When the lights blink out, Matt floors it, gaining two positions by passing the confusion at the jump. There’s a Wilhems spun backwards, and a Kaas with a broken wing, but he manages to dodge the incident and fall back in line.
Matt keeps his elbows out, defends through the corners, and clings onto tenth place to the pits. A five second pit stop is a solid kick to the groin, but with new rubber, he still manages to claw his way back through the field until he’s planted back in tenth.
Once he crosses the finish line, Matt punches the air and bellows a gut-clenching, victory screech that he hopes will haunt both Sylvain and the lead strategist when they try to fall asleep tonight.
He doesn’t need to ask if Robert made it to the points. He never passed him.
Matt hops right out of the car as soon as he parks. He jumps in place until he can spot the dark teal green of the Ashton Marvin. He runs over, bowling into Laurent before he has a chance to stand upright.
“Points?!” Laurent asks, his voice muffled through the helmet.
“One,” Matt corrects. “But I beat Robert! I’m the only Andes driver with any points!”
Laurent smacks Matt’s helmet with excitement and the sound echoes, even after they line up to get weighed.
At least Robert managed to win the race to the scales—he looks extra pissy as he stalks towards the press line.
Matt can’t help but revel in it.
After weighing in, the unpopular boys whip off their helmets and balaclavas, but hang back before facing the reporters.
“Wanna go out tonight?” Laurent asks. “I can get us a good table.”
“No clubs.” Matt runs his hand through his helmet hair. His fingers catch on a few stray curls and he tries to right them, looping them around his finger before cameras get involved.
“Fiiiiiine.” Laurent can be so whiny sometimes. “A bar, then? Something dark and broody even though we’re supposed to be celebrating?”
He knows Matt so well. “Sounds great.”
The bar Laurent finds is some atmospheric haunt they have to squint to see inside of. There’s perfectly placed dust and spider webs between the gaps of the sconces. It justfeelslike the type of place that charges thirty bucks for a vodka soda.
It’s exactly what Matt was hoping for. “How do you know a place everywhere we go?”
“I don’t.” Laurent’s face pulls up with disgust as he leads them to the far side of the bar. “I just know you, so I searched for depressing places. Those spider webs don’t look real.”
“I don’t think they are.” Matt hops a little to get up into the bar stool and eyes the specials printed on a paper menu. Thirty to forty bucks for any of them. Christ.
Laurent slides a card over for the tab, his stern eyes piercing Matt. “Don’t fight me this time. They have a top shelf that could buy your car.”
He points the bartender up to a whisky with extra dust sprinkled on it. Possibly even real dust, if the way the bartender coughs when he touches it means anything. Matt would’ve thought the bottle was just decorative.
He has a cheaper palette. “Do you have Azulve?”
“That tequila’s only good for Molotov cocktails.” Thebartender thumbs back to the shelving unit. “We’ve got what’s on display.”
Laurent snorts and Matt shoulders him harder than he means to. It’s nothisfault his biggest sponsor prefers quantity over quality.
“Right.” Matt orders a gin and tonic and two shots of a bottom shelf tequila, sliding one in front of the Monegasque driver.
“Please don’t make me,” Laurent groans, already reaching for his shot glass.
“¡Es tradición!”
Laurent throws the drink back and hacks immediately. He smacks his chest with heavy thuds until he can breathe again. “Glad it’s only one point.”
“Next week it’ll be more.” Matt sips his tequila because he’s not crazy. It’s actually quite smooth. Good quality. Probably horrible to choke on.
The bartender sets Laurent’s whisky in front of him, presenting it with a flair of his hands. It’s served in cut crystal, though Matt’s highball is definitely cheap, thin glass.
