Then I see one of the Red Bulls pitting and I hit the throttle.I’m not sure how far behind I am.
“Will they exit the pit ahead of me?”
“Yes, but it will be close.”
But then, a stroke of luck.The Red Bull suffers a slow pit, 3.1 seconds.Those tenths are just enough.
“Jammed the left rear tire.Matt!Push now!”Archie urges.I press the accelerator, my heart pounding, as I blast out past the pit exit just as the Red Bull is released.
“Can I keep pushing?”
“We’re moving to plan B.”
“No second stop?Will the tires make it?”
“Yes, but you’re going to have to defend, Matt.Wait for my instructions to push.”
“He’s right behind me,” I say.
“He’s one point three seconds behind you.Not in the DRS zone yet,” says Archie.“You got this.Fifth fucking place!”
Fifth place?Chloe said fifth place would be enough.
I begin defending, keeping my car on the tightest lines, moving to block the Bull, who makes several attempts to pass but fails.Ahead, I can see the McLaren.If I could get in front of that, I’d be in fourth.
Fifth isn’t enough.I’m hungry; I feel it like a fire in my belly.Like an animal coiled and poised to attack.
My radio crackles.Archie knows.It’s sixth sense.
“Don’t do it, Matt,” he says.“Tires won’t last.”
I picture Chloe behind him, a smile on her face.She would want me to try, I know it.
With just five laps to go, I make the decision.“I’m going for it,” I say, determination flooding my voice.I line up behind the McLaren, looking for any opportunity to pass.
I pull in directly behind him, my bumper just inches from his.It’s risky.Fifth place would do.Every muscle in my body is tensed.Then, I think of Stavros.
Thoughts in my head start to swim.I see Stavros and me standing on the edge of Lake Como, diving in together.I see him trying to teach me how to ski, pushing me down the mountain, where I crash in a jumble of limbs and sticks, and he doubles over, beside himself with laughter.I see the two of us drunk, covered in champagne after another impossible podium one-two for Rossini.Stavros is grinning at me, his dark floppy hair in his eyes, that goofy smile on his face.I seehim.I miss him.A new thought emerges.
I’m not thinking about the crash.
The clarity comes in an instant, and I close back in on the McLaren, our bumpers almost kissing.It’s a super-risky move, but I dive down the inside, and while we jostle for place around the next two corners, I emerge in front.
I’m in third fucking place behind the two Rossinis.
“Yes, Matt!That’s it!”Archie cheers in my ear.“Hold position, you risky bastard.”
“Where’s Noah?”I ask suddenly.
“P six, Matt.”
“Holy shit!”
He’s not too far behind me, driving an incredible race.A surge of pride—Noah’s first time with points in his career.“Well done, Noah,” I mutter to myself.
Let’s bring it home.
The Rossinis are too far ahead, but I hold firm, the adrenaline pumping through my veins.Each corner is a battle to stay calm, keep my focus, drive this tin can across that line.The crowd’s roar grows louder as I approach.Someone sets off a green flare.I see the British and American flags draped over the grandstand.
