Chapter Matt Hernandez #2
“Eh, it’s a treat. Or maybe I’m trying to fatten you up, to keep you off my back. Thanks for not passing me, by the way. You deserve caviar for that.”
“I don’t like caviar.” Matt shuffles out of his shoes and joins Laurent on his bed.
“You’ve got bad tastes.”
The television is frozen, paused on a game, and Matt grabs the controller to play while Laurent eats. “You should thank Andes for the strategy. They nuked my race for Robert.”
“Ooh, I saw that on social.” Laurent scrolls his phone with his left hand while he picks at his salmon with his right. “Here. Don’t read the comments.”
It’s a post by the official Formation 1 account. A video from his car shows how close he was to Laurent while the audio plays the argument in the cockpit.
Despite the warning, Matt feels pretty justified by the conversation, so he makes the mistake of reading the comments anyways.
What an idiot.
Andes should have dropped that childish brat years ago
American entitlement, once again
“Ouch,” Matt says, even though he knows better.
“Yeah.” Laurent takes his phone back and tosses it to the foot of the bed, out of reach. “For what it matters, I thought you were right. It looked like his lap times were what? Roughly a second off yours at that point?”
“How could they possibly forget Robert’s American too?” Matt huffs. “We literally grew up together. Why is he Mr. Perfect and I’m—?”
“Do you actually want to know?” Laurent says, though his mouth is full. “Cause, as a gay man, I can tell you why.”
“Because his dad’s a racing legend and his mom’s a model.” And together they made a child with the best of both worlds. “Yeah, I know why.”
“He’s gorgeous.”
“Yes. Again. Thank you, Mr. Gay.”
“I wish I could have convinced Dad to hire him,” Laurent continues. “But he wanted a world champion instead.”
“Shut up, you wouldn’t trade Giovanni for anyone, let alone Robert.”
“Robert is completely wasted on you.” Laurent sighs and stabs at his asparagus. “You’re right there for his ice baths and everything, but you have no taste at all.”
“I think I hear my dinner.”
It’s a complete coincidence the hotelier knocks moments later, but Matt is still satisfied by Laurent’s impressed face.
“There’s a few notes in my wallet. Tip ‘em.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Matt digs out his own wallet and shuffles out a couple of bills for the man who hands him a cloche-covered plate. Once the door falls shut, he scolds, “You shouldn’t let randos into your wallet.”
“I don’t.” Laurent drags the side of his fork along his plate to pick up what’s left of the sauce. “I didn’t think you had cash and I’m too lazy to get up. C’mon, eat quick so we can play—I’ve got another controller somewhere.”
Matt climbs back into the bed and removes the cover, revealing his mystery dinner. It looks a lot like chicken parmesan. His favorite.
“It’s not caviar.” Matt aims for dismissive, but it comes out almost endearing. Sometimes Laurent is a really good friend.
“No, but chicken parm isn’t on their menu, so it’s still a treat.” Laurent gathers his plate and silverware and dumps it on the desk, clearing his side of the bed. “Cost about as much as caviar, though. Think they recognized my name.”
“Laurent Gastaud, son of a billionaire? Or Laurent Gastaud, second-most hated driver on the grid?”
“Take your pick.” Laurent shrugs and grabs another controller. “Hope you tipped well—neither of my reputations need another hit.”
Matt plays the team game and lets Robert pass in Germany.
11th and 12th, no points.
In Imola, Matt holds onto a gap big enough not to force a pass.
11th and 12th, no points.
In Monaco—where passing is difficult at the best of times—they retire Matt’s car. Gearbox issues.
Robert finishes 13th, no points.
In Spain, Matt qualifies twelfth. Robert is parked two rows back, in fifteenth.
This is it. It’s Matt’s first chance to break away—to make the first points of the season without needing to watch over his shoulder.
He glares at the lights ahead, daring them to falter for even a second. Today’s the day, and he is ready.
When the lights blink out, Matt floors it, gaining two positions by passing the confusion at the jump. There’s a Wilhems spun backwards, and a Kaas with a broken wing, but he manages to dodge the incident and fall back in line.
Matt keeps his elbows out, defends through the corners, and clings onto tenth place to the pits. A five second pit stop is a solid kick to the groin, but with new rubber, he still manages to claw his way back through the field until he’s planted back in tenth.
Once he crosses the finish line, Matt punches the air and bellows a gut-clenching, victory screech that he hopes will haunt both Sylvain and the lead strategist when they try to fall asleep tonight.
He doesn’t need to ask if Robert made it to the points. He never passed him.
Matt hops right out of the car as soon as he parks. He jumps in place until he can spot the dark teal green of the Ashton Marvin. He runs over, bowling into Laurent before he has a chance to stand upright.
