Chapter 22
Matt
Seeing those inspectors in our garage really fired me up.
At Rossini, everyone pulls that shit on you.
Complaints to the FIA on the slightest race incident, upgrades all scrutinized.
Barry is right, it’s a sign we’ve been noticed.
It’s a warning of what’s to come. And we should be proud.
Still, as I pull out onto that track, and the rain threatens from the dark gray skies above, I feel not just fired up, but angry.
And now, as we move into the second round of qualifying, I’m fired up even more.
I want it—to start in the top ten, within sniffing distance of a podium. But on this track, the iconic Interlagos in S?o Paulo, it’s not going to be easy. Famous for unpredictable weather, its undulating track, and its counterclockwise direction, it has plenty to challenge even a seasoned driver.
I tighten my grip on the wheel, glancing up at the absurd Big Ronny’s Ring Burner advert plastered around the stadium.
My face, with an exaggerated expression of heat, tongue hanging out, eyes bulging, looks ridiculous.
But instead of making me grimace, it adds to my drive.
You want your luxury watch sponsor back, Matt? You gotta drive for it.
I take a deep breath, focusing on the damp track ahead.
I know this track. I love it here in Brazil. It was my first ever win, after all, so surely I can produce something here today. The roar of the Brazilian crowd grows louder as I head toward the long drag uphill past the pits, ready to start my lap.
The car feels good. So much better than even three races ago. I hold my breath as we near the starting line; I’m ready to unleash hell.
And boy, do I want to unleash.
“All right, Matt, let’s do this,” Archie’s calm voice crackles over the radio. This track rewards bravery and precision, things Archie knows I need to work on.
Chloe’s voice follows, softer and filled with encouragement. “You’ve got this, Matt.”
She’s on the radio too.
The memory of our night at the track surges through me. I think about our conversation about my fears on the track. My admission of everything that has been worrying me, and the way Chloe just listens.
I hit the throttle and leave the starting line in the dust.
Something hardens further in me; within the blink of an eye, I’m laser focused. I cannot hear anything except a whistling in my ear. I see nothing but what’s in front. I feel nothing except the thump of my heart, which is so hard it feels like it’s trying to break through my rib cage.
Ticktock. The imaginary clock spins in my head as I push, push, push.
I can do this. I can do this.
Every movement is precise. Time stops, even as I’m racing the clock. In the cabin of this car, everything feels like slow motion.
As I move through the turns, I catch a flash of red in my rearview mirror. Rossini way behind me. I grimace but push the thought away. I’m only racing myself today.
But it’s unsettled me, and thoughts of Stavros return. My wheels come off the track, the car bumps the barrier, and I overcorrect. The error is almost negligible, but it’s enough to lose a precious tenth of a second, and in this game, that’s enough to knock me back.
As I cross the finish line, I glance at the time displayed on the steering wheel.
“Archie,” I say breathlessly into the radio.
“You’re in thirteenth,” he says calmly. “Both Rossini to go. Stand by.”
“Right, I’m coming in,” I say, deflated. Thirteenth? Damn, that’s the same as Mexico.
Still, the rush of adrenaline is overwhelming, and I can hear the joy from my team in the garage before I cut the engine and they roll me back into place. Thirteenth is still so good for Arden, even if it falls incredibly short for me.
I spot Chloe across the room grinning and holding herself to the back of the garage, allowing the team to celebrate together. I reluctantly high-five Jasper, and then Archie pulls me in hard for a hug.
“Noah?” I ask him, pulling back.
“He got eleventh again,” Archie says with a grin.
I turn around and fist-bump Noah, trying not to let my own feelings of disappointment dampen the enthusiasm of the team.
And then, without thinking, I rush to Chloe and throw my arms around her, dropping my head into the crook of her neck.
“I can do better,” I say. “I saw the Rossini and thought of Stavros, but tomorrow I can fucking get us some points, I know I can.”
“Matt,” she whispers, pushing me gently back.
For a moment, everything stills around us, and I feel a knot in the pit of my stomach.
Chloe is not smiling.
In fact, Chloe looks mortified.
She steps back, thrusts her hand out, trying to turn the hug into something professional, but it’s too late for that. I glance around the garage and hope to god no one is looking. Thankfully, the crew are distracted in their own congratulations.
Chloe’s body slackens, and she breathes out before aiming those big, brown, annoyed eyes at me.
“Don’t do that again,” she mouths.
