Chapter Not Today, At Least #6
There’s a flurry of activity around him as the mechanics try to diagnose and repair the damage, but Matt remains seated in the car. He feels good there, and he doesn’t want to break the illusion that he can still change the outcome.
Peter pulls the screens down for him, and Matt’s eyes stay glued to the timing tower of the broadcast. Though they’re down to the wire, he’s still sitting up at third, right behind the Red Boars.
He’s managed to hold on to the purple sector for three, but when the garages empty for one last run, the field runs faster and faster with every lap.
At this rate, he’ll be grateful for seventh.
A Mercenary—Finn—gets his lap time deleted right before the two-minute warning. Lucas at Red Boar finally steals Matt’s purple sector.
Lame.
Robert improves, but he still can’t match Matt’s time. He might have enough time for a cool down and another hot lap, but it doesn’t look like it.
He’s right—the clock whittles down to zero before Robert can pass the line. The last possible place Matt can have is ninth.
More drivers receive little flags next to their names as Matt drops to fourth. Thomas and Santiago were the last to start their laps, and the broadcast camera switches between their runs while Matt holds his breath.
“That was a damn good lap,” Reggie says, leaning over the side and watching the broadcast from the car screens.
Matt yelps. He hadn’t noticed the silence of the garage until the quiet breaks with laughter.
“Thanks,” he replies, belatedly.
Matt’s helmet is still on, so are his gloves. He’s even still gripping his steering wheel, like any minute now he’ll be released again and allowed one more chance to fight for his position.
His arms tense as he begs the timing tower to please, please, please let him stay in fourth.
Thomas passes the finish line, the red car inching Matt out of fourth place by two thousandths, but the Mercenary can’t keep up. Santiago slides into seventh.
There are whoops throughout their garage, and Reggie pats his helmet. “Fifth place? That’s incredible, Matt.”
The driver doesn’t respond. He saw all four of the Ferraro’s tires tip over the line at twelve.
He knows he did.
Matt holds his breath, clenching his wheel hard enough to break it, until Thomas’s name disappears from fourth and reappears in sixth.
“YES!” he screams, pounding on his steering wheel. “YESSSS!!!!”
The cheers grow louder as Matt unbuckles his seatbelt. He struggles to exit his car when his team piles onto him.
“Let me out, you assholes!”
He gets a foot up on the side of the car before he’s airborne. Someone big—probably Nate—hefts him up, and a couple of other guys join in, hoisting him above their heads.
They toss him up in waves with a rhythmic, “Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey!” and Matt can’t help but laugh through his tears.
It’s the best he’s ever qualified in Form 1.
Ever.
Nobody in the garage mentions how bad the last few races were, or how it’s only qualifying, not an actual race result. Everyone just basks in the fact that the team currently eighth in the standings has managed to out-qualify both Mercenaries, both McLeans, and a Ferraro.
“Dinner’s on me!” Matt calls out to the garage.
The team has a group meal on qualifying night, but the cheers grow even louder in response.
He’ll find a meal to pay for.
Matt’s parked on the second row. Second. Of the entire grid. In his direct line of sight it’s one Red Boar and open road.
He discussed his approach to the start with the team strategist at length, but Andes didn’t keep historical data on Red Boar in their repertoire. They were more concerned with the immediate problems, like Kaas or Wilhelms or VFIbr.
But Matt has subscriptions to both Form 1 TV and Ground Sports. Boy, did he use them.
Usually, whenever Sam started on pole, he liked to cut over and defend as soon as possible. And when Lucas started in second, he liked to take the straight shot, barreling through the car in his way.
Rafael, parked to the left of Matt in third, is also a cut-over driver.
If Matt can count on Lucas ahead to punch the throttle and hit it straight, then maybe he’d have some luck dodging out to the right and letting the top three battle each other.
Maybe he can even slide in front of someone during the confusion.
Potentially even into a podium position.
A podium.
The biggest question is whether Matt is willing to lose his fourth-place start by aiming too high. If he hangs behind Rafael, falls in line, he can focus on defending. It wouldn’t be a podium, but fourth place would be his highest finish in Form 1 by a mile.
Should he take the chance to podium, or aim for the more-guaranteed option? Is he a ruthless dreamer or a steadfast realist?
He rolls the car forward for the start of the formation lap and tries to judge what the drivers around him plan to do.
Is Matt willing to degrade his tires for the chance to move forward? Is he only setting himself up to be overtaken, just at a later time?
