Blur the Line

chapter 23

It all came down to this, Matthew thought.

Not literally. He was, Matthew reflected wryly, being incredibly dramatic; there were nine races still left in the season. Russia. Japan. Abu Dhabi. But if Matthew won at Monza, then he would be leading the World Championship for the first time. And he could wipe that fucking smile right off Walsh's face.

It would feel good.

So damn good.

Matthew started his engine. The pit crew scattered, and then it was just the twenty drivers on the grid, staring up at five lights.

All five lights blinked on.

Ahead of him, Lucas shifted in his seat. He looked nervous. Good. Matthew's fingers tightened on the wheel, his body tensing.

The lights turned off.

Matthew shot forward. Adrenaline pumped through his veins as he rounded the first corner, his car frothing at the mouth, biting at Lucas's tail. He stomped on the throttle. Monza was known for its fast straights — the "Cathedral of Speed," as some people called it — and most drivers zipped along at 360 kilometres.

Except for Matthew, of course.

He pushed 380.

"Matthew?" Alek's voice crackled over the headset. "Take care of your tyres. I repeat, take care of your tyres."

Matthew took a tight corner, his wheels squealing.

"Carr?" Alek sounded annoyed, now. "Did you hear what I—?"

"Copy," Matthew grunted.

Matthew slowed. Just a little. Enough to appease Alek, anyway, who went silent. There were still 50 laps to go, he thought grimly; plenty of time for a big push at the end.

Saint Lucas wouldn't know what hit him.

The laps flew by. Ten. Twenty. Thirty. Box. Forty. Matthew could hear the screams of the crowd, see the dancing red figures blurring past. The Italian Grand Prix was always the biggest race for Ferrari; winning here meant more to him than anywhere else. Except for maybe Silverstone, Matthew's home turf.

The headset crackled. "Lap fifty. Three to go."

Matthew gritted his teeth. "What's the distance to Walsh?"

"Focus on your race."

"Alek," Matthew snapped. "How far to Walsh?"

"One second." Alek sounded wary. "But don't race him, Matthew. That's an order."

Like hell.

Matthew sped up. Another lap passed. His chest tightened, his palms growing sweaty on the wheel. Shit. Lucas was fast today — faster than Matthew was, anyway — and he was defending his position well. There was no way to pass Walsh on any of the usual corners.