“I don’t care if anyone knows about us,” I snap, irritated suddenly. Deep down I know she’s right, but the rejection still stings.
“Well, I fucking care, okay?” she snaps back.
There’s something in her eyes, a struggle against an undeniable force.
I lick my lips, which are dry from the sweat and exertion, and shake my head. “I’m going to find you later.”
“You better not,” she growls, eyes darkening on me as she pushes me aside and shoots across the garage to congratulate Noah.
Press have gathered by the chain-link fence on the other side of the pit, and I can hear them calling my name. Fuck it. I’m going to talk.
I head out to the waiting microphones, feeling the sun on the back of my neck, the sweat pouring down my brow.
“Hey there.”
“Matt, Matt! You looked good out there, until you hit the barrier.”
“Car is much improved. Under Chloe Coleman things have really started to build.”
“Is Jasper part of the team now?”
“You’ll need to speak to the gaffer about that.”
“Any regrets about not driving for Rossini today?”
I want to tell the reporter to fuck off, but instead I hold my gaze firm and say, “No regrets.”
“How are you bedding in with Arden’s star team principal, Chloe Coleman?” says a familiar voice. Interesting choice of words, I think, craning my neck to see who it came from. I spot Jack Sheppard then, just to the back of the scrum. Oh, hell no.
I don’t respond and watch his jaw flex as I move my eyes to a young reporter from Sky Sports I recognize. “Yes, Sam?” I say, smiling.
“Economy flights, a hot sauce as a sponsor,” she says, her voice light. “Would you say Brazil is Arden’s last shot to remain in the competition?”
“Look, it’s no secret Arden needed to improve,” I say. “But we are. We’ll get there.”
“You won’t get points with thirteenth place.” Jack Sheppard again. “Do you think you’ll get any more points on the board for Arden?”
“Yes,” I say simply, without looking at him.
“Have you spoken to Stavros yet?” he asks, and I feel the blood start to pump through my temples, my chest tightening.
“Thanks, everyone,” I mutter, turning on my heel and heading back into the garage. Fuck that guy.
“Is Chloe coming out?” says another voice as I disappear into the safety of the garage and head for the driver room.
“Chloe!” I call out to her as I pass. She’s surrounded by the team, examining data, planning for the race tomorrow already. “The press want to speak to you.”
She looks up and nods. But as she spots me, her expression changes to concern. I wave it away. “I’m fine,” I mouth, nodding to the press scrum. “Go speak to them.”
Later that evening, I sit on my bed, headphones on, trying to get myself back into the zone.
Instead, I stare at my messages to Stavros from over the past few months.
They start with me messaging him from our respective hospital beds.
I was only in, really, for observation. Stavros had borne the worst of the crash.
Me: Hey Stav. Call me when you can. I’m sorry.
And then, as I scroll through my chat history, I see a bunch of calls from me to Stavros, none of which he answered. He was angry at me. I knew he was, and he had every right to be.
No one knows this, but there was one moment two or three weeks after the accident when I decided to go see him in person.
I arrived at the door to his rehabilitation suite and saw his mother and the Rossini doctor speaking in the lobby. His mum clocked me, and before I had a chance to speak, to plead my case, to say sorry, she marched toward me.
She bashed her fists against my chest and wailed at me in Greek. I knew enough key words to gather she was blaming me for nearly killing her son. I wanted to say sorry. Beg forgiveness. I wanted to say so many things, but she just shouted at me to leave.
“Go! You’ve done enough.”
I turned and walked back down the corridor, fighting tears as I went.
That was my window to make things right. When I walked away, I felt like it closed.
I messaged him later that day, hoping I could catch him before they discharged me from the hospital:
Me: Sorry. I’ve been calling and calling. They’re sending me home tomorrow. Can you message when you get this?
Me: I’m back in Monza. I hear you gave the nurse absolute hell about the food yesterday.
Sounds like you’re on the mend.??
Me: Hey. Are you ok? You don’t want to talk, I get it. But I’d really like to speak to you at some point.
I should have tried harder. I should have spoken to his mother again and again. I should have come back the next day, and the next. But I didn’t.
Now what was there to do? What should I do?
My fingers hover over the call button. Is there any point in calling him? I throw my phone down on the bed, annoyed that Stavros is back on my mind when I’m right here on the cusp of getting my confidence back. Fuck Jack Sheppard for bringing it up.
I’m showered, in my T-shirt and tracksuit pants, and about to order some room service when I decide instead to stretch my legs and head down to the bar to order something light to eat.