“Oh. So…” It’s not hard to do the math.
“Yeah I, uh, lost my two favorite people in the same year. Ha.” It was a pretty dark time, actually. Loneliness like he never could’ve imagined. “I tried to call, but?—”
“But I blocked you.” The empathetic voice disappears. Robert is steel again as he bites out a disdainful, “Yeah.”
“Yeah.” Matt exhales and it’s shaky. He’s still worked up, but he needs to fix this. “Look, you probably don’t want to hear it, but I’m sorry. I’msosorry about that night, and every single day I wish I could go back and?—”
“You’re right, I don’t want to hear it.” Robert’s bottle is empty, and it crinkles when he squeezes. “It’s fine.”
“It’s not.”
“It’sfine. I get it.” Robert makes a frustrated noise in the back of his throat and turns away. “Maybe you were right. Maybe Formation 1 wasn’t ready for gay drivers yet. For all we know, you could have saved our careers that night.”
“But what if itwasready?” Matt pushes. “Then what? What did I lose you for?”
“Let it go, Hernandez. Move on.” Robert sighs, but the plastic bottle cracks in his hands again. “I did.”
Mateo’s sexuality was less of an awakening and more of a slow realization built up over time.
It was difficult to separate his idolization for good drivers from the feeling he got when they whipped off their baklavas. He felt the same butterflies from a good defensive maneuver that he got when a driver stood on the topmost platform, his hair sweaty, his mouth falling open as he gasped for breath, lips wet with sweat and saliva and sparkling grape juice.
When Bobby gave him that same feeling off the track, in their everyday life, that’s where the trouble began.
Bobby definitely wasn’t gay. His eyes always wandered towards the girls that hung around the track. He had a reputation for picking up other drivers’ older sisters, and enough charm to keep getting away with it.
On the nights Bobby didn’t come home, Mr. Miller switched to manager mode and talked fundraising strategy with Mateo.
“You’re in a little bit of a pickle, racing for the United States,” he said. “Mexican sponsors are huge and lucrative. They might give you a chance, but they want to see you carry the Mexican flag. Want to hear the Mexican anthem.”
Mateo only had an American passport. Despite his family’s history with Mexico, the rules stated he could only represent the US.
—Which is what he preferred, anyways. Mateo was born in America, raised in America, raced in America—he was an American citizen. But, if he couldn’t find the money to continue in the Formation series, what did it matter what flag he carried?
“What about American sponsors?” Surely one of the biggestcountries in the world had a couple of companies willing to invest.
“There isn’t much of a viewer market in America for Form 1. For how expensive the sponsorships are, there isn’t enough return on investment if the American audience just isn’t watching. They’d rather sponsor FASCAR or Indie.”
“Yeah…”
It was nice of him not to mention that any American sponsor looking to break into the market would rather sponsor Bobby. Not only was he attractive, he was American racing royalty. Who was Mateo Hernandez in comparison?
“You can still race for the homegrown series,” Mr. Miller said. “I have some big connections who’d love to see you test. I just know you have your sights set on Form 1.”
“Yeah.” Mateo swallowed the lump in his throat. “I want to make Formation 1 happen, if possible.”
“Then we can find another avenue—something to set you apart from the competition. Maybe a Mexican-American mix? Like, an American tequila brand? Then again, maybe not until after you turn twenty-one…”
Therewassomething else. Something that set Mateo apart from the boys he raced against. Something that made him unique—marketable, even.
“Um…” Mateo hadn’t told anyone. Not his mother, not his father. He took a deep breath and asked, “What about… are there any gay sponsors?”
“Gay?” Mr. Miller’s eyes widened, and Mateo's stomach dropped.
“Um, I mean—” Alarm bells rang out in his head. What other word sounded like gay—but wasn’t gay—but was still something that applied to him? “Guy?” Fuck, that was stupid. “Like, for boys?”
Stupid answer. Such a stupid answer. It was much rarer to see girls on the track than boys.
“Mateo,” Mr. Miller’s voice dropped, like someone might overhear them. “If I heard what I think I heard, you should keep that to yourself.”
