Chapter Sam Campbell #9
Sam hops in place to pull his trousers back on. “Hey, um, thanks for last night.” He fumbles with the buttons of his shirt instead of looking at Thomas’s face.
“Not a problem. The women were right—you are very good. Though…” he mumbles the rest.
Sam’s stomach drops. “Though what? What’s wrong? Did I go too far?”
It was the biting, wasn’t it?
“No, definitely not. It is the, uh—” Thomas points to Sam’s face, and then to his own jaw. “Your face hair. I burn where it rubbed.”
“Oh shit, I’m sorry.” Sam hasn’t shaved since Thursday morning. His stubble is definitely thicker than the clean-shaven look he usually wears. “I didn’t think about it—I’ll shave next time.”
Next time?
“Non, no, it is fine.” Thomas waves his hands as he shakes his head. “No, it is not a bad thing. Like a souvenir. When I, like this”—he twists his hips in place—“I feel it and remember.” He quickly turns away, but he can’t hide the blush dusting his cheeks.
He likes it. He likes Sam’s souvenirs.
The Ferraro logo is bold across his chest. They’re supposed to be rivals, not souvenir buddies, but Sam can’t pull himself away.
“So…” Sam’s throat is dry all of a sudden. “You like marks? Bruises and hickeys and stuff?”
Thomas pulls up a shoulder. “Not where they will be visible, no. But… yes.”
“Alright.” This is definitely a conversation to have with someone he’s going to fuck again. Sam can’t pretend like he isn’t interested—his dick won’t let him. “Yeah, I can do that for you.”
“For me?”
“Yeah.” Sam’s going to claim all of Thomas’s hidden parts for himself. He’s going to stamp his name with his mouth. “Yeah, I’m a nice guy like that.”
The elevator pings when it reaches the sixteenth floor. Sam needed to be packed and out like, twenty minutes ago, so he almost bowls over the person waiting just outside.
“Sorry!” he says, on reflex, hoping it’s not a fan.
“Sam?”
Well, it’s not a fan.
“Hey!” Sam’s breath is punched out of him as he stumbles. “Hey, Lucas. Good morning.”
“I thought you were on the tenth floor?”
“So did I.” Sam tries to laugh, but it sounds forced, even to his own ears. Hopefully Lucas doesn’t notice Sam’s wearing the same outfit he wore to dinner last night.
“Who’s staying up there?”
Ah. The elevator must’ve tattled on him.
“Um…” Sam doesn’t know what to say, so he opts for the low-hanging fruit. “Your mom.”
Lucas huffs and shoves his way past him. “You are such a child sometimes.”
“Yeah.” There’s no point in arguing, but he still feels dejected. “Yeah, I am.”
In Imola, Sam finishes second place behind Lucas and leaves dark hickies over Thomas’s hip bones as souvenirs.
In Monaco, Sam finishes second place behind Thomas and gets revenge by edging him until he cries out for cock.
In Spain, Sam finishes second place behind Lucas and sixty-nines Thomas, pinning his hips down and fucking into his mouth.
Some drivers never see a podium in their entire Form 1 career—much less the amount that Sam has accrued—but it’s frustrating to always finish second. To only ever be almost good enough.
Sam slides up next to Thomas before the national anthem. Instead of the Frenchman’s usual calm pre-race demeanor, Thomas is practically bouncing in place.
“You seem excited,” Sam teases.
“But, of course! It is my home race.”
Sam covers his mouth with a mocking gasp. “Is it?!”
Every single sign around the paddock is aggressively French with a small English translation at the bottom. He and Lucas had gotten lost after the fan stage and had to call Janice to rescue them.
Sam appreciates the croissants, though.
Thomas huffs and jostles him with his shoulder, causing Sam to laugh harder.
The grid kids turn to stare at them with their beady little French eyes and Sam just waves them off. “You’re setting a bad example for them.”
“You are the one who is the bad example.”
Thomas leans over to their height and speaks in rapid French to the delight of the children. Their little faces light up and soon they’re sneaking glances at Sam and giggling.
“What?” Sam hates children. “What are you saying to them?”
Thomas hits him with one of his mischievous looks as he stands back upright. “The anthem is starting soon, shush.”
Sam checks his too-complicated sponsor watch and looks around. They’re still several minutes from showtime, but they’re missing quite a few people.
Rafael is notably absent. Guess he doesn’t care about his teammate’s national anthem.
“So what’s your anthem called?” Sam cares. Look how much he cares.
Thomas raises a single eyebrow before answering, “La Marseillaise.”
“You gonna sing along?”
Thomas laughs as he replies, “No, no, that is better left to the professionals.”
“C’mon, I reckon you should march up there and help her.” Sam nods over to the woman in an evening gown waiting patiently in front of a microphone stand. “You can sing the high parts.”
