Chapter Not Today, At Least #7
Once he’s out of the car, a giant weight barrels into his side and lifts him off the ground. “You got fourth! You got fourth!!!”
Matt kicks his legs, but he still can’t reach the pavement. “Let me down!”
Robert does, but he doesn’t let go, bonking their helmets together as he hugs over his shoulders.
They’ve never been hugging teammates before, but Matt’s not going to complain. He returns the hug and says, “Thanks for the tow.”
“Only repaying the favor from qualifying.” Robert releases him and nods over to the weigh station. “Sorry it wasn’t enough for the podium. How far were you off by?”
“Like, four seconds.”
4.3, but who’s counting?
“Yeah, that would've had to have been a helluva tow.”
As the rest of the drivers line up, they congratulate Matt with the odd fist bump or shoulder pat. He’s never had a result good enough for other drivers to celebrate before.
The line moves quickly and Robert scoots up with it. “Well, we have two more races. Maybe next time you’ll win the whole thing.”
Matt snickers before he catches himself. The punchline is that the Andes car is shit, which might be a mean thing to point out to a guy who just signed a three-year contract extension with them.
Robert waits for him to be weighed before they head to the garage together. They've fallen back on their favorite post-race conversation—a minute by minute recap of everything that happened during the race—when Robert interrupts.
“What’s goin’ on at our garage?”
Several harried marshals run towards them, pointing Robert and Matt back toward parc ferme. They’re followed by an army of people in pink and blue—enough to be their entire team.
“A fire, maybe?” All of the people Matt can see point in the direction they’re running. “I hope someone saved my phone.”
“You need to get to the podium,” the fastest marshal says, heaving.
“What?” Matt looks between the marshal and Robert. “But I was fourth.”
Did they hand out trophies for winning Driver of the Day? He’s never had one before.
“No, Santiago received a five second penalty after the race. And you were—”
“I was four point three seconds behind him.” Matt’s mouth falls open on a gasp. “I got third place?”
“You have to get—go to the podium.”
The entire team is still running towards them. Some of them wave their arms, while others scream, “GO!” and “PODIUM!!!”
Matt and Robert look at each other, drop their helmets, and take off in the direction they just came from.
“I don’t know where the podium is!” Matt yells. He dodges a Sobber crew member and weaves between a couple of guys in Wilhelms gear.
“Find a Red Boar!” Robert’s much faster. “They’ll know.”
Matt’s terrible at cardio, but he picks up the pace the moment he spots a Red Boar team kit.
The cameramen have spotted him, but Matt still can’t figure out where he’s supposed to go. The broadcast screens show him running through the paddock spliced with clips of the Red Boar drivers in the cool down room.
Matt’s never been to the cool down room. He’s going to miss it!
The crowd swells around the podium, but Matt can’t figure out how to get from the audience part to behind the stage.
“That way!” Robert stops ahead of him and turns, pointing to a doorway guarded by people in suits. “Go there! I’m gonna fight the crowd for a better view.”
“Yeah, okay.”
A view of the stage. The stage with the podium. The podium Matt will be standing on.
The crowd parts for him as he wades his way to the overhang. The people in suits usher him back, through the doorway and all the way to the cool down room.
“Get lost?” Three-Time World Champion, Lucas Bauer, asks. He even looks right at Matt as he speaks.
“I di-didn’t know that I—” Matt gestures to the room at large as he tries to catch his breath.
“Y’know, I thought ya took Rafael out at the start.” Samuel Campbell is smiling at him. Smiling. “I woulda bought ya a beer for that—but I reckon podium champagne’ll do.”
Champagne. “Yeah, i-it’ll do.”
Matt knows the drill—he picks up the third-place hat from the pedestal and takes a swig from the provided water bottle. More than anything, he tries to calm his heart rate and look like he belongs amongst two of the greatest Formation 1 drivers of all time.
They’re escorted backstage and Matt can’t stop shaking. He’s actually backstage for his own podium ceremony.
“This is your first time?” Lucas asks.
Matt nods. “Yeah, in Form 1, at least.”
“Just don’t trip,” Sam says with a smirk. “Don’t think about the millions of people watching. I always trip when I think too hard about it. Just tens of millions of people in their houses watching your every move. Don’t think about them and do not trip.”
Lucas smacks him, but the damage has already been done. Tens of millions of people. Like the huge crowd forming in front of the stage isn’t terrifying enough.
The announcer calls Matt’s name and the stage manager signals for him to go. On the way, he stumbles over a cable he hadn’t noticed—much to Sam’s cackling delight.
