Chapter Not Today, At Least #5
“That’s how I kiss,” Bobby announced, breathlessly. He pulled his knees up and sat on Mateo’s stomach.
“Whoa.” Mateo couldn’t even complain about how uncomfortable it was to be trapped between the heavy teenager and the ground, because it would’ve been absolutely mortifying if he sat any lower.
“If that really was your first kiss, you’re super good at it.”
Mateo huffed in disbelief. He probably said the same thing to all the girls too.
“No, honest. Like, it doesn’t usually go like that.”
“Like what?”
“I’unno, all natural-like. It felt really easy. Didn’t knock teeth or nothin’.”
Luckily it was too dark for Bobby to see Mateo’s flushed face. “Maybe you’re just a good teacher.”
“I guess.” Bobby shrugged. “Hey, if you ever wanna practice some more, we can do that. You know, for when you meet a girl you want to impress.”
Girls again, always girls.
Still, Mateo wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth. “Yeah, that sounds like a good idea.”
Years later, Robert will climb on top of Matt in that very same position, only lower. They won’t be under the stars, they’ll be under the pipes and wires that run over Matt’s driver’s room.
Robert won’t kiss Matt, he’ll punch him until his nose is broken and his pride is shattered.
No longer gentle. Robert has never been gentle.
But Matt will still get hard, because his body will never let him forget all of the times they practiced together, back when they were still Teo and Bobby.
“Who is your best friend on the grid?”
Laurent lifts his microphone and says, “Oh it’s Matt, for sure.”
No one cheers, because it’s just one unpopular driver picking the other. Still Laurent looks proud of himself, smirking over at Matt.
“‘For sure’?” the announcer repeats. “What makes him such a good friend?”
Their mutual unpopularity, mostly. Their cynicism. Their general dislike of anything but racing. Matt’s embarrassed already, and Laurent hasn’t even replied yet.
“He’s the only driver who offers to pay when we go out together.”
The audience laughs and Matt’s very sure they’re laughing at him. Who else would be so stupid as to pay for a billionaire’s meal?
Laurent continues, “And that’s really saying something, because he barely makes any money driving. He just loves to race.”
Matt gapes. “My salary is more than yours!”
Laurent raises an eyebrow. He might not get paid, but he's still a billionaire. No need to tack a driver’s salary onto Ashton Marvin’s cost cap when his dad can slip him a couple of bucks under the table.
Robert nods and lifts his microphone. “No, it’s true. He's a good guy. Probably my choice too.”
“Your—really?!” Matt forgot the microphone is still at his mouth and the audience laughs again.
Robert shrugs with a smile and Matt remembers that this whole time, they’ve been supposed to be doing this—supposed to be promoting this PR friendship.
“Oooh, it looks like the competition is heating up!” the announcer says, with glee. “Matthew, who would you choose as your best friend on the grid?”
“Um…” The audience chants Robert’s name, but every moment Matt stalls, Laurent’s face falls further. “Can I pick multiple?”
“It’s me,” Laurent declares.
Robert scoffs. “Well, I’ve known him since I was four, so I’m sure it’s me.”
It’s Laurent. But it’s also Robert. If it’s a question of who he’d grab a drink with, it’s Laurent, but if it’s a question of who had a bigger impact on his life, it’s Robert.
“Um…” It’s not that serious. Just pick one. Just make a choice and pick someone. Every ticking second wasted makes the entire thing that much more awkward. Pick one person. Either of them. “Giovanni.”
Matt has never in his life had a conversation with Giovanni.
“That’s a twist I didn’t see coming!” The announcer is happy at least. “Giovanni, who would you choose?”
The Italian World Champion brings the microphone up to his mouth and says, “I don’t have friends. Only enemies.”
Fourteenth, then twelfth.
It’s frustrating to fight at the pinnacle of motorsport without making any points. For Matt to push for the entire race and keep his hopes up, only to fall short at the end.
The pressure is getting to Robert too—he only manages thirteenth both times. Both races are fought hard, but neither amounts to any points.
With three races left, there’s palpable tension throughout the paddock going into Mexico. Every person on every team wants to bring home more points before the end of the year.
“At least it’s a cooler race,” Matt says. He displays the data from all three practice races side-by-side on his laptop. His trainer-approved food sits abandoned on the mattress as he pulls the computer into his lap.
“Yeah, I could really feel the difference.”
