of cocktail napkins from a nearby table and presses them against my eye. "Hold this. We're leaving."

"The band's still playing—"

"And you're still bleeding. You busted your eyebrow, and your eye is in no state to even watch the show. They'll play again. Your face might not recover if we don't get some ice on it."

I press the napkins to my eye, wincing at the pressure. The pain is clarifying, focusing. Cuts through all the noise in my head. Like hitting the apex perfectly after struggling through practice—that moment of crystal clarity amid the blur.

"You’re a reckless idiot." He resumes pulling me toward the exit. "Come on. Give me the keys, I'm driving."