Chapter Sam Campbell #3
Yeah, they’re both tan, but Sam’s Australian—you can’t blame him for enjoying the outdoors. Their necks are comparably thick, but they’re Form 1 drivers, so it’s to be expected. And yeah, they both have dark curly hair, but Sam’s locks are definitely more luscious. Definitely fuller.
In fact, it looks like Rafael’s hair is thinning. In several years, everyone else will start to notice.
Sam can admit there are worse men to be compared to, but something about Thomas’s disappointment sets him on edge.
Most people want to look at Sam when he fucks them. It’s kinda the whole point of sleeping with a famous person—to be able to say you saw their face when they came.
Sam has such a good coming face too, he’s checked.
He can’t even remember the last time he fucked someone from behind. It’s been years, at least. Not since he was in a committed relationship.
What if he’s bad at it?
No, that’s silly. He’d be really, really good at doggy style. He's good at every position. A professional.
But Thomas will never know, because Sam would never ever, ever degrade himself to take up his offer.
“You keep staring at me.”
“What?!” Sam misses nonchalance by a mile. “You keep staring at me!” Smooth recovery.
“How would you know?” Thomas’s lips curl up into a smug little smirk. “If you were not looking back?”
“Whatever.” Sam pointedly pivots to watch Lucas give his winner’s interview. With Sam’s third-place finish, he’s still holding onto the WDC title, but barely.
“You can say no.”
“What?”
“You can say no, I will not be offended.” Thomas isn’t looking at Sam, he’s watching Lucas. “We were both drunk. It happens. No need to make it complicated.”
So he’s been thinking about it too. Did he notice Sam is way more attractive than Rafael? That it’s basically offensive to compare the two of them?
Did he contort himself to stare at his own back in a mirror? To try to liken it to Lucas’s?
Did he finally understand his plan was doomed to fail?
At least he gave Sam an easy out. “Great, then no.”
“Okay, no.”
Wow he said that fast.
“Great.”
“Okay.”
“Yup.”
Besides, Sam is irresistible. Just because Thomas couldn’t get a leg over on Rafael, doesn’t mean Sam will strike out with Lucas.
It might not happen today, or tomorrow, but over the next couple of years they can grow closer. He just needs to get Lucas more comfortable with the idea of being lovers.
Sam stands on the lowest step of the podium, listens to the German national anthem, and soaks Lucas to the bone.
They have time.
The rumor mill in the paddock is horrible. It’s intrusive, conniving, and—worst of all—usually true. Where there’s smoke, there’s fire, and there’s smoke seeping out from under Lucas’s driver’s room door.
“Retiring?!” Sam asks. It sounds closer to an accusation, but he doesn’t care. “Why the fuck am I hearing that you’re retiring?”
To his credit, Lucas doesn’t look the least bit phased by the outburst. “Probably because I am retiring.”
“You can’t do that!”
Lucas huffs. “You sound just like Adam.”
What a horrifying thought. “Why would you leave when you’re at the height of your career? You’re still in the fight for a fourth title!”
“I like the number four, it is enough.” His confidence is so frustrating sometimes. “I want to race in other series as well. I don’t want to be restricted to Formation 1, to retire when I am too old to learn something new. I am already thirty-five.”
“So? Giovanni is older!”
“Giovanni would rather die in a Form 1 car than live in retirement.” Okay, fair point. “I did not think you’d be so upset. I thought you’d be happy to be the number one driver.”
He should mean ‘of Red Boar’, but the two of them have been consistently first and second in the WDC for the past three years. Lucas could very well be the only thing between Sam and a championship title.
But what would a title mean, if he didn’t beat Lucas to win it?
“Not without you.”
“Ah, I see.” Lucas looks almost pitying as he cups Sam’s cheek, patting it. “I know what you think you are feeling, but it is not real. Trust me, you will move on.”
“Not real?” Sam stiffens. “I dunno what you’re talking about.”
“A lot of drivers feel this. When you are with the same people, away from your friends and family. When tensions are high and adrenaline starts pumping… That is not romantic, it is carnal.”
Carnal?
“But I love you!” Had he known about Sam’s crush all this time?
There it is again—that pitying look. “You will forget it, I promise.”
Sam slams the door when he leaves. He hasn’t changed into his race suit yet, but he marches himself over to the team principal’s office. “What are you doing to stop him?!”
“Let me call you back,” Adam says. He hangs up, but takes his time, scrolling through his phone and avoiding eye contact as long as possible.
That’s okay, Sam has all the time in the world.
“Alright. What is it you want?”
“I want Lucas to stay!”
