Chapter Sam Campbell #10
Buried in a slew of turns, he sends it around the outside of turn six—a turn he’d rather divebomb on the inside of. If it makes Sam uncomfortable, maybe Thomas won’t expect it.
It’s clumsy and inelegant, but it works—Sam pushes through the long turn six and slides ahead of Thomas right before turn seven, leaving nothing but open air for the Mistral Straight.
The Ferraro bites at his heels, Thomas’s DRS immediately enabled, but the Red Boar is a powerhouse through the straights and Sam loses him by the exit.
“Great pass, Sam,” Frank says. “Maintain and defend.”
Sam wastes no energy replying. He keeps his head down and focuses on executing the perfect lap.
Thomas fills his mirrors, despite the haggard pace of the red car. He lunges recklessly through turn twelve, cuts too sharp in turn fifteen.
“Final lap.”
Despite his pace, Sam can’t shake the Frenchman. He hops off the race line in the straight, hoping to negate any sort of tow Thomas might pick up, but the red car is still on his ass when he brakes for turn one.
He grits his teeth into the turns, keeping his defenses up where the Ferraro is strongest. He can breathe again once he reaches the next straight, and considers—for a fraction of a second—ignoring the chicane entirely and plowing right through.
Instinct wins and he brakes for the chicane late enough to prevent Thomas from swinging around. He takes the next turn too quickly, possibly triggering track limits.
Whatever. He’s been clean the entire race. It’s fine.
After the final turn, he spots his team hanging off the gate, pumping their fists in the air, but Sam can’t relax yet. He pushes harder, full throttle, and only releases his breath after they finally pass the finish line.
“That’s P1, Sam. P1. Great job.”
Sam screams triumphantly and smacks the halo a few times. “Jesus fuck, that’s music to my ears.” He laughs but disengages his microphone when it starts to sound a little maniacal. “Great car, guys. Mega job to the team. We’re back in this thing!”
He waves to the crowd, even if they’re probably cursing his name.
Doesn’t matter, Sam can’t speak French anyways.
A Ferraro passes him and Sam waves before realizing it’s Rafael’s helmet. “Where’s Thomas?”
“He finished P2, but he’s slowing to the back. He’s waiting to be cleared for doughnuts, though I’m not sure he’ll still want to do them.”
“Right.”
Sam’s stomach drops with guilt and he’s immediately annoyed at it.
He loves to win. It’s his job to win. It doesn’t matter who he’s racing or what track they’re at—the point of the sport is to be the best, and he just proved that he is.
His stupid gut needs to get over itself. They have celebrating to do.
Sam pulls up next to Rafael’s parked Ferraro and climbs up on top of his car with excitement. Looking out over the sea of people gathered to see him in his prime, he strikes his signature strong-arm pose.
Fuck, it’s good to be back on top.
Sam throws himself against his crew and they topple over themselves as they try to grab at any part of him they can reach. His helmet echos with the sound of smacks and his shoulder kinda smarts, but he can’t care about that today.
He backs up and pulls off his helmet, balaclava, and earpieces to walk the line. Adam first, then his trainer, then his manager.
By the time he turns back around, Thomas’s car is parked, but the man is nowhere to be found. Where could he have disappeared to? He's short, but not—
Oh.
The Ferraro drivers are together in front of their team, embracing like they’re mourning the death of their child or some shit. Like, Jesus fuck guys, get a room. Everyone can see them crying—it’d be less gay to blow each other.
Sam stomps past them to the scale, dumps his helmet on the stand, and dons his hat and watch. If the Ferraros are so busy with each other he can just start the interviews himself.
He steps up in front of the screen, takes the proffered mic, and smiles.
Boos ring out from the stands, loud enough to drown out the first question.
“What was that?” Sam asks, smiling. Always smiling. “Couldn’t hear ya there.”
“That is… quite the reaction,” the reporter says instead.
“Yeah, well, I get it. Big Toe was in the lead for most of the race, so I’m sure I just became public enemy number un.”
He laughs at his own joke, though no one in the crowd does.
They discuss the fight at the end and Sam has to stop himself from turning around and watching the footage. Hopefully the last lap looked just as sick as it felt.
Sam’s dismissed, but Thomas and Rafael are still holding onto each other, their heads tilted inwards.
“You’re up.” Sam shoves the microphone in between them.
Thomas finally makes eye contact before accepting the microphone and turning away.
Guess Sam’s not going to receive any congratulations anytime soon.
“You shouldn’t play games with him,” Rafael says, completely unprompted.
“What?”
