“Yeah, well…” Robert cares. He wouldn’t be so angry if he didn’t. “Okay, so that’s gotta stop.” The second part is finally directed at Sylvain.
“But all Form 1 teams support their number one driver.”
“Well, other Form 1 teams don’t have drivers willing to push each other. We both do our best racing when we are actually racing.”
“You crash when you areactually racingas well.”
Robert scoffs. “What’s the difference between a DNF and twelfth place? Neither result gets us a fucking point.”
Their equality is actually a common misconception—a lot of things can go wrong with a DNF.
“Millions of dollars in repairs,” Matt replies. “Medically, it isn’t a good idea to layer concussions either. Then there’s team morale…”
Sylvain gives Robert a smug smile, but the driver turns back towards his teammate. “You’re not helping.”
Oh. Right. They’re on the same side this time. “Sorry. Habit.”
“We fight or we quit.” Robert crosses his arms with finality, though there are a couple of ‘we’s in that sentence that Matt never agreed to.
He can’t pretend he doesn’t want to race, though, so Matt also crosses his arms, in solidarity.
Sylvain sighs long and vocally, biding his time before he finally says, “I cannot promise?—”
Robert turns and leaves the room, slamming the door behind him before Sylvain can even finish his sentence.
Should Matt storm out too? He has a lot fewer sponsors—a lot more to lose if he gets a bad rap amongst the team principals. He looks to Sylvain for a clue, but the older man also seems at a loss for what to do.
“He doesn’t mean that,” Matt says, dropping his arms stick-straight to his sides. “It’s been a long day. A super emotional day. It’s so hot in those cars. And adrenaline? It, um, heightens emotions.”
“We really did think the double stop would be good.” Sylvain looks almost human when he collapses back into his chair. He pinches the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes extra-closed.
Still, Matt’s not sure he believes him. “Did you?”
Sylvain nods, solemnly. “Points matter to the board as well, no matter who they’re from.” With a wave of his hand, he announces, “You’re dismissed.”
“Okay, yeah.” Matt doesn’t need to be told twice. He leaves, making sure to shut the door as softly as possible.
“But how can you just accept it?” Robert asks with a whine. His shot glasses are all empty, lined up on the bar in a neat row. It’s pretty impressive how fast he blew through them, considering he scored four points.
They’re at another dingy haunt that is exactly Matt’s style. Unlike the first time they stumbled upon each other, all four drivers are sitting together. On purpose. Like that isn’t strange.
“What else is he going to do?” Laurent asks, leaning aroundMatt to face Robert. His Monegasque accent thickens with every sip of his top-shelf whisky. “Not race?”
“It’s about dignity,” Javier says, from the other side of Robert. “Better to be fired with dignity than to race without.”
“I don’t have any dignity left to miss, honestly.” Matt sips at his second shot. It doesn’t taste nearly as good when he’s not the one celebrating, but he still wants to be supportive. “I only have racing.”
“To racing,” Laurent says, raising his glass. “We should get Robert here another shot. Bartender?”
“You haven’t had any tequila.” Robert sways just a little in his seat, but he still eagerly accepts the shot.
“I’m not wasting any of my taste buds on a celebration for a driver I don’t even like. Even if you are nice to look at.”
Robert smiles and lifts his shot. “Hey, thanks, man. To racing.”
“This feels obnoxious.” Javier still lifts the remains of one of his shot glasses.
Well, Matt won’t be the only one left out. “Racing without dignity.”