“Right, so get in line.” Adam sighs, his shoulders drooping. “Look, I get it. Trust me, I want him here more than you do. The VFIbr kids made a whopping two points last year. Together.”
“So what are you gonna do about it?!”
“Not that it is any of your business—” Adam says, giving him the once-over. “—but the board and I are discussing different options. Monetary…”
“He has enough money.”
“…and partnerships too. We have IndieCar and FASCAR connections, as well as MotorGP. We’re trying to work out some sort of guaranteed seat offer, just to keep him around for another two years, but—” Adam buries his face in his hands.
“I don’t fuckin’ know, but he has to stay.
At least until we can get some new kids in the VFIbr.
Get someone who can actually show us something. ”
“He has to stay,” Sam agrees.
“Don’t tell anyone,” Adam says, seriously. “I know the rumor’s already out there, but it’ll sound more concrete if it comes from you. He said he’d give me ‘til summer break to convince him and I’m going to need every second of that time.”
Sam nukes his qualifying.
At the front of the pack, everyone needs to stay focused, present. The difference of three tenths of a second could be the difference between pole and eighth.
Sam has a lot on his mind, so he starts eighth.
He’s already in parc ferme by the time the last lap times roll in. Ferraro loves a late release, so it’s Rafael and Thomas who deliver the final blows.
Sixth isn’t great, but it’s better than eighth.
Seventh is surprisingly low for Thomas, though. He’s usually pretty good at the single lap. Maybe he got a similar ‘You don’t love me, you don’t even know what love is’-type speech from Rafael. Maybe that’s why he’s desperate for a replacement.
Sam’s crew is pissy, but they always are whenever he doesn’t beat Lucas, so he’s used to it. He smiles anyways.
He’s always smiling. He’s Sammy Smiles after all, it’s his brand. This one is more reserved, a little more, “We’ll get ‘em next time.” He doesn’t want to appear complacent.
He tells the reporters how disappointed he is, how he hopes to turn it around during the race. No, it’s not the car—otherwise Lucas wouldn’t have taken pole. Sam won't blame the car, he’ll just say he’ll do better tomorrow and smile the whole time.
Sam has something to prove, so he races hard. He makes some pretty stupid passes that work, and he manages to move up the rankings little by little.
Thomas gives him a good battle for fourth, the two of them trading blows for fifteen laps straight. It almost feels like karting again—back when they were the only two kids on track worth watching.
It might’ve even been fun if it resulted in a placement better than fourth. Unfortunately, their fight isolates them from the front of the pack until neither driver can claw their way up to the podium at the end.
Sam parks his car and stays seated. As soon as he stands, he’ll have to be Sammy Smiles again. Before that, he’ll silently mourn the loss of his WDC lead.
Ten points isn’t the end of the world, but it’s a rough blow when he’s up against Lucas.
Well, that’s just how it goes. Here’s to another year of competing for second. He smacks his wheel before removing it and shimmying out of his car. He makes sure everything's back in place before joining the line to be weighed.
At least in fourth place it’s not weird for him to hide behind his helmet. He accepts the receipt and takes off his helmet and balaclava, finally ready to face the world.
“That was good racing.”
Sam jumps. “Jesus, Thomas, don’t sneak up on people like that.”
“Sorry.”
Once his heart settles, Sam registers the original comment. “Yeah, it was good, wasn’t it?”
“Reminded me of years ago.” Thomas sighs. They aren’t the type to make casual conversation, so this is new territory for them. “Should have been the fight to first. Fourth place is a lame prize for a good battle.”
“Right?!” Sam could almost laugh. “I may have won our fight, but I lost the lead in the championship.”
Thomas sucks in a breath. “That blows. Two weekends, though—not bad.”
“Not great.”
“It is two more weekends than I have had. You did the math?”
“Ten points.”
“Ooh.” Thomas scrunches his nose. It’s not cute. “I could run him off the track next week, give you a better chance.”
Sam laughs. For Thomas, of all people, to suggest something self-sacrificing? Yeah, okay. “Go ahead and clip ‘em for me. Better yet, take yourself out too, that would be great.”
“But then you would not have fun. What is the point of racing if it is not any good?”
“Money,” Sam answers immediately. “Fame. Chicks.”
“If that is really all you cared about, you would not have raced so hard.” Thomas tuts at him. “You would not care about the championship. Would not have hesitated before leaving your car.”
“Yeah, well…” Sam didn’t think anyone would notice the extra time he spent in the car—least of all, bratty little self-centered Thomas.
They slow their walking to a stop, the two of them huddled together near parc ferme. No one seems bothered by them, though. No one pays them any mind.