“Sorry I’m late.” Rafael forces himself in between Sam and Thomas. There was plenty of space on either side of them, but okay. “What’s so funny?”
Thomas sobers quickly and stands straighter. “Ah, nothing.”
Sam doesn’t have anything against Rafael. He barely knows the guy, really. They’ve partied together, but that’s only because Owain invites both of them out.
Between Thomas and Owain, maybe Sam just hasn’t seen whatever makes Rafael someone worth caring about.
“Hey Rafael, can you sing?”
Rafael’s eyebrows draw together. He's probably confused about why someone would deign to speak to him, but Sam's whole schtick is that he’s a friendly dude. A happy guy. Sammy Smiles.
“Ah… no.” Rafael looks over at the woman. “And definitely not in French.”
Thomas laughs and it bothers Sam for some reason. Like he’s being made fun of.
“What languages do you speak?” Sam presses.
“Why?” Rafael usually looks somewhat disoriented, but it’s stronger now. “Are you becoming a reporter?”
“Just curious.”
Rafael counts on his fingers. “English, Italian, a little French, and Portuguese, of course.”
“Of course,” Sam echoes. No Spanish? Thomas must feel pretty smug. “Hey, I don’t know much Portuguese. How d’ya say ‘Good morning’?”
Thomas interrupts with, “Looks like they are about to start.”
“Next time, then, buddy.” Sam pats Rafael’s back in a way that’s supposed to look friendly, but might be a tad too rough. Whoops.
When the anthem wraps, Rafael wanders off and Sam takes his place, walking alongside Thomas back to the paddock. “I hoped you’d sing along.”
“I already said I would not.”
“Yeah, but I still thought I’d catch you mouthing the words.” Sam wanted more material to tease him with. “Do you not know the lyrics or somethin’?”
“Do you know the words? Were you paying attention?”
“To the French song famously sung in French, a language I don’t know? Not really.”
“That is too bad.” Zat izz. Not cute. “Maybe you can be listening better to it after the race.”
Sam stops for a moment while he tries to remember if the French anthem is played more often than any other anthem. It’s not, right? Not unless—
“Hey!” Sam has to skip a couple of steps to catch up. “Are you talkin’ smack to me?”
He’s more confused than offended. Sure, Sam and Lucas rib each other about jumping the start, but he’s never had that type of teasing relationship with Thomas. No, the Frenchman always seemed like he was above that sorta shit.
Then again, maybe it’s easier to be confident since Thomas is starting on pole. That, combined with Sam’s recent string of second-place finishes, doesn’t exactly bode well for an Australian anthem at the end of the day.
“If I am looking like Lucas from behind, maybe you are defending for me during the race.”
Sam's jaw drops. Was that a joke?! Is Thomas almost… funny?
“What happened to ‘I never want to be handed a victory, even for my home race’?”
“I like changing my mind.” Thomas smirks when he says it. “I used to hate you, after all.”
“Used to?” Sam repeats. “And now?”
Thomas doesn’t answer. He just wanders off with a hum towards the Ferraro garage.
Sam holds onto P2 through to the call to box. He doesn’t get to taste the race lead for a single moment—Thomas darts into the pits right as Sam does. The back of the Ferraro stays burned into his retinas.
Sam mashes his thumb into the mic button. “That has to be an unsafe pit entry.”
“Focus on the pit stop. Adam will handle the penalties.”
It’s a quick stop, but not enough to jump in front of the Ferraro on exit. The red car leads the way through the grid and Sam is powerless to do anything but trail behind.
Sam’s car is faster. He knows his car is faster, but Thomas knows his weaknesses and he’s out in full force today. Even through the Mistral Straight with DRS—no matter which side Sam tries to pass on, Thomas jerks over and blocks him.
Well, this is his home race. Like Albert Park is for Sam. It gives him that extra fire, the extra motivation to succeed. There’s a story there, about the hometown hero coming out on top and winning it all. Makes anybody want to root for him.
But Germany was Lucas’s home race. Did Thomas show any mercy then?
Sam hasn’t tasted that top step since Australia—since the very first race of the year. Every single weekend after he has fallen short.
He’s tired of coming second. He’s frustrated with the leftmost step. He isn’t so predictable that a slower car can hold him back with a few defensive lunges.
Sam wants to win.
“No further investigation on Dubois.” The radio crackles. “You’re eight tenths behind and you’ve just set the fastest lap. Two laps to go. Push push.”
“Affirm.”
If Thomas will catch him out on the straight, the best thing Sam can do is to surprise him in a corner. If he’s so predictable, maybe he should try something he’d never do.
Your car is quick on the straights. Even with DRS we could not keep up. It’s why Sam keeps lunging on the straights—it’s where Red Boar does best. The downforce is too strong on a Ferraro to fight in the turns.
So Sam has to.