“Whatever,” Matt grunts out.
They interpret it as an agreement.
When Matt spots Robert’s car in his mirror, he curses and tries to push harder. It’s difficult to do when all he has is a fucking Andes.
The crackle of Darian’s voice makes him flinch. “Switch positions.”
Matt ignores the order and continues pushing.
“Matthew, that’s Robert behind.”
“Behind,” Matt repeats. “Copy.”
He’s been racing for long enough to know the other Andes must be at least three seconds back. Quite a big gap, considering Matt is close to DRS behind the Ashton Marvin.
“Distance ahead?” he asks, hopeful.
“I repeat: team orders.”
“You want me to back off Laurent so Robert can pass me?” Matt is sure to enunciate. If he has to bow down, the pundits in the commentary box deserve to know it's not his fault.
“Affirm.”
“Because he’s not fast enough to overtake me himself?”
“Negative.”
“Then I’ll let him through if he catches me.”
The team pulls Matt into the pits on the next lap. He’s released into a crowd of traffic that eats up any tire advantage he should’ve had from pitting so early.
When Robert pits, he’s released into open air. With his fresh tires, he eventually overtakes Matt.
Neither of them makes a point.
Nobody except the pit wall. Their point is loud and clear.
In his hotel room, Matt aimlessly scrolls his feed and tries to calm down. After the race, he received a pretty brutal talking-to. He’s used to it by now, but it’s so much worse when he knows he’s right.
He could’ve passed Laurent. He could’ve pushed his tires another five, maybe even seven laps. Could’ve made the first points of the season, easy.
But Robert is the future of the team. Robert is the one who needs to be at the forefront, in the spotlight.
And if Matt didn’t agree? There’s a fresh-faced reserve driver in the garage every weekend, ready and willing to do whatever it takes to drive the car.
“Don’t make this harder on yourself,” they said. “We all want the same thing.”
Untrue again.
Matt wants to win. Andes wants Robert to win. It’s distinctive enough to matter.
He scrolls past another Andes propaganda video. It’s Robert—it’s always Robert—and he answers the most inane fucking questions.
The blond tips of his long, surfer-boy styled hair sweep backas he pushes it out of his eyes. It looks dyed—the strands darker at the roots. He flashes a smile that also looks purchased.
Perfect hair, perfect teeth, perfect nose—there’s nothing money can’t buy.
He drones on, pretending like answering fan questions is the most important thing he can do on a race weekend. It’s obnoxious, truly.