Robert hooks his chin over Matt’s shoulder as he continues to chew his chicken. His jaw is a rotating pressure against him, drawing Matt’s attention further away from the data.
“Not just personally, either.” Matt dips his shoulder away from the touch and curls himself towards the computer.
“Our cars tend to run hot, so the cooler the air, the less the engine overheats. I’m sure they’re just as grateful as we are.
The elevation also makes a big difference, since it looks like—”
Robert chuckles and forks another bite.
Matt looks up. “What?”
“The engines are grateful. It’s just cute how you humanize things.”
“Well—” Matt sputters. “Shut up!”
“That’s why I didn’t say anything!”
It’s silly how easy it is to fall back into their friendship. Like they’re teens again, holed up in the RV, planning for their next karting tournament.
Only, this time there’s an end date. Next season, Matt will be a Kaas driver.
There won’t be any more pre-race strategy meetings. There won’t be any more PR events or photoshoots or social media posts. No reason for them to spend time together.
Will their tentative friendship survive when he leaves? Or is Matt only setting himself up for another heartbreak?
“Wait, what’s this number?” Robert’s sticky finger leaves a residue when he taps the computer screen. “Why’s yours so much lower?”
Matt takes a page from his younger self and tries to enjoy what time he does have left.
They both make Q3.
The McLeans are knocked out in Q2 and the Ashtons struggle as well, but Matt can’t feel bad for Laurent when it’s the first race all season long that both Andes cars will start in the top half of the grid.
Both sides of the garage cheer for the boys as they’re rolled back into positions. Matt’s mechanics tap his helmet before they replace his tires with softs, dragging the heating elements back over them.
“Great job out there.” Darian rarely crosses the pit lane for an in-person talk, but he’s grinning from ear to ear. “You were reading P2 for a long time—right up ‘til the end.”
“Thanks.” Matt knows better than to get his hopes up. The top Q1 and Q2 results don’t mean anything—it’s how he finishes that matters.
He’s sent out first, at the beginning of the session. Matt prefers to wait—to let the other drivers lay down some rubber and save his own—but there’s enough grip leftover from the other sessions and he won’t complain about clean air while he has it.
Matt uses the out-lap to repeat his notes—early turn for this corner, late brake and punch, keep to the inside, watch for track limits.
He passes the start line without spotting any other cars. It gives him a strange sense of ownership over the entire track. It's Matt’s track now—his playground—and he’s the one in control.
Turn, turn, turn, straight, turn, turn, straight, hairpin.
He’s hitting it. He hits it with everything he has.
“Purple sector one.” The radio crackles. “Purple sector two.”
Well that’s useless information.
There’s no one else on the track yet. Of course he’s the fastest of every car—he is every car.
Matt sees the finish line and finds an extra push. His chest is tight where he leans against the restricting harness, urging the car even a single hair faster until he’s through.
He releases, slumping back against his seat as he follows the first corner.
That run felt good.
It felt good.
Not enough to push a midfield Andes ahead of a Red Boar or Ferraro, but enough to make them fight for it. To make everyone acknowledge that he’s still there.
That—even when his own team is against him—Matt is still fighting.
He’d like to leave it there, to admit he gave the first run everything he had, but he stays out. As the fuel burns, he’ll be lighter, so Matt pushes again, just to feel something.
He tows Robert through the longest straight, hopefully giving him another tenth or two. Matt’s well aware he might help his teammate knock his own lap time down, but that’s been the theme for the whole season. At this point, Matt’s just happy to contribute.
With only five minutes left to the session, Darian announces, “Box box for new softs.”
New softs? Not the scrubbed softs from practice?
“Copy.” Matt tries to temper his excitement.
Maybe Darian just misspoke. Maybe he didn’t realize that Robert was still in the running—that there’s only one set of new softs left between them.
A Mercenary brakes quickly ahead of him, and Matt just narrowly dodges the car, but hits the debris he was trying to avoid. There’s one blissful moment where he thinks he might’ve gotten away with it before his car shakes violently.
“Puncture,” Matt dutifully reports. He hobbles into the pitlane as the shaking intensifies. “What was that? Carbon fiber?”
Why is there no yellow flag? Surely someone must have noticed a chunk of their car missing?
“We’re retiring the car.”
Of course they are. The only thing that could make an otherwise perfect Q3 more Matt-like is if Sylvain himself was the one tossing car parts onto the track.
Matt parks and he’s rolled back into the garage. Despite everything, he still has hope. That first run? It was the best he’s ever felt in his car.