Maybe Darian just misspoke. Maybe he didn’t realize that Robert was still in the running—that there’s only one set of new softs left between them.
A Mercenary brakes quickly ahead of him, and Matt just narrowly dodges the car, but hits the debris he was trying to avoid. There’s one blissful moment where he thinks he might’ve gotten away with it before his car shakes violently.
“Puncture,” Matt dutifully reports. He hobbles into the pitlane as the shaking intensifies. “What was that? Carbon fiber?”
Why is there no yellow flag? Surely someone must have noticed a chunk of their car missing?
“We’re retiring the car.”
Of course they are. The only thing that could make an otherwise perfect Q3 more Matt-like is if Sylvain himself was the one tossing car parts onto the track.
Matt parks and he’s rolled back into the garage. Despite everything, he still has hope. That first run? It was the best he’s ever felt in his car.
There’s a flurry of activity around him as the mechanics try to diagnose and repair the damage, but Matt remains seated in the car. He feels good there, and he doesn’t want to break the illusion that he can still change the outcome.
Peter pulls the screens down for him, and Matt’s eyes stay glued to the timing tower of the broadcast. Though they’re down to the wire, he’s still sitting up at third, right behind the Red Boars.
He’s managed to hold on to the purple sector for three, but when the garages empty for one last run, the field runs faster and faster with every lap.
At this rate, he’ll be grateful for seventh.
A Mercenary—Finn—gets his lap time deleted right before the two-minute warning. Lucas at Red Boar finally steals Matt’s purple sector.
Lame.
Robert improves, but he still can’t match Matt’s time. He might have enough time for a cool down and another hot lap, but it doesn’t look like it.
He’s right—the clock whittles down to zero before Robert can pass the line. The last possible place Matt can have is ninth.
More drivers receive little flags next to their names as Matt drops to fourth. Thomas and Santiago were the last to start their laps, and the broadcast camera switches between their runs while Matt holds his breath.
“That was a damn good lap,” Reggie says, leaning over the side and watching the broadcast from the car screens.
Matt yelps. He hadn’t noticed the silence of the garage until the quiet breaks with laughter.
“Thanks,” he replies, belatedly.
Matt’s helmet is still on, so are his gloves. He’s even still gripping his steering wheel, like any minute now he’ll be released again and allowed one more chance to fight for his position.
His arms tense as he begs the timing tower to please, please,pleaselet him stay in fourth.
Thomas passes the finish line, the red car inching Matt out offourth place by two thousandths, but the Mercenary can’t keep up. Santiago slides into seventh.
There are whoops throughout their garage, and Reggie pats his helmet. “Fifth place? That’s incredible, Matt.”
The driver doesn’t respond. He saw all four of the Ferraro’s tires tip over the line at twelve.
He knows he did.
Matt holds his breath, clenching his wheel hard enough to break it, until Thomas’s name disappears from fourth and reappears in sixth.
“YES!” he screams, pounding on his steering wheel. “YESSSS!!!!”
The cheers grow louder as Matt unbuckles his seatbelt. He struggles to exit his car when his team piles onto him.
“Let me out, you assholes!”
He gets a foot up on the side of the car before he’s airborne. Someone big—probably Nate—hefts him up, and a couple of other guys join in, hoisting him above their heads.
