He guessed croissant
I’m sure Jean-Luc would appreciate you fuckin up your diet like that
That is what I said!!!
I’d guess snails
Correct
Shit really???
No.
Kabob
?No!
Sam’s actually a little disappointed he didn’t know that.
Well, when would he have learned it? Before this season, Sam and Thomas weren’t anything but rivals. Competitors don’t share a lot of meals together, so how was he supposed to know what Thomas liked to eat?
It’d be nice to know something like that, though. Especially now that they’re—
Is friends the right word?
Thanks
Not a problem
At least we are dealing with the same thing?
Yeah
That helps
“You’ll be starting on pole position today.”
It’s not a question, but Sam braces himself against the railing on the driver’s parade truck and answers, “Yep. I'm happy to be at the front of the pack, especially in Canada.”
“The Red Boar looked very strong during practice, but so did the Ferraros. What’s your plan going into this one?”
“You’re asking me about strategy while Thomas is on the other side of you?”
Thomas’s head perks up at the mention of his name. “Do not worry about me, I cannot hear you.”
“Good, ‘cause we’re starting on wets and we’d hate for anyone to know.”
Thomas chuckles and the reporter says, “The two of you are rather close in the championship standings.”
“Three, if you count Lucas.” Sam’s done the math a million times. “I’m only eleven points behind Lucas, eight points ahead of Thomas.”
“So this race can really shake up the standings!”
If it’s another run like Australia or France where Sam finishes first and Lucas finishes fourth, Sam will snatch the championship away again. He’s so close he can taste it.
Without a signed contract, Lucas is still one foot out of Formation 1. If he’s willing to reconsider his retirement for one race, he’ll absolutely stay for an entire championship.
Besides, Sam doesn’t want to win a championship he didn’t fight Lucas for. It’s the same as admitting he can’t.
The reporter moves on to Laurent and Thomas takes her place. He halfheartedly waves up at the crowd and takes a sip from his water bottle. “Starting on wets, huh?”
Sam gasps. “How did you find out our super-secret strategy?”
“Ferraro gathers intel in many ways.”
“Well, now that you know what we’re doing, what tires are you starting on?”
“The starting tires are not the most important,” Thomas says, leaning in. “It is the pit stop strategy. We are stopping on the second lap.”
“Before the rest of the field? That’s a good idea.” Sam waves at the bleachers as the truck bounces along. “Then you can do the other sixty-nine laps on softs—you’ll go so fast.”
“Oh no, we are planning a multi-stop race. At least forty times.”
Sam laughs, gripping onto the pole again for balance. “New tires, new rubber for the entire race. Why didn’t I think of that?”
There’s a sparkle in Thomas’s eye when he says, “I hope you are writing this down for your engineers.”
“Thomas.” Rafael grasps his teammate’s shoulder in greeting before trailing down his back and stepping close. “You’re conversing with the enemy?”
Enemy. What a tool.
“We are discussing race strategy,” Thomas dutifully answers.
Around Rafael he stands a little taller, a little straighter. He also turns towards him, shutting everyone else out of their bubble. It’s annoying, really. If he can’t relax around the Brazilian, then why does he even like him?
“Yeah, Big Toe was asking for my opinion on Plan C, but I reckon Plan B is a much safer route.” Sam’s talking out of his ass, but it seems to strike a chord with the Ferraro drivers.
“Either way, you know Lorenzo’ll wanna run Plan A.
Hopefully, you can convince him otherwise—I think it’s doomed to fail. ”
“You told him about—?”
“No!” Thomas cuts Rafael off before he can leak anything juicy. “He is just joking. è un’informazione divertente.”
Thomas and Rafael continue to speak in Italian, and Sam’s dictionary of small pleasantries doesn’t cover what they’re fighting about.
He tries not to be too pleased about the chaos he caused as he wanders off to talk with Robert and Javier.
Sam hops in place next to his car as Frank does the final checks. It’s good to be back at the very front with Lucas parked next to him.
When they’re still, the Ferraros on the second row look much further away than when they’re in motion. Sam and Lucas will have to be on the defensive immediately if they’re going to keep the 1-2.
The car behind him is Rafael, and Sam strains his neck for a peek at a rogue tire before the mechanics can slap a cover back on it. The wall of red doesn’t seem to mind Sam’s curiosity, so he watches them ready the car as he shakes out his excess energy.
Places are called, and he fist-bumps his crew for luck. He stomps his right foot three times and knocks the edge of his racing boot against the side panel before climbing into the cockpit. One last adjustment to his junk and he slides down into the seat.
