Chapter Matt Hernandez #5
The hallway quiets so immediately Matt can still hear bits of their conversation muffled through the wall. So that's it, then.
Before the pre-race meeting, Robert catches Matt and jabs a finger into his chest. “I don’t know what you’re doing, but stop it.”
“Stop?” Matt is just… walking. To the same meeting they always attend. “Stop what?”
“I don’t fuckin’ know! First my girlfriend, now my parents? Like, go find your own life and live it. Leave me the fuck alone.”
“Your parents found me.”
“And what about my girlfriend, huh? She just found you over in the visitors’ section?”
“What’s your problem?” Matt spits out. “Afraid she might find out you have a type?”
Roberts shoves him against the wall.
Matt wasn’t expecting it, so instead of bracing himself, his body just bounces off.
He blinks for a moment, confused. Despite their vitriol, their fighting hasn’t escalated to blows since they were pre-teens. “What the fuck, man?”
“Don’t you dare!”
Robert throws the meeting room door open hard enough to smack into the wall behind it. He disappears as it closes behind him, stomping all the while.
Yeah, okay. That was a pretty low blow.
“What if we both get into Formation 1?”
“That’s nearly impossible. There are only twenty drivers in the entire world. They'd never choose two drivers from the same town.”
“Shuddup, that’s why I said, ‘what if’. You’re supposed to play along.”
At the time, Matt had imagined it would go much better than this.
The rain is worse than Matt expected. There’s a solid wall of water between where he’s parked in tenth and the lights at the very front.
If he can’t see the lights, then no one behind him can either. Hopefully the lack of visibility won’t affect his chance at staying at the edge of the points.
The car in front of him lifts off the brake, and Matt’s reaction time is good enough to hold tenth place off the start. Unfortunately, since he took his cue from the person ahead of him, he can’t make an early leap like he planned.
His quick reaction might’ve also helped Robert, who was parked behind him but is now in eleventh place. The shadow of the other Andes haunts his mirror as Matt tries to push harder.
Robert tailing behind is one of the worst-case scenarios, but at least Matt gets some small satisfaction in being the car that gets to kick up water and spray the shit out of him.
The grip is so bad it feels safer to keep to the dry line that the nine cars ahead of him have already carved out than to venture off. If Matt gets too reckless—if he gets too cocky and tries to pass too early—he’ll find himself in the wall.
Strategy and tire management. Hold out for a red flag. That’s how he’ll win.
Twenty-five laps down and the shower doesn’t let up. If anything, it feels harsher than ever. The wind and rain batter him relentlessly, pelting his helmet with sharp droplets at two hundred miles an hour.
Water seeps through Matt’s gloves and his fingers are frozen where they grip the steering wheel. His entire upper body is soaked, and his arms shake with how hard he holds steady.
Robert keeps dipping off the dry line, testing the grip of the slicked surface before sliding back over. He’s kicking up water unnecessarily, just further blinding—
Son of a bitch!
Robert swings, powering around the outside, and manages to slide right in between Matt and the McLean ahead of him.
“Don’t do anything reckless.”
“Speak up.” That was Matt’s position. That was his chance. “I can’t hear y’all over the rain.”
“Don’t fight. I repeat, do not fight.”
Everything’s still blurry, still distorted by the rain collecting on his visor, but Matt stays glued to the back of Robert. He tests the grip of his tires on the water, and it’s not nearly as bad as it looks.
He trained for this. He can do it.
Matt bides his time until he sees an opening, darting out onto the slippery road and cutting through the inside of a turn.
“Return the position.”
Matt can’t decide whether to tell him it’s too dangerous or to pull the ‘I can’t hear you’ trick again, so he stays silent and defends as best as he can.
Robert steals the place with another of his stupid outside stunts, but Matt fights back again with a late brake up the inside.
The team takes a different approach. “Box box. I repeat, box this lap.”
But Matt can push his tires further. He’s not going to let the team’s strategy stop him from coming out on top, not today. Not in the rain. Not when he can take it all.
Either Robert doesn’t receive the directive to box or he feels that same desperation. He fights harder than Matt has ever seen—pushing him to the limits of what they should be attempting with such poor visibility.
It’d be exhilarating if it wasn’t so infuriating.
There’s another opening, and Matt aims for it, but Robert jerks over, cutting him off. The car jolts and Matt screams in frustration as both cars spin out, right into the barriers.
