Chapter 28
Matt
Las Vegas Grand Prix
Race Day
Barry is shouting down the phone at me as I rush into the paddock, late. But no one will be mad after my incredible qualifying run yesterday. I’m starting eighth today. A huge improvement, and Arden’s first top-ten start on the grid.
“Matt, we’ve always been straight up with each other. Word is you’re going to retire?” Barry is beside himself.
“Not today, Barry.” I nod hello to a couple of old Rossini colleagues as I walk through the gates, absorbing the camera flashes of the waiting photographers.
“Well, you can’t walk out on all we’ve built,” he says.
“All Chloe built,” I correct.
“I’m mad as hell at that girl.”
“That girl?” I say, raising an eyebrow, as I look toward the direction of the paddock club.
“I gave her a shot! I did! You think Red Bull would ever hire a woman?” he says, exasperated.
“You hired her because you needed the PR,” I say, almost laughing. I want to put him out of his misery, but on the other hand, it would be nice to hear him grovel. “And by the sounds of the results of the sponsor meet-and-greet the other night, she did a lot better than me.”
Barry falls silent. “I don’t want Chloe to go. I like her. She’s spirited and smart and I have no idea what the hell she’s talking about most of the time.”
“Thaaaat’s better, Barry,” I say.
“But I don’t think I’ll have a lot of choice in that. I heard Haas have been sniffing around.”
“Proving my point even more.” Good for Chloe.
After this race, I’m going to Brackley. I know she’ll be back there too with her family, and we can catch up properly there without fear of prying eyes.
Today, I have to think about finishing high up in the single digits.
A fifth or even a fourth. That’s my goal.
“Listen, Barry. I’m going up to the paddock club to do some press.”
“You are?” he says, sighing heavily with relief.
“Chloe made me. I’m only doing ten minutes, but I’ll be there.”
“Oh, thanks, Matt.”
“If we do good today, you have to make me a promise you’ll keep her on.
And if the numbers work, I’ll sign too, for next year.
But, Barry. That will be it for me. You’ve got a great young driver in Noah, and we’ll have all next year to attract another big name.
But I think I only have a year left in me. ”
“You’re going to retire, then?”
“I think so,” I say.
“You are getting old,” he mutters. “What idiot buys an expensive old hen who doesn’t lay eggs?”
“Fuck off,” I say, laughing as I hang up.
The Las Vegas night is alive with energy as I line up on the grid, the city’s neon lights reflecting off the asphalt. I take a moment to absorb it all, thinking only of Chloe as we head out for our warm-up lap.
“Matt Warner, back out for Arden in what has been a roller coaster of a first few races with his new team,” I say, imagining the commentary in my head.
“Surely, though, they’ve got to produce some real results with the upgrades and turn all that enthusiasm for Chloe Coleman and Matt Warner into actual results. ”
Just a few months ago, I was recovering from that crash, filled with fear and uncertainty, deep in therapy, ready to retire out of grief.
Now I’m standing on the brink of something, with this amazing team by my side and Chloe at the helm.
“You’ve got this, Matt. Stay focused.” Archie’s voice is in my ear, grounding me and focusing me ahead. I picture Chloe in her little Arden team polo, headphones on, chewing gum, hovering behind.
It must be easier driving.
The crowd roars. My heart thumps.
The lights go out, and like waking lions, the cars roar to life, accelerating into the first corner.
I get a solid start, holding my position in eighth as we speed through into the next straight.
It’s a solid first five laps, in fact, as I hold on to my place, trying to keep the gap between me and the Williams under one second.
Soon, the race settles in for its fifty laps, and the tension eases.
“McLarens have pitted,” Archie says.
“Next lap?” I ask.
“Yes, we’re sticking with plan A.” Two tire changes. Mediums, then softs for speed at the end.
“Okay,” I reply.
“Just breathe, Matt. You’re doing great,” Archie’s steady voice reassures me.
At the halfway point, I’m running in fourth, battling fiercely with one of the Red Bulls. The Rossinis are ahead, their pace relentless. As I approach the section near the Bellagio, that touch of understeer takes me off track, and my heart stops.
“Shake it off, Matt. You’re stronger than this,” I tell myself, gripping the wheel hard and forcing myself to refocus.
“Box this lap, Matt. We need a perfect stop.” I pull into the pit lane, and the Arden Racing crew springs into action.
I turn my head to see Chloe standing at the pit wall, just across the way, looking back at me.
She’s glowing. Pink cheeks. Nervous excitement.
She waves and then pumps her fist in encouragement. “Go, Matt,” she mouths.
The car is up, tires off, new ones on. It feels like a heartbeat, and the car is ready to go. “Two point nine seconds! Incredible stop, guys!” Archie shouts.
I glance into my rearview to see Noah following into the pit, just behind me.