Once he’s finally on stage, Matt manages to step up to the podium without issue. The sunshine is blinding, and he squints against it to search for his team.
He finds Robert first. The other driver is drowning in fans who have noticed he’s there and vie for his attention, but his eyes stay solely on Matt. He waves when they make eye contact, and Matt blinks, quickly looking away.
When Sam’s name is called, the Red Boar driver passes in front of him, stepping up to the second-place rung. Matt’s still not entirely sure any of this is actually happening. There’s a strong possibility that he’s hallucinating, that the whole day is just a very vivid dream.
Lucas is next, and Matt decides that, even if it is a dream, he’s going to take it all in—to remember this as if it was his podium forever.
He removes his hat for the national anthems and spends both songs distracted, running his thumb over the stitching of the embroidery.
Fuck, it feels real.
He’s handed a trophy that is much heavier than he expected. Matt hoists it up, towards the pink and blue clad group near the back, so they could see what their team did. They’re also latecomers to their own podium, but their cheers are loud enough to reach the stage.
Matt’s distracted by them for long enough that he doesn’t catch the first notes of “Carmen” until it’s too late. He’s immediately soaked with champagne—blinded with it by expert champagne-wielders. After setting the trophy down, he stumbles for his own bottle.
Once he finally hooks a hand around the neck, Lucas says, “Keep it! Don’t waste it on us, take it to your team!”
Matt nods in reply, but he’s not exactly sure where Lucas is. “When does it stop burning?”
“A couple of days, max.”
After a whirlwind of press and media duties, Matt hauls the champagne bottle back to the garage nearly full. Drunk on the excitement of the day, he encourages absolutely everyone to take a drink from it.
Robert winks before he upends the bottle and leans back with it. His throat works to gulp the bubbling liquid, every pull another bobbing motion.
Matt’s mouth hangs open as his eyes trace a rogue drop trailing from the slicked mouth down his neck.
Robert gasps when he launches himself back upright. “Fuck, it burns.”
Champagne bubbles have nothing on the fire sparking in Matt’s stomach, threatening to claw its way out.
No. Stop. They’re just friends.
“Picture time!”
The team gathers around outside, but Matt pauses when he walks past the sign. “Why is Robert not on this?”
“Robert didn’t podium.” Sylvain appears from behind him and lays heavy claw-like hands on Matt’s shoulders. “This is a big day for Andes.”
That’s not a good enough answer. Matt ducks his shoulders, maneuvering himself out of Sylvain’s grasp, and waves to his mechanics. “Hey guys? Can we get Robert on here?”
“It’s just sixth,” Robert says, knocking into his side.
“You wanna take eight tequila shots and run that by me again?” Matt relaxes when the sign is picked up and taken somewhere to be modified. “Sixth is better than we've done for the whole rest of the season.”
“It’s not a podium.”
“Maybe not, but I wouldn’t have a podium either, if it wasn’t for you.”
Robert scoffs with disbelief. “It really wasn’t that big of a tow.”
“Not the tow.” The sign returns and Matt nods his approval. “If you fought me instead of steppin’ aside, I would’a been a lot more than five seconds behind Santiago.”
“Oh.” Robert blinks a couple of times. “Wow. Yeah, probably. Geeze.”
“So you gotta be on the board.” Matt shoulders him back a little rougher than he intended to. “Cause they wouldn’t let me bring you up on the stage. Look at us, being good teammates.”
“Who’da thunk it?”
They join the crew, both drivers bookending the board. Matt's gaze wanders over to the other side, but every time he looks, Robert is already staring back.
There are more purple-vested photographers gathered for the picture than anyone on Andes is used to. So many that Matt doesn’t know where to look.
For a moment, it almost feels like they’re on a real Formation 1 team. A team people care enough about to photograph.
They smile, smile, pose, smile. Then Matt’s hit in the face with champagne again.
Laurent
I’m just saying, you should've invited me
It was a team dinner
At least tell me it sucked
It sucked
Good.
Would’ve been a lot better if they let me invite our biggest title rival
I hate that you’ve earned enough points for fuckin Andes to rival us
Celebrate when we get to the next race?
I’ll buy you 15 shots Saturday night
That’s not even subtle
Matt flips between Laurent’s texts and his social media. It’s the first time in years people actually have something positive to say about him. Instead of winding down for the night, he’s accidentally pumping himself up.
He likes this post and that post, and watches race clips and podium videos on repeat.
Winning’s addictive.