Maybe the whole race is just a farce—something his car cannot possibly compete with. Maybe the Andes will waste away until Matt ends up outside of the points, no matter what he chooses.
Hell, his own team strategist gave him pointers for fighting Ashton at this track. They’re both some ten places behind him.
Matt parks again. The green flag is torturously slow now that he has to wait for nearly the entire grid to finish their lap. They can take their time—he still hasn’t made up his mind yet.
The first light illuminates and he’s snapped back to attention. Were the lights always so big? Matt’s so close, he has to tilt his head up to see them.
He doesn’t know what he’s doing.
Defend, attack, defend—every light changes his mind, like picking petals off a flower.
Lights out, and Matt juts to the right—for the attack—on instinct. He’s never been so close to the front before, and he won’t squander away the opportunity by playing to his fear. It’s in his blood to fight for the win.
The Red Boars are wicked fast and he struggles to keep up through the first lap, but the red of Rafael’s Ferraro is nowhere to be found.
Matt checks his mirror, his side, his other mirror, his other side. Three laps later, he’s nearly alone on the road.
Was it a false start? But the Red Boars took off too.
He can’t spot a single red car. Weirder still, there’s a long gap from his car to what looks like a Mercenary behind.
Matt presses his mic button. “I’m almost afraid to ask, but am I P3 right now?” Surely not. Obviously something strange has happened.
“Affirm.”
Fuck.
Fuck!
“What happened to Rafael?”
“On replay, it looks like his engine stalled. The third row had an incident avoiding him.”
“How far is the car behind me?”
“Six point two.”
Matt lets out a shaky exhale. It’s not an impossible amount to overtake, but that’s a really, really good head start. Better than he ever could’ve hoped for.
He’s terrified of getting his hopes up, so Matt keeps his head down and concentrates on the race line.
There’s no need to push and try to overtake the Red Boars who are long gone, so he keeps his full attention on driving the fastest possible lap with minimal tire degradation.
“Watching my tires,” he says. “Lap times for every lap and warn me when the distance behind falls under three?”
“Copy.”
Matt keeps the Mercenary back for twenty-four laps, but Santiago eventually overtakes him. The Spanish driver boxes immediately after, and Matt keeps going, learning on the fly how to defend against cars that are much, much faster than him.
The straights are definitely not his friends.
The Red Boars are ahead of him by something ridiculous like thirty seconds, and both pit without Matt ever seeing them. Still, he keeps holding down the fort, the cold weather helping him keep a reasonable pace.
He boxes last of everyone in the field. He's hesitant to give up his position, however silly that sounds. As he slows through the pit lane entrance, he prays to God that his team is ready for him.
They are.
He should pray more often.
It’s Matt and his new set of hards against the world, and he exits the pits directly behind Robert in sixth.
“Robert’s going to tow you through the straight while your tires warm up,” Darian says. “Then he’ll let you through.”
That’s ironic. “Does he know you want him to give up his position?”
“He suggested it.”
Okay, so it’s opposite day.
From Robert, it’s only a two second jump to Thomas’s Ferraro, which he chips at, bit by bit, until Matt’s able to overtake on the inside.
Fifth place is super commendable, a great result for both Matt and the team, but he’s tasted third, so he sets out for the Mercenary in fourth.
The silver bullets are better in the cold than the Ferraros, but Matt’s tires are much fresher and he is so much hungrier.
He brakes late, passing Finn on the inside of turn three.
With only five laps to go, he chases down Santiago in third. Matt grinds their difference down to four seconds, but his tire advantage isn’t enough to actually fight the Mercenary. He crosses the line with a twinge of disappointment.
“That’s P4, Matthew. P4.”
“Ah…” It isn’t as much as he had foolishly hoped for, but it’s still a good result, especially after so many weekends without a point. “I’m sorry I couldn’t bring home the podium. The team deserved it.”
“You drove brilliantly, Matthew. You won Driver of the Day.”
“I—what?!” But that’s a fan voted award. “Me?! I won Driver of the Day?” An award given by fans.
Matt doesn’t have any fans.
“Yes, you did. Mega drive—you’re bringing home twelve points. The team’s very happy.”
Matt parks in parc ferme and takes a moment to just sit with it.
There’s no denying he’s disappointed, but there are people who watched the race and saw how hard he fought. They voted for him. He received so many votes he ended up winning. That had to matter for something, right?
Fuck, he really wanted that podium, though.