Chapter Matt Hernandez #6
Matt scoots himself back until his head is buried in the corner of his walls, as far away from Robert as possible. “Why the fuck did you break my nose?” Blood pours back, down his throat, and he nearly gargles on it. “You were the one who ran into me! Look at the fucking replay!”
Robert climbs up on the mattress, kneeling, still advancing on him, and Matt has a terrible feeling he's literally backed himself into a corner.
Robert rears back again, and Matt abandons plugging his nose to bring his forearms up and block his face.
“That was my race to win!” Robert wails on him, pounding against Matt’s arms.
“Then you should have won it!”
Matt pulls his legs up and kicks at the body in front of him, trying to get enough leverage to push him back. He connects a couple of times, but it only serves to make Robert angrier.
The bigger driver grasps his ankles and yanks until Matt’s back hits the mattress. He still has some hope until Robert kneels on his calves, trapping them down under his weight. With the offending limbs out of his way, Robert resumes punching.
It feels like they’re teenagers again, fist-fighting after a race. They’ve never broken a bone before, though. It’s never felt this dangerous.
The door is shut, but the walls are thin enough to hear the hustle and bustle in the garages.
Hopefully it works both ways. “HELP!”
“Both our cars are in the fucking wall and for what?! Because you had too much pride to back down? For the good of the fuckin’ team?”
Robert’s punches slow, his fist just barely touching Matt on the next contact. Has he run out of steam? Is he finished with his little tantrum?
Matt peeks up at him through the space between his forearms.
Robert’s breathing heavily, his chest heaving with each drag in, shuddering with each exhale. He’s hovering above him, closer than Matt expected. His breath is warm against Matt’s face.
Matt is shot backwards in time—to a completely different situation where they were in the same position. When Robert had laid him down gently on a plush hotel mattress and—
Robert shifts, wrestling Matt’s arms up and away from his face. He grinds down as he does so, forcing a whimper out of the smaller driver.
“You don’t even—” Robert blinks and his face softens from angry to confused. Fuck. “What is—?”
“Don’t.” Matt tries to push Robert off, but he’s too heavy to budge. “It’s not what you think.”
“You’re hard.”
The blood that isn’t already pouring from Matt’s nose floods his cheeks. “No, I’m not.”
Robert reaches between them and palms Matt's cock, drawing a hiss out of him. “Jesus, you’re rock fuckin’ hard. Was it the wrestling? Or because I'm the one doing it?”
This conversation is way, way worse than the punching. “I—”
“After all these fucking years.” Robert shakes him and laughs, but it’s cold. Degrading. “You dropped me like I was nothing. And yet, here you are! Literally getting off on driving me off the track.”
“I’m not—”
“You’re so fuckin’ pathetic.” Robert gives him one last shove before he climbs off the thin mattress pad. “Have fun with your hand tonight, loser. Try not to think of me.”
“Wait! That’s not—” Matt scrambles to stand upright, his head throbbing. “It’s not like that!”
Robert doesn’t even look back before he leaves, slamming the door behind him.
Matt could really use some ice, but he waits until the race starts back up again before he even thinks about exiting his room.
Reporters are too hungry during a red flag, too desperate for a story. Everyone would descend on their garage like vultures drawn to a carcass.
The first thing they’ll do is ask Robert why he did it. And then Robert will tell everyone that Matt had— That he got—
No one can know.
So Matt bides his time. He changes out of the rest of his fireproofs, shrugging on some warm pants and thick socks. He responds to concerned texts, stays updated with the delayed start time, and tries to keep his head elevated.
Once the race has started back up again, the pain is too much for him to ignore and he texts the garage group chat.
Can someone grab a couple of ice packs and bring them to my driver’s room?
Nate
Can Do
Also pain meds
Got it
There’s a knock on his door and Matt calls out, “Who is it?”
He’s learned his lesson.
“It’s Nate. Got your ice and meds.”
“Okay, great.” Matt exhales with relief. “Is there anyone else out there? Reporters or anything?”
“Um?” Nate takes his time looking around, as if someone might be camouflaged in their cramped hallway. “No, it’s just me.”
“Great. I’m gonna need ya to stay calm ‘cause I’m sure it looks worse than it is.” Which is saying something, cause he hurts. “I hit my head.”
“Got it.”
Nate’s generally a chill guy, but when Matt opens the door, he drops everything he’s holding.
“It looks worse than it is!” Matt insists, still holding his nose.
“It looks like a broken nose.”
“Well, then, it might look exactly like it is.”
“You don’t need acetaminophen, you need Medical.”
