“Yeah,” Laurent replies with a hush. “Could you close my tab? We gotta get going.”
“It’sfine,” Matt repeats. His totally blasé expression is met head-on with Laurent’s disbelieving look.
“Sure thing.” The bartender seems disappointed to see them go, which is new. Laurent’s tab must be outrageous. “Want another round of tequila shots? On the house.”
“Non,” Laurent says, quickly. “No, thank you.”
“Actually—” Matt’s feeling a little dangerous tonight. Possibly drunk. What’s the point of being in the same room with his sworn enemy if he doesn’t have a little fun? “Could you send those shots to the drivers over there? The blondish, big one on theright? His team just scored a point today. It’s a big deal—he should celebrate.”
Laurent has already signed the receipt, so he slaps a few more bills on the counter before he and Matt scurry out the door.
As soon as they’re in the clear, they lean on each other and laugh out loud. With their disguises on, they're just two tipsy nobodies, stumbling about on a Sunday evening.
Laurent almost staggers straight into a bush when he says, “Well, I guess you finally have your answer, at least.”
“What answer?”
“For the attractive question.”
Matt studies Laurent as his brain tries to catch up. Is he speaking French again? Where did their conversation go?
Laurent gasps and it sounds almost mocking. “C’mon. You didn’tnotice?How could you not notice?”
“Noticewhat?”
“Robert’s girl looks just like you! Fuck, is she your sister or something?”
“Really?” Matt wants to go back and see. His attention wasn’t exactly on the girls when the group came in.
“Oh, that is soembarrassingfor him!” Laurent cackles.
“Embarrassing?” Was Matt really so ugly?
“No, like—imagine hating your teammatesomuch andeverybodyknows, but then you go home and like,fuckhim!”
“Yeah.” Matt gulps. “That’s—” What’s a good word? “Weird.”
“Jesus.” Laurent is still laughing. “You might not bemytype, but you’re certainly his.”
Matt met Robert when he was five—back when Matt was still called Mateo and Robert was just Bobby.
Mateo’s father was a mechanic and a big fan of racing. So, naturally, Mateo was a big fan of cars and racing, even as a child.
Every morning, after his mother left for work, Mateo followed his father to the garage. He spent his days playing with his Cool Wheels cars on the waiting room floor, designing tracks and racing through them.
“One of my clients is a race car driver,” Mateo’s mother announced one night. She only freely spoke Spanish inside their house. Their small town wasn’t exactly steeped in southern charm for the residents with darker skin. “They have a little boy around your age.”
“For Formation 1?” Mateo had asked, excited. “Or IndieCar? Or FASCAR?”
“I’m sorry, mijo, I don’t know.” His mother pet his hair, scratching at his scalp with her longer nails. “They have a lot of trophies, and a lot of helmets, and a lot of newspaper articles on the walls. Keeps Mama busy all day.”
They would only have trophies if they were really good. Maybe they were even good enough to know Antonio Montoya. “Can I see?”
“I can ask, but I can’t promise anything. You would have to be on your very best behavior.”
“I can even help you!”
“No, no. You definitely can’t do that.”