“Radio check, Sam.”
“Radio check.”
It’s just another day in the office. He tries to push all thoughts about the championship out of his brain to focus on the here and now.
He sets the pace for the formation lap, keeping most of his attention on his mirrors and tracking the distance between himself and the Ferraros. Lucas must be doing so as well—both of them slow when Thomas does, when he tries to hold up the rest of the pack.
At least it’s an easy move to predict. At the slower pace, Sam swerves to pump heat into his tires. If Thomas has warm tires at the jump, he sure as hell will.
They line up again and Sam grips the wheel extra tight. He’s not thinking about the championship standings. He’s definitely not thinking about the eleven points between him and Lucas.
Lucas’s retirement is the last thing on his mind.
Green flag and the lights illuminate. One, two, three, four championships, five. Lights out and he’s on the throttle.
Sam’s tires grip the road, and he propels forward, cutting to the middle to keep his lead. His attention flits between the road ahead and the Red Boar in his mirrors.
With a squeeze, he’s the first to the apex of turn one and he maintains that momentum through to turn two.
On the straight, he’s surprised to see red in his mirrors. He’s definitely not happy about it.
No good teammate or lover would be happy to see the Ferraros overtake on Lucas. To push him further back in the points. It’s a cruel thing to celebrate, so Sam doesn’t.
He keeps his head down and manages his tires, pushing to extend the gap back before DRS is enabled.
Chicane ahead and a Ferraro is still on his ass. Sam’s fine with that—he can defend harder than anyone.
He’s elbows out, keeping the red car behind as they enter the first turn, but the Ferraro leaves the road—cutting straight across the second turn—and re-enters the race line right as Sam passes through.
Sam’s car jolts with the impact. He tries to wrangle it, to keep it on track, but he ricochets off the Wall of Champions and spins out across the track. He drops the steering wheel on instinct—the last thing he needs is to break a bone—before he hits another wall.
He’s disoriented from the spinning, but he still radios in with, “I’m okay.”
He’s not okay. Sam makes sure his mic is off before he screams in frustration.
This was his chance. His chance. To lead the WDC, to convince Lucas to stay—all of the hopes he had for the day are sucked down the drain by one stupid, reckless Ferraro driver.
He’s positioned facing the pit lane entrance. When his dash lights up with the red flag, the other cars file into the pits. He can only imagine how pathetic he looks—the Red Boar strewn all over the road in pieces when he was supposed to lead the WDC.
Looking around, he doesn’t see a red car.
“Who the fuck pulled that move?” Sam knows who it was. Only one Ferraro driver would put him in the fucking wall.
“We can discuss it later. Glad you’re safe.”
“I’ve got all the time in the world right now.” It’s too unsafe for him to leave his car yet with all the traffic flying past. “Is Rafael out too? Did he send both of us into the wall?”
A vindictive part of him hopes he did. He hopes the Ferraro is completely totaled for that stupid-ass move he pulled. Was he trying to show off for Thomas? Oh, I can take him out for you. What a fucking disgrace.
“Sam, let’s discuss it when you return.”
“I swear, if Rafael isn’t penalized to the fullest extent of—”
“It wasn’t Rafael.”
What?
Wait.
It definitely wasn’t Thomas—he always fought cleanly. He’s annoying and frustrating, sure, but he wouldn’t do such a rash and reckless move like cutting across a chicane for an advantage.
If it wasn’t Rafael and it wasn’t Thomas, who else could it be? Did Ferraro have a reserve driver running this weekend? Surely Sam would’ve noticed.
“We’ve reported Dubois—both for the collision and for leaving the track and gaining an advantage—but the stewards are already investigating it.”
Dubois is Thomas’s last name. “But Thomas doesn’t race like that.” Maybe Frank got the two confused. It’s hard to distinguish the cars sometimes. “He’s a better driver than that—that was a rookie mistake.”
A Ferraro dives into the pit lane, followed by the other Red Boar. It’s definitely Rafael—his obnoxiously fluoro camera and gaudy helmet is visible from anywhere.
Teetering behind the two, another Ferraro stumbles back. His front wing is snapped and dragging on the ground.
It’s Thomas’s car.
Sam smacks his steering wheel and screams again.
Thomas only needs eight points to tie second place in the championship. Twenty to overtake the lead.
Why did Sam think he knew him so well? Because they fuck?
I could run him off the track.
Sam thought Thomas was joking, but maybe he just didn’t understand what the Frenchman was willing to do—how far he was willing to go—to win the championship.
“Track is clear.”