It’s silly how easy it is to fall back into their friendship. Like they’re teens again, holed up in the RV, planning for their next karting tournament.
Only, this time there’s an end date. Next season, Matt will be a Kaas driver.
There won’t be any more pre-race strategy meetings. There won’t be any more PR events or photoshoots or social media posts. No reason for them to spend time together.
Will their tentative friendship survive when he leaves? Or is Matt only setting himself up for another heartbreak?
“Wait, what’s this number?” Robert’s sticky finger leaves a residue when he taps the computer screen. “Why’s yours so much lower?”
Matt takes a page from his younger self and tries to enjoy what time he does have left.
They both make Q3.
The McLeans are knocked out in Q2 and the Ashtons struggle as well, but Matt can’t feel bad for Laurent when it’s the first race all season long that both Andes cars will start in the top half of the grid.
Both sides of the garage cheer for the boys as they’re rolled back into positions. Matt’s mechanics tap his helmet before they replace his tires with softs, dragging the heating elements back over them.
“Great job out there.” Darian rarely crosses the pit lane for an in-person talk, but he’s grinning from ear to ear. “You were reading P2 for a long time—right up ‘til the end.”
“Thanks.” Matt knows better than to get his hopes up. The top Q1 and Q2 results don’t mean anything—it’s how he finishes that matters.
He’s sent out first, at the beginning of the session. Matt prefers to wait—to let the other drivers lay down some rubber and save his own—but there’s enough grip leftover from the other sessions and he won’t complain about clean air while he has it.
Matt uses the out-lap to repeat his notes—early turn for this corner, late brake and punch, keep to the inside, watch for track limits.
He passes the start line without spotting any other cars. It gives him a strange sense of ownership over the entire track. It's Matt’s track now—his playground—and he’s the one in control.
Turn, turn, turn, straight, turn, turn, straight, hairpin.
He’s hitting it. He hits it with everything he has.
“Purple sector one.” The radio crackles. “Purple sector two.”
Well that’s useless information.
There’s no one else on the track yet. Of course he’s the fastest of every car—heisevery car.
Matt sees the finish line and finds an extra push. His chest is tight where he leans against the restricting harness, urging the car even a single hair faster until he’s through.
He releases, slumping back against his seat as he follows the first corner.
That run felt good.
It feltgood.
Not enough to push a midfield Andes ahead of a Red Boar or Ferraro, but enough to make them fight for it. To make everyone acknowledge that he’s still there.
That—even when his own team is against him—Matt is still fighting.
He’d like to leave it there, to admit he gave the first runeverything he had, but he stays out. As the fuel burns, he’ll be lighter, so Matt pushes again, just to feel something.
He tows Robert through the longest straight, hopefully giving him another tenth or two. Matt’s well aware he might help his teammate knock his own lap time down, but that’s been the theme for the whole season. At this point, Matt’s just happy to contribute.
With only five minutes left to the session, Darian announces, “Box box for new softs.”
New softs? Not the scrubbed softs from practice?
“Copy.” Matt tries to temper his excitement.