“Points?!” Laurent asks, his voice muffled through the helmet.
“One,” Matt corrects. “But I beat Robert! I’m the only Andes driver with any points!”
Laurent smacks Matt’s helmet with excitement and the sound echoes, even after they line up to get weighed.
At least Robert managed to win the race to the scales—he looks extra pissy as he stalks towards the press line.
Matt can’t help but revel in it.
After weighing in, the unpopular boys whip off their helmets and balaclavas, but hang back before facing the reporters.
“Wanna go out tonight?” Laurent asks. “I can get us a good table.”
“No clubs.” Matt runs his hand through his helmet hair. His fingers catch on a few stray curls and he tries to right them, looping them around his finger before cameras get involved.
“Fiiiiiine.” Laurent can be so whiny sometimes. “A bar, then? Something dark and broody even though we’re supposed to be celebrating?”
He knows Matt so well. “Sounds great.”
The bar Laurent finds is some atmospheric haunt they have to squint to see inside of. There’s perfectly placed dust and spider webs between the gaps of the sconces. It just feels like the type of place that charges thirty bucks for a vodka soda.
It’s exactly what Matt was hoping for. “How do you know a place everywhere we go?”
“I don’t.” Laurent’s face pulls up with disgust as he leads them to the far side of the bar. “I just know you, so I searched for depressing places. Those spider webs don’t look real.”
“I don’t think they are.” Matt hops a little to get up into the bar stool and eyes the specials printed on a paper menu. Thirty to forty bucks for any of them. Christ.
Laurent slides a card over for the tab, his stern eyes piercing Matt. “Don’t fight me this time. They have a top shelf that could buy your car.”
He points the bartender up to a whisky with extra dust sprinkled on it. Possibly even real dust, if the way the bartender coughs when he touches it means anything. Matt would’ve thought the bottle was just decorative.
He has a cheaper palette. “Do you have Azulve?”
“That tequila’s only good for Molotov cocktails.” The bartender thumbs back to the shelving unit. “We’ve got what’s on display.”
Laurent snorts and Matt shoulders him harder than he means to. It’s not his fault his biggest sponsor prefers quantity over quality.
“Right.” Matt orders a gin and tonic and two shots of a bottom shelf tequila, sliding one in front of the Monegasque driver.
“Please don’t make me,” Laurent groans, already reaching for his shot glass.
“?Es tradición!”
Laurent throws the drink back and hacks immediately. He smacks his chest with heavy thuds until he can breathe again. “Glad it’s only one point.”
“Next week it’ll be more.” Matt sips his tequila because he’s not crazy. It’s actually quite smooth. Good quality. Probably horrible to choke on.
The bartender sets Laurent’s whisky in front of him, presenting it with a flair of his hands. It’s served in cut crystal, though Matt’s highball is definitely cheap, thin glass.
Laurent thanks the bartender before turning to Matt. “Great. You’ve probably ruined the delicate citrus notes with your poison.”
“You didn’t even taste the tequila!”
“It’s in my lungs.” Laurent pounds at his chest with his fist and makes a delicate little coughing sound. “I taste it every time I breathe out.”
What a baby.
Despite Laurent’s penchant for complaining, he seems genuinely pleased by the whisky, enjoying it enough to ask for another. He must be feeling it too, if his slurred, “Put that guy’s drink on my tab” is anything to go by.
The older gentleman down the bar from them raises a glass to Laurent, who winks before tipping his own glass back.
“Is he gay?” Matt asks.
“Nah, but look at him.”
The man’s at least forty, maybe forty-five. He’s gruff, with a long mustache and a closely cropped beard. Leather jacket. He probably rides a motorcycle. He looks Latino.
Matt’s Latino. “Am I attractive?”
“We’ve been over this,” Laurent groans.
“Yeah, but you never answer.”
“Because you’re not my type.”
Matt doesn’t have anyone else he can ask, though. “But, objectively speaking…”
“J’sais pas.”
“You can’t just speak French any time you don’t want to answer me.”
Laurent makes more French noises and shrugs his shoulders.
Okay, so Matt’s not winning any awards for Hottest Driver of the Year. That honor would go to Sam, or Rafael, or Santiago, or Robert—the more masculine drivers.
—Not that he would ever admit that to Robert, of course, but Matt can see the appeal. Objectively speaking. For scientific reasons.
But Laurent still has a charm about him. He’s got that special something that Matt would describe as attractive, even if he isn’t Matt’s type. Something that makes him stand out in an expensive bar.
Was it so wrong for Matt to be curious if he attracts the same attention? Surely, any other lonely man would ask the same?
“Je n’en reviens pas!” Laurent whispers, smacking Matt’s arm. “I don’t believe it.”