“Ouch,” Matt says, even though he knows better.
“Yeah.” Laurent takes his phone back and tosses it to the foot of the bed, out of reach. “For what it matters, I thought you were right. It looked like his lap times were what? Roughly a second off yours at that point?”
“How could they possibly forget Robert’s American too?” Matt huffs. “We literally grew up together. Why is he Mr. Perfect and I’m?—?”
“Do you actually want to know?” Laurent says, though his mouth is full. “Cause, as a gay man, I can tell you why.”
“Because his dad’s a racing legend and his mom’s a model.” And together they made a child with the best of both worlds. “Yeah, I know why.”
“He’s gorgeous.”
“Yes. Again. Thank you, Mr. Gay.”
“I wish I could have convinced Dad to hire him,” Laurent continues. “But he wanted a world champion instead.”
“Shut up, you wouldn’t trade Giovanni for anyone, let aloneRobert.”
“Robert is completely wasted on you.” Laurent sighs and stabs at his asparagus. “You’re right there for his ice baths and everything, but you have no taste at all.”
“I think I hear my dinner.”
It’s a complete coincidence the hotelier knocks moments later, but Matt is still satisfied by Laurent’s impressed face.
“There’s a few notes in my wallet. Tip ‘em.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Matt digs out his own wallet and shuffles out a couple of bills for the man who hands him a cloche-covered plate. Once the door falls shut, he scolds, “You shouldn’t let randos into your wallet.”
“I don’t.” Laurent drags the side of his fork along his plate to pick up what’s left of the sauce. “I didn’t think you had cash and I’m too lazy to get up. C’mon, eat quick so we can play—I’ve got anothercontroller somewhere.”
Matt climbs back into the bed and removes the cover, revealing his mystery dinner. It looks a lot like chicken parmesan. His favorite.
“It’s not caviar.” Matt aims for dismissive, but it comes out almost endearing. Sometimes Laurent is a really good friend.
“No, but chicken parm isn’t on their menu, so it’s still a treat.” Laurent gathers his plate and silverware and dumps it on the desk, clearing his side of the bed. “Cost about as much as caviar, though. Think they recognized my name.”
“Laurent Gastaud, son of a billionaire? Or Laurent Gastaud, second-most hated driver on the grid?”
“Take your pick.” Laurent shrugs and grabs another controller. “Hope you tipped well—neither of my reputations need another hit.”
Matt plays the team game and lets Robert pass in Germany.
11th and 12th, no points.
In Imola, Matt holds onto a gap big enough not to force a pass.
11th and 12th, no points.
In Monaco—where passing is difficult at the best of times—they retire Matt’s car. Gearbox issues.
Robert finishes 13th, no points.
In Spain, Matt qualifies twelfth. Robert is parked two rows back, in fifteenth.
This is it. It’s Matt’s first chance to break away—to make thefirst points of the season without needing to watch over his shoulder.
He glares at the lights ahead, daring them to falter for even a second. Today’s the day, and he isready.
