“Affirm.”
Fuck.
Fuck!
“What happened to Rafael?”
“On replay, it looks like his engine stalled. The third row had an incident avoiding him.”
“How far is the car behind me?”
“Six point two.”
Matt lets out a shaky exhale. It’s not an impossible amount to overtake, but that’s a really,reallygood head start. Better than he ever could’ve hoped for.
He’s terrified of getting his hopes up, so Matt keeps his head down and concentrates on the race line.
There’s no need to push and try to overtake the Red Boars who are long gone, so he keeps his full attention on driving the fastest possible lap with minimal tire degradation.
“Watching my tires,” he says. “Lap times for every lap and warn me when the distance behind falls under three?”
“Copy.”
Matt keeps the Mercenary back for twenty-four laps, but Santiago eventually overtakes him. The Spanish driver boxes immediately after, and Matt keeps going, learning on the fly how to defend against cars that are much,muchfaster than him.
The straights are definitely not his friends.
The Red Boars are ahead of him by something ridiculous like thirty seconds, and both pit without Matt ever seeing them. Still, he keeps holding down the fort, the cold weather helping him keep a reasonable pace.
He boxes last of everyone in the field. He's hesitant to give up his position, however silly that sounds. As he slows through the pit lane entrance, he prays to God that his team is ready for him.
They are.
He should pray more often.
It’s Matt and his new set of hards against the world, and he exits the pits directly behind Robert in sixth.
“Robert’s going to tow you through the straight while your tires warm up,” Darian says. “Then he’ll let you through.”
That’s ironic. “Does he know you want him to give up his position?”
“He suggested it.”
Okay, so it’s opposite day.
From Robert, it’s only a two second jump to Thomas’s Ferraro, which he chips at, bit by bit, until Matt’s able to overtake on the inside.
Fifth place is super commendable, a great result for both Matt and the team, but he’s tasted third, so he sets out for the Mercenary in fourth.
The silver bullets are better in the cold than the Ferraros, but Matt’s tires are much fresher and he is so much hungrier.
He brakes late, passing Finn on the inside of turn three.
With only five laps to go, he chases down Santiago in third. Matt grinds their difference down to four seconds, but his tire advantage isn’t enough to actually fight the Mercenary. He crosses the line with a twinge of disappointment.
“That’s P4, Matthew. P4.”
“Ah…” It isn’t as much as he had foolishly hoped for, but it’s still a good result, especially after so many weekends without a point. “I’m sorry I couldn’t bring home the podium. The team deserved it.”
