“Don’t.” Matt tries to push Robert off, but he’s too heavy to budge. “It’s not what you think.”
“You’re hard.”
The blood that isn’t already pouring from Matt’s nose floods his cheeks. “No, I’m not.”
Robert reaches between them and palms Matt's cock, drawing a hiss out of him. “Jesus, you’re rock fuckin’hard. Was it the wrestling? Or because I'm the one doing it?”
This conversation is way, way worse than the punching. “I?—”
“After all thesefuckingyears.” Robert shakes him and laughs, but it’s cold. Degrading. “You dropped me like I was nothing. And yet, here you are! Literallygetting offon driving me off the track.”
“I’mnot?—”
“You’re so fuckin’ pathetic.” Robert gives him one last shove before he climbs off the thin mattress pad. “Have fun with your hand tonight, loser. Try not to think of me.”
“Wait! That’s not—” Matt scrambles to stand upright, his head throbbing. “It’s not like that!”
Robert doesn’t even look back before he leaves, slamming the door behind him.
Matt could really use some ice, but he waits until the race starts back up again before he even thinks about exiting his room.
Reporters are too hungry during a red flag, too desperate for a story. Everyone would descend on their garage like vultures drawn to a carcass.
The first thing they’ll do is ask Robert why he did it. And then Robert will tell everyone that Matt had— That he got?—
No one can know.
So Matt bides his time. He changes out of the rest of his fireproofs, shrugging on some warm pants and thick socks. He responds to concerned texts, stays updated with the delayed start time, and tries to keep his head elevated.
Once the race has started back up again, the pain is too much for him to ignore and he texts the garage group chat.
Can someone grab a couple of ice packs and bring them to my driver’s room?
Nate
Can Do
Also pain meds
Got it
There’s a knock on his door and Matt calls out, “Who is it?”
He’s learned his lesson.
“It’s Nate. Got your ice and meds.”
“Okay, great.” Matt exhales with relief. “Is there anyone else out there? Reporters or anything?”
“Um?” Nate takes his time looking around, as if someone might be camouflaged in their cramped hallway. “No, it’s just me.”
“Great. I’m gonna need ya to stay calm ‘cause I’m sure it looks worse than it is.” Which is saying something, cause hehurts. “I hit my head.”
“Got it.”
Nate’s generally a chill guy, but when Matt opens the door, he drops everything he’s holding.
“It looks worse than it is!” Matt insists, still holding his nose.