Fuck, fuck, fuck!
This was his shot. His chance to prove that—despite everyone and everything working against him—he still has what it takes to win races. Of course fucking Perfect Prince Robert had to go and ruin it for him.
The rain feels less harsh when it weeps on his perfectly-still car. After he reorients himself, Matt radios in. “I’m okay.” He’s not. “What happened?”
He knows what happened. He knows whose fault it is that his car is in the barriers. Not that his team would ever admit it.
“Glad you’re safe,” is the morose reply.
Matt removes his steering wheel and climbs out of the car, slipping a little when he leans on the smooth, wet surface.
He takes in the scene before heading over to the safety barrier.
There’s something gratifying in seeing Robert’s car crashed out alongside his own. Vindication. Or Karma. Whatever it is, the corner of Matt’s lip tugs up when Robert smacks his halo a bunch of times.
Both cars are in the wall and pointed towards each other. The barrier itself is mangled to hell. The rest of the grid is welcome for the red flag Matt so desperately wished for.
Fuck, it’s frustrating.
Even more frustrating because it was a good, clean fight right up until Robert screwed it all up. And who will end up with the blame? Matt, of course, since Robert can never, ever do anything wrong.
Robert finally emerges and stands next to his own car, as far away from Matt as possible. His arms are crossed, like he has anything to be angry about. Probably just playing it up for the cameras—what a tool.
The medical car pulls in and Matt sighs. Of course it’s just one medical car. A small sedan, even. So they’ll be wet, miserable, angry, and also piled right on top of each other.
Despite the circumstances, Matt is still eager to get out of the rain as fast as possible. He dives in before removing what he can.
The gloves are first, and his fingers are pale and clammy when they’re pulled out of the drenched fabric.
His helmet sits on his lap as he whips off the balaclava and eagerly wraps it around his soggy hands.
He shudders as his fingers are submerged in the warm embrace of the only piece of dry fabric on his body.
Robert plops down in the seat next to him and slams the car door like breaking the damn thing will put him back in the race. It doesn’t. He takes off his helmet and dumps his balaclava and wet-ass gloves into it like a moron, wetting everything.
Matt has a history of dealing with Robert in situations like this, so he isn’t surprised by the silence of the car ride. Works for him. Matt would much rather focus his attention on getting feeling back into his digits instead of screaming and fighting in the back of some car.
Thankfully, they’re processed in separate rooms of the medical center. Matt gets the whole concussion spiel and nods along in all of the appropriate places. More than anything, he just wants a warm shower to wash his disappointment away.
The barrier is still broken by the time he’s dropped off in front of his garage. The other Form 1 cars are parked in the pit lane for the red flag, and there’s a back-field car all the way up at the front.
That should’ve been Matt.
His mechanics notice him immediately and gather around, poking and prodding him to make sure he’s fine.
“They keep replaying it,” Peter says. “Robert moved under braking. It’s not just dirty fighting—it’s an illegal maneuver.”
“Yeah, well.” Matt doesn’t have to complete the thought—everyone already knows how this will turn out.
The Andes reserve driver is about to receive some great news.
“I’m sorry.” Matt reflexively runs his hand through his hair, itching his scalp. “I put y’all in a bad spot with the repairs.”
Reggie scoffs. “Don’t apologize for racing.”
“Yeah, glad you’re okay.” Peter pats Matt a little too hard on the shoulder, sending him flying forward.
“Hey, watch it! I was just in a car accident!”
Matt’s in the middle of changing out of his drenched clothes when there’s a knock on his door. He grabs his team kit shirt and slips it on for modesty, but he’s still wearing his soaked Nomex long johns. He wouldn’t walk around like that, but he’s dressed enough for some PR person to see him.
Or, more likely, Robert’s sympathetic parents.
Matt opens the door and only barely registers Robert’s face before his head is knocked back and he smells blood.
“What the fuck?!” Matt screeches, stumbling backwards onto his shitty mattress. He scrambles at his face before he gets a good pinch on his nose and stops the blood. “What the fuck was that for?”
“What was—?!” Robert repeats, stalking into the room, towards him. “What the fuck do you think it was for?!”
Matt is so distracted by whether or not his nose is fucking broken that he doesn’t see the second punch coming. It hits him square in the eye, and pain blooms throughout his skull. “Fuck! Stop hitting me!”