Had Thomas told him about them? How much of their situation did he know about?
Rafael doesn’t bother to look at him—he’s watching Thomas. The crowd is absolutely feral for their hometown hero, and it’s impossible to hear any of what he’s saying.
“You didn’t attack until two laps to go?” Rafael scoffs. “You’re in the fastest car. You let him think he could win, only to snatch it away at the last second.”
Oh that’s fucking rich. “He took the win from Lucas in Germany on the last lap. Thomas will get over it.”
Lucas won’t if he retires.
“Ah, I see. So it was for revenge?”
Sam bristles under the scrutiny. “If you have a problem with how I race—”
“I have a problem with all of you.”
It’s like an actual slap to his face.
Sam’s a good guy. He’s fun, charismatic, handsome. He’s the best of everything. He’s a well-liked person.
Sure, there are trolls online who say shit, but he’s never had someone say they didn’t like him to his face.
Thomas hands the microphone off to Rafael, and the Brazilian leaves without another word.
“Are you okay?” Thomas asks.
“Yeah, I—” There’s no cool way for Sam to admit Rafael got to him, so he doesn’t. “Yeah, no, yeah, I’m good. Um, how are you?"
“You look like you are the one who lost his home race.” Thomas reaches a hesitant hand out and squeezes his shoulder. They don’t usually touch each other while they’re wearing clothes. “You are supposed to cheer me up.”
“Cheer up,” Sam says. It sounds a little morose.
“Now I am less cheery.” Thomas accentuates a frown, the edges of his mouth nearly falling off his face. “Seriously—what did Rafael say to you? I am not being that upset, I promise. I will win next year.”
“It wasn’t about you.” Sam says so with confidence, though he’s not exactly sure if it's true.
After all, he held no negative feelings towards Rafael before he started sleeping with Thomas. Maybe that street flows in both directions.
The three of them walk together through the hallways to the cool down room, Sam and Rafael on either side of Thomas. There’s a notable tension in the air, but the drivers remain silent.
Sam can’t let this weird, negative energy ruin his win. This will be the first time since Australia he’ll sit in the middle—
Wait.
He didn’t sit in the middle chair in Australia.
Win in France and see how much you care.
I am already planning to. You may sit in my seat then.
The trio turns the corner and Sam only barely registers the middle chair before Thomas takes off towards it.
Sam runs for fun, so he knows he’s fast, but Thomas has a split-second head start and the room isn’t exactly large. They reach the chair at the same time, dragging it off the wall in their attempts to claim it.
“You said I could have it!” Sam yelps, trying to shoulder Thomas out of the way and planting a knee up on the seat.
For someone so small, Thomas is surprisingly aggressive. “The person who is not winning the French Grand Prix is the one sitting in the chair!” His elbow is a dagger into Sam’s ribs.
“That doesn’t make any sense!”
Thomas manages to scramble up to the chair with his stupid willowy body even though Sam still has a stronghold on the wooden poles keeping the seat’s fabric in place. It’s amazing that the wobbling thing is still intact at all.
Sam pants, his breaths warm and moist. Their squabble wasn’t that rough, but the race was hot and he hasn’t fully recovered yet. He leans heavier against the chair, but that only brings Thomas’s face closer.
“I win.”
Thomas isn’t wearing his usual mocking grin. This expression is more secretive—the smile more intimate. A tease, maybe? A flirt? Either way, it’s something dangerous.
Something that shouldn’t be broadcasted.
“Fine, fine,” Sam says, as casually as he can manage. He heaves himself upright and over to the stands.
He’s a good sport, so he bunches up the second-place towel, hat, and water bottle and hands the bundle over to a red-faced Thomas who nods his thanks through gulps of air.
“What the fuck was that?” Rafael mumbles. He exchanges his Ferraro hat for the podium one and politely sits in his assigned chair.
The man didn’t know how to have fun. Of course a guy like that would hate Sam. There are worse things in life than being disliked by boring people.
Sam might be biased, but the Australian national anthem is by far the best one. He’s still humming it even hours later, when he's champagne sticky in his driver’s room and wondering what to eat for dinner.
What did French people eat? Like, snails?
He’s willing to try them at this point—anything that feels celebratory. Anything that isn’t another mindless club.
He’s already declined Owain’s invitation to party. It just seems empty now, to be in a loud room surrounded by strangers he doesn’t even talk to before fucking.
Maybe Sam should leave the group chat. He hasn’t gone out since Australia and he isn’t looking to do so for the foreseeable future.
Plus he’s tired of seeing Rafael’s name in his messages every goddamn weekend.