“Tell Noah he’s doing great,” I say, before pulling out of the pit lane and rejoining the race just ahead of the Williams, in seventh. I’ve lost a few places, but I can do this. Softtires. Great track conditions. I have this.
I think of Chloe, and the way she looks at me, her warmth, her sharp mind, her belief in me. I want to deserve it all.
Ahead, I spot the second Williams, and when his car spins and veers briefly out-of-bounds, I am able to fly past. Sixth place.
Then I see one of the Red Bulls pitting and I hit the throttle. I’m not sure how far behind I am.
“Will they exit the pit ahead of me?”
“Yes, but it will be close.”
But then, a stroke of luck. The Red Bull suffers a slow pit, 3.1 seconds. Those tenths are just enough.
“Jammed the left rear tire. Matt! Push now!” Archie urges. I press the accelerator, my heart pounding, as I blast out past the pit exit just as the Red Bull is released.
“Can I keep pushing?”
“We’re moving to plan B.”
“No second stop? Will the tires make it?”
“Yes, but you’re going to have to defend, Matt. Wait for my instructions to push.”
“He’s right behind me,” I say.
“He’s one point three seconds behind you. Not in the DRS zone yet,” says Archie. “You got this. Fifth fucking place!”
Fifth place? Chloe said fifth place would be enough.
I begin defending, keeping my car on the tightest lines, moving to block the Bull, who makes several attempts to pass but fails. Ahead, I can see the McLaren. If I could get in front of that, I’d be in fourth.
Fifth isn’t enough. I’m hungry; I feel it like a fire in my belly. Like an animal coiled and poised to attack.
My radio crackles. Archie knows. It’s sixth sense.
“Don’t do it, Matt,” he says. “Tires won’t last.”
I picture Chloe behind him, a smile on her face. She would want me to try, I know it.
With just five laps to go, I make the decision. “I’m going for it,” I say, determination flooding my voice. I line up behind the McLaren, looking for any opportunity to pass.
I pull in directly behind him, my bumper just inches from his. It’s risky. Fifth place would do. Every muscle in my body is tensed. Then, I think of Stavros.
Thoughts in my head start to swim. I see Stavros and me standing on the edge of Lake Como, diving in together.
I see him trying to teach me how to ski, pushing me down the mountain, where I crash in a jumble of limbs and sticks, and he doubles over, beside himself with laughter.
I see the two of us drunk, covered in champagne after another impossible podium one-two for Rossini.
Stavros is grinning at me, his dark floppy hair in his eyes, that goofy smile on his face.
I see him. I miss him. A new thought emerges.
I’m not thinking about the crash.
The clarity comes in an instant, and I close back in on the McLaren, our bumpers almost kissing. It’s a super-risky move, but I dive down the inside, and while we jostle for place around the next two corners, I emerge in front.
I’m in third fucking place behind the two Rossinis.
“Yes, Matt! That’s it!” Archie cheers in my ear. “Hold position, you risky bastard.”
“Where’s Noah?” I ask suddenly.
“P six, Matt.”
“Holy shit!”
He’s not too far behind me, driving an incredible race. A surge of pride—Noah’s first time with points in his career. “Well done, Noah,” I mutter to myself.
Let’s bring it home.
The Rossinis are too far ahead, but I hold firm, the adrenaline pumping through my veins.
Each corner is a battle to stay calm, keep my focus, drive this tin can across that line.
The crowd’s roar grows louder as I approach.
Someone sets off a green flare. I see the British and American flags draped over the grandstand.
“I’m back, motherfuckers!” I shout into the radio.
“Matt. Jesus fucking Christ, the mouth on you,” says Archie, laughing.
Chloe’s voice comes through the radio. Well, first it’s a chuckle, and her joy radiates down the line into my ears. “Don’t screw it up now, okay?”
“Sure thing, boss. Anything else?”
“Yeah, bring me that podium.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” I reply, feeling a cocky grin spread across my face as I eye up that checkered flag, watching the team climbing the chain-link fence between the track and the pit to cheer me home. And I finally feel it again. That fire in my belly as I cross the line.
It’s relief that hits first, and then right behind it, tears.
A cathartic, quiet sob as I take my victory lap, slowing down so Noah can catch up and drive alongside. He raises a fist and pumps it into the sky, before flying off ahead of me. I know what they will be saying.
What a story here at Las Vegas tonight. The two Ardens side by side, in what is surely the Cinderella story of the season.
Who needs first place when you can drag a team from the bottom to the top in just five races.
I’d bet my house on Coleman getting a contract extension into next season and beyond.
I know what we just did. I grin through the tears, my vision blurred, unable to wipe my eyes until I get this damn helmet off.
I can hear Archie and the team celebrating in my ear, but my mind is already looking forward.
Tonight, I proved something to myself. But I slow down and take in the moment, hoping this will be just the beginning for this team.
I pull up into the third-place slot in the pit and leap into the arms of the cheering team.