“We’re going to double stack you.”
“What?!” Matt snaps. “Why?!”
“Your lap times are faster when you’re fighting each other.” Darian actually sounds excited for this batshit plan. “We don’t want to lose this momentum. Box box.”
Matt curses as he pulls into the pit lane, Robert ahead. He prays that they keep the other car’s stop to under four seconds, that he won’t have to wait. Before he dives into the bay, Matt’s relieved to watch Robert speed off.
When Matt parks, everything feels wrong.
Why don’t the mechanics have tires? Why do they look surprised to see him?
“Was anybody going to tell the team about this fuckin’ shit fuck plan?!” Matt yells into his mic as the pit crew runs to retrieve his tires.
“I’m so sorry.” For as calm and collected as he always tries to be, Darian sounds honestly upset.
Matt watches as the VFIBR he passed pits and leaves.
“Why do you hate me?” he asks, close to tears. “I gave you four years of my life. What happened?”
“We’ll talk after,” is the solemn reply.
When his tires are finally changed, Matt peels out of the pit, his confidence on the ground. Still, he asks, “Where are we?”
There’s a pause, so it must be bad. “P17.”
“Virtually or practically?”
“Virtually, you’re P14.”
“Okay.” Matt takes a shuddering breath. “Okay, I can work with that.”
Matt finishes twelfth. No points.
Robert manages eighth and, for the first time in Matt’s Formation 1 career, he’s happy for him.
“You must have been devastated by the team's decision to double-stack you,” the reporter says with an upbeat candor.
Devastation is just another Sunday for Mathew Hernandez.
“Yeah. I felt like we were doing really well—thought we had a chance for some good points—and it was all thrown away.” He shrugs, sweat still dripping from his curls. “Live and learn, I guess.”
“Before that nightmare, we saw some pretty amazing racing between you and your teammate.”
Matthew manages a weak smile. “Yeah, it was fun for a bit there. Wish we could have kept fighting a little longer.”
“We have a quote here, from your radio. ‘Expletive, Bobby, you weren’t supposed to pull it on me.’What exactly were you referring to?”
“Y’all heard that?”
“Yes, it was on the broadcast. What is the ‘it’ that Robert pulled? How long have you called him Bobby?”
“Um…”
“What the fuck was that strategy?!”
“Robert, please calm down.” Sylvain cowers behind the barrier of his desk, his hands raised in a placating gesture.
For someone who couldn’t care less about Matt’s black eye and broken nose, he suddenly seems much more concerned about physical violence now.
