“They keep replaying it,” Peter says. “Robert moved under braking. It’s not just dirty fighting—it’s an illegal maneuver.”
“Yeah, well.” Matt doesn’t have to complete the thought—everyone already knows how this will turn out.
The Andes reserve driver is about to receive some great news.
“I’m sorry.” Matt reflexively runs his hand through his hair, itching his scalp. “I put y’all in a bad spot with the repairs.”
Reggie scoffs. “Don’t apologize for racing.”
“Yeah, glad you’re okay.” Peter pats Matt a little too hard on the shoulder, sending him flying forward.
“Hey, watch it! I was just in a car accident!”
Matt’s in the middle of changing out of his drenched clothes when there’s a knock on his door. He grabs his team kit shirt and slips it on for modesty, but he’s still wearing his soaked Nomex long johns. He wouldn’t walk around like that, but he’s dressed enough for some PR person to see him.
Or, more likely, Robert’s sympathetic parents.
Matt opens the door and only barely registers Robert’s face before his head is knocked back and he smells blood.
“What thefuck?!” Matt screeches, stumbling backwards onto his shitty mattress. He scrambles at his face before he gets a goodpinch on his nose and stops the blood. “What the fuck was that for?”
“What was—?!” Robert repeats, stalking into the room, towards him. “What the fuck do you think it was for?!”
Matt is so distracted by whether or not his nose is fucking broken that he doesn’t see the second punch coming. It hits him square in the eye, and pain blooms throughout his skull. “Fuck!Stop hitting me!”
Matt scoots himself back until his head is buried in the corner of his walls, as far away from Robert as possible. “Why the fuck did you break my nose?” Blood pours back, down his throat, and he nearly gargles on it. “You were the one who ran into me! Look at the fucking replay!”
Robert climbs up on the mattress, kneeling, still advancing on him, and Matt has a terrible feeling he's literally backed himself into a corner.
Robert rears back again, and Matt abandons plugging his nose to bring his forearms up and block his face.
“That was my race to win!” Robert wails on him, pounding against Matt’s arms.
“Then you should have won it!”
Matt pulls his legs up and kicks at the body in front of him, trying to get enough leverage to push him back. He connects a couple of times, but it only serves to make Robert angrier.
The bigger driver grasps his ankles and yanks until Matt’s back hits the mattress. He still has some hope until Robert kneels on his calves, trapping them down under his weight. With the offending limbs out of his way, Robert resumes punching.
It feels like they’re teenagers again, fist-fighting after a race. They’ve never broken a bone before, though. It’s never felt this dangerous.
The door is shut, but the walls are thin enough to hear the hustle and bustle in the garages.
Hopefully it works both ways. “HELP!”
“Both our cars are in the fucking wall and forwhat?!Because you had too much pride to back down? For the good of the fuckin’ team?”
Robert’s punches slow, his fist just barely touching Matt on the next contact. Has he run out of steam? Is he finished with his little tantrum?
Matt peeks up at him through the space between his forearms.
Robert’s breathing heavily, his chest heaving with each drag in, shuddering with each exhale. He’s hovering above him, closer than Matt expected. His breath is warm against Matt’s face.
Matt is shot backwards in time—to a completely different situation where they were in the same position. When Robert had laid him down gently on a plush hotel mattress and?—
Robert shifts, wrestling Matt’s arms up and away from his face. He grinds down as he does so, forcing a whimper out of the smaller driver.
“You don’t even—” Robert blinks and his face softens from angry to confused. Fuck. “What is?—?”
