The force of that first bend hits me like a truck to my rib cage, and I have to fight to stop my vision from blurring as I steel myself against the pressure.
Then my thoughts start to swirl.
I blink away the images of Stavros being pulled from his burning car, but there they are.Again.I feel myself pulling back on the gas, as I gasp for breath out of the turn.
It’s still happening.Everywhere I look, the crash replays over and over, like someone’s trapped me in a virtual reality headset.I squeeze my eyes shut, and he’s still there.When I open them, I’ve slid out of bounds.The guttural vibration of the tires as my car taps the wall rouses me briefly, and Icourse-correct.But as soon as I think I’m clear, the images are back.High-resolution horror, everywhere I look.I can’t breathe.The muffled sound of the engine begins to seem like white noise.
“Shit.”
“Go ahead, Matt.”
“Car’s all over the place.”
“Understood,” says Chloe.“Come in and pit.Let’s change those tires.”
“Fucking car,” I spit.
“You okay in there?”she says.
My chest tightens further as I round the final turn and cross the line.Slowing immediately, I feel my chest start to expand, the air flowing in suddenly like a valve got switched on.
“Pit.Pit,” I gasp.
“Okay.We’ll switch the wets,” says Chloe.
“No.I’m done.”
“You’re not on pace, Matt.Weneedanother go.”
“No.”
As I hit the next bend, I make room for one of my replacements at Rossini, who barely glances at me as he flies past, likely making the fastest time of Q1.
As the crew rolls me backward into the garage, I avoid their eyes.Eyes that held so much hope a few minutes ago.I climb out, unhooking the steering wheel and tugging off all the various cords between me and the car.Those cords feel like chains right now.
The first face I see as I pull off my black fireproof face mask is Chloe’s.
“Place nineteen, but one of the McLarens was a DNF,” she says calmly.“There’s still time for another hot lap.Please, let us change the tires.”
Outside the rain starts to pour down, the crowd in the stands huddling under ponchos and umbrellas.
“No point, car’s a donkey.”I’m pouring sweat like I just did fifty-six laps, not three, and I wipe at my forehead with the back of my sleeve.
“The team can hear you, Matt,” she warns.
I want to talk to her.I want to explain that when I drive now, I am haunted by visions of my best friend and the near-fatal accident that happened just a few months ago, I want to tell her how I begged Rossini to give me time to recover and to let me visit Stavros but they refused.Their plan to get me back in the silver wolf as fast as possible, to make me “man up” and move forward, failed.I want to explain to her that I’m a liability and that Barry hiring me was a huge mistake.That I’m going to bring her career down with my own.
Chloe steps a little closer, those dark eyes round with a mix of concern and frustration, maybe even a little anger.She drops her voice to a shouty whisper.“What’s going on with you?And stop blaming the car.”
There is the Chloe I remember.
“I...”I can’t look at her; if I do, it’s all going to come out right here on the garage floor.I drop my head.
“Yes?”she says, softly now.
I glance back up at those big brown eyes and open my mouth to try and find the words.Our hands are close, and if I wanted to, I could reach out and touch hers.Then suddenlywe’re startled by a whoop and a round of applause from the strategy team.Both of us swing our heads.
“News?”Chloe asks.