“I’m trying to avoid walking around like this.” Matt’s shirt collar is already crusted with dried blood. He hasn’t looked in the mirror yet, but he can guess how he looks.
“Tough shit.”
Nate
Someone grab the cleanest shop towel we have. He broke his fucking nose.
See if the team doc can pay a visit. He doesn’t want cameras.
“The good news is nothing seems out of place.”
“Oh, thank God.” Matt doesn’t need a crooked nose. He’s unpopular enough already with his regular face. “Is it noticeable?”
The doctor laughs, which is never a good sign.
“How long until I look normal again?” And sound normal. Matt’s voice is a bit more nasally than it’s supposed to be.
“I’d say about three weeks or so. We can keep checking on the progress, but keep ice on it for now—it’ll help with the swelling.” The doctor presses the ice pack against Matt’s eye and he hisses at the sting of it.
There’s a knock on the door, but it opens before Matt can say anything. Isn’t there some kind of law about keeping his medical shit private?
“How are you feeling?” Sylvain asks.
Matt removes the ice pack and leans around the doctor to look at him. “I’ve been better, honestly.”
Sylvain’s face drops as he takes in Matt’s newly rearranged face. “I’d like to speak with you in my office when you’re finished here.”
Matt doesn’t need to change locations if he’s just going to get fired. “Am I racing next weekend?”
His team principal audibly exhales through his nose, his jaw clenching. “We’ll see.”
“Right.” All the more reason to avoid the office visit.
Sylvain excuses himself, but leaves the door open. It’s quiet enough in the hallway to hear him knock and enter Robert’s room. “What the fuck did you think you were doing?!”
“Oop!” The doctor crosses the room in record time and closes the door. “No need to hear that.”
But Matt did want to hear that. It was the closest thing he’s heard to Robert being reprimanded since they were teenagers. Despite everything, Matt’s ears are working just fine, so he strains to try and decipher any of the muffled yells that leak through the thin walls.
Robert’s already sitting in the office when Matt arrives. He’s got bandages around the fist that props his head up, and he positively glows when he sees Matt’s face.
The bruised man stops, momentarily taken aback, before he realizes the smile is mocking. It’s a celebration of a job well done.
Matt meets his look, glaring back with one and a half eyes as he falls into the available seat.
“Alright,” Sylvain starts. “I want to cancel both of your contracts. Right here, right now.”
Matt gapes. “But I didn’t punch anybody!”
“You ignored orders, and now both of our cars are out of commission. We told you not to fight, but here we are—out of a race we could’ve made some solid points in.”
“He’s the one who moved under—!”
Robert throws his bandaged hand up in a huff. “Just shut up about the braking! You shouldn’t have fought me—you’re a danger to the fucking team.”
“You literally fought me!” Matt points to his swollen shut eye. “You’re the dangerous one! Both on and off the fucking track.”
“Boys!”
Though they’re glaring at each other, Matt and Robert’s mouths shut with a snap, conditioned after years of being reprimanded together.
“I know you both have your… history. I’ll admit, I hadn’t expected it to have caused this much of a problem, but this fighting needs to stop immediately.”
“Yes, sir,” the two drivers answer in unison.
“Matt, you are lucky to be employed after so many instances of direct disobedience.”
What is this, the military? “But I just want to—”
“That wasn’t a question.” Sylvain turns to Robert. “And you’re lucky that Mr. Hernandez here isn’t suing you for all you’re worth.”
A lawsuit?
Huh.
Matt hadn’t thought of that.
If he had, he wouldn’t sue Robert. Matt couldn’t afford to have some skeezy lawyer cross-examining him, arguing about whether getting hard would be equivocal to consent.
“I don’t see why that matters to the team,” Robert scoffs. “Why would a personal lawsuit affect my contract?”
“Because you’re an idiot.”
Robert slowly turns his head to face Matt. “You wanna say that again?”
“You don’t understand why it matters, because you have below-average intelligence.”
“Settle down,” Sylvain demands.
Robert cracks the knuckles on his free hand—the one without bandages. “Say that shit to my face.”
He literally just did.
See? Below-average intelligence.
Matt counts on his fingers. “First, the PR from an assault trial would destroy that stupid ‘good ole boy’ image the team has been pushing since you started.”
“Don’t talk to me about my image.”
“Secondly, I wouldn’t even sue you. I’d sue Andes, since the assault happened on company property.”
“Whoa,” Sylvain says, holding up his hands. “Let's not get carried away.”
Matt ignores him. “If you aren’t punished, then the company is complicit in the assault. You make this a hostile work environment. You’re a fucking liability because of your neanderthal-like urges.”