Chapter 17 #2
“Or I could just take you to dinner,” he blurts out.
I still, my hand clasping my coffee hard enough to crush the paper cup a little. Shit. Shit. Shit.
“Oh, Jack,” I say, cursing myself for stopping to talk to him. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“An old friend can’t take an old friend for dinner? As friends?”
I tip my head to the side, and my voice comes out shaky. “That’s not what you’re asking, though, is it?”
He nudges his coffee toward me, his face immediately impassive. “Can’t blame a guy,” he says, shoving his free hand into his jeans and stepping backward, readying himself to go.
“I’m always here for a coffee on the lot,” I assure him, but he’s already turned away.
The race is thrilling. Edge-of-your-seat, heart-stopping, blood-pressure-raising, I-need-a-fucking-beer thrilling.
I’m out on the pit wall, my body rigid in my seat, my mouth dry, as Matt moves with stealthy determination. He’s driving like a predator, ready to pounce on the Williams in front of him, but the tires are shot and he really needs to pit.
I hold my breath, not wanting to interfere with the team’s plans. I close my eyes and pray Archie is on the case.
Just then, I watch the Williams turn into the pit, and now I know for sure Matt will follow. I let out a slow breath.
“Box, box,” Matt calls through the team radio as the crew behind me assemble.
“Softs?” the strategist bellows.
“Let’s go,” says Archie. “We need to come out in front of that second Alpine.”
“No shit, Fuck-Knuckle,” Matt replies.
He pulls into his spot, the waiting crew poised and ready, and I spin around to watch the lightning-fast pit and change of tires. I’m sure I see Matt’s helmet turn my way before he’s back in the pit lane and accelerating out toward the track, MIND MY HOT REAR emblazoned in all its ridiculous glory.
“Two point twelve seconds,” says the strategist, to muted cheers. That was fast. “We can do this.”
I hold my breath, watching the Alpine screaming down the straight, but Matt is out already, and after a little bit of defensive driving, he’s done it.
He’s slipped out of the pit lane just ahead of the Williams, and now we’re in ninth place.
We’re in the top ten, and with all cars having pitted, it’s now a race to hold position and hold on to those precious top-ten points.
We have points!
I can scarcely believe it. All he has to do is defend his spot. But Matt, it seems, has other ideas. He takes an incredible swing into the apex, and cruises out onto the next straight. And he’s . . . fast. Very fast.
I hold my breath. He can’t be trying to get to eighth, can he?
My eyes skirt to the second screen as I watch Noah squeal past that very same Williams. My eyes bug. My heart is slamming against my rib cage. We have ninth and tenth now. This is incredible.
I turn to Noah’s race engineer, just as Noah shouts into the radio.
“I got him!”
“Copy that,” says his engineer. “Keep pushing, Noah.”
Meanwhile, Archie is swearing like a sailor, “Push, you fucker!” at Matt.
But it’s a Rossini in front of him. He’ll never catch it. . . . Will he?
As they cruise out of turn five and into the chicane, Matt manages to gnaw off another half a second. I gasp, clutching my chest. The crowd is roaring.
Keep focused, Matt. Don’t get into your head. You can do this.
He bears down on the red beast ahead. He is bumper-to-tail and as soon as he hits the drag-reduction zone he will have him, and we will have a car in eighth position.
My favorite part of racing are these special little strips on the track where a driver is allowed to open their rear wing flap to increase speed.
This is where so much of the overtaking happens, but you need to be close enough to the other car to utilize it.
I imagine the sweet sense of revenge Matt will feel overtaking that Rossini and I want it for him so badly.
I feel a little head bump at my hand and look down to see one of Barry’s dogs has found her way onto the lane.
I should send her safely back into the garage, but instead I stroke her head in soft rhythmic moves, which is soothing me as much as it is her.
“I can’t believe it,” I say breathlessly. “We’re going to get points.”
I swing my head around to find Barry, who is pacing back and forth at the garage entrance, unable, it seems, to watch the screens.
“You can do it, Matt,” I whisper.
The crowd swells, and someone sets off orange flares, which make the whole pit wall jump in unison. “Verstappen takes the lead,” the commentary blares, but who gives a damn about first place? We’re not racing for first. We’re racing for our own best.
Matt moves into the DRS zone, and, off mic, Archie speaks for everyone when he screams, “TAKE HIM, MATT!”
We wait. But . . . nothing happens.
And then I see it. The ticking up of the numbers on the screen.
Matt’s vitals. Then the hesitation. The DRS fires, the rear wing flips open, and instead of flying past that Rossini, Matt drops back.
The Rossini presses ahead, and now instead of overtaking and moving up into eighth, Matt has Alpine behind him inching closer and threatening ninth place.
Still. It’s ninth place. I know Matt will be disappointed he couldn’t close in on that Rossini, but it’s our first points. As a team, it’s a huge victory.
When the cars finally cross the line, Matt’s anger and frustration are clear as he climbs out of the car.
“We got points,” I say, although the words feel weak as Matt’s eyes stay on the floor. He waits to be weighed and get out of here as quickly as he can.
“I’m never going to be okay,” he shouts across the garage, as Archie bowls in and throws his arms around his brother.
“Points!” Archie says, as Barry joins us, a look of questioning confusion on his face as though he’s about to start on Matt too. But Archie holds an arm up. “Points. The rest is noise.”
I nod to Archie, and move to intercept Barry, grabbing his arm and pulling him toward Noah, who has just jumped out of his car, beaming with delight at his improvement.
“Eleventh place!” I shout, fist-bumping Noah, encouraging Barry to do the same with a nod of my head.
And then I look back at Matt and Archie. Archie’s hands on Matt’s shoulders, Matt’s head dropped forward. The disappointment overshadowing today’s incredible achievement.
Damn it. Poor Matt. My heart squeezes for him.
I need to talk to him about the crash. I thought Matt needed to see Stavros weeks ago, and now I feel so strongly, in the pit of my belly, that Matt needs to go now.
He needs to skip the two-week break back home in Brackley and head to Greece to speak to his best friend.
Stavros might be hurt. He might hate Matt right now.
But Matt needs to make a massive effort to show him how he truly feels.
It’s the only way to heal that hurt.