He guessed croissant #5
He starts the long trek back to his garage. Cold water sounds good. Peeing also sounds good. Tending to his basic needs is easier than sorting out his tangled-up feelings, so that’s where he’ll start.
Once he’s back inside familiar territory, he finally removes his helmet, his balaclava, his earpieces. He still has a small hope everyone will just ignore him, but stares fizzle on his skin as he stands at the water cooler and fills a small paper cup.
“Hey, Sam.” Adam throws an arm over his shoulder and Sam’s stomach drops. “Let’s chat real quick.”
“I gotta piss.”
“You can hold it.”
Adam drags him through the garage, making demands of everyone they come across. Social needs to post, engineering needs to check data, an assistant needs to get Adam a Red Boar, dump half of it, and refill the empty space with vodka.
Sam’s not entirely sure whether he’s joking about that last one.
Adam opens the door to Sam’s own driver’s room. “After you.”
Being alone in a small space with his team principal isn’t exactly his cup of tea, but Sam doesn’t have much of a choice. He dutifully enters the room and plops on the thin mattress.
After Adam closes the door, he opts to stay standing. It gives the atmosphere a terrifying holier-than-thou dynamic.
“I’m sure you know what this is about.”
Sam knows what he hopes it isn’t about. “I don’t, actually.”
Adam crosses his arms in front of him. “This sport is a very small community. We work long hours and we’re away from home for long periods of time. A man has needs.”
Sam nods cautiously and tries to think of anything other than Adam’s needs.
“But—of everybody—why Thomas?”
“Thomas?” Oh good, it’s Sam’s worst nightmare.
“How about Miguel? In engineering? He’s short and a big fan of yours. Or Adrien in marketing, if you’re into the whole French thing. I can have them sign NDA’s, pay for a nice steak meal—the works.”
“I don’t know what you’re tal—”
“Give it up, Sam.” Adam sighs as he uncrosses his arms and plants his hands on his hips. “Our garage is wired better than most museums. I saw the footage of Thomas sneaking into your driver’s room. I’m not as stupid as I look.”
“He apologized.”
“I have been in this business for twenty years. That’s almost your entire life. I’ve seen this shit time and time again and it always fails. Even between drivers that are—frankly—much smarter than you and Thomas.”
“Hey!”
“This won’t end well for you. And, since you might be my number one driver next year, that’s a problem for me. You need to end this relationship. Immediately.”
“There’s nothing between us.” Sam’s throat is ash as he struggles to breathe. “It’s just sex.”
“Do not lie to me.” Adam’s voice darkens. “Everyone in the garage heard your radio. Those weren’t the words of a man who fucks and forgets. That was desperation. Weakness.”
Sam accidentally crumbles the paper cup in his hand and he uses the excuse to look away from Adam’s burning stare.
“I need you to go out there and race for the win. That means overtaking on Thomas—fighting him—even after you thought the worst may have happened. Can you do that?”
“Yes, sir.” Sam stares at the mangled paper cup and steadies himself. Twisted metal engulfed in flame. “Yeah, I can do that.”
“Good.” Adam opens the door, so that’s that. “Ferraro won’t be able to fix Dubois's brake issue in time, so I’ll expect a one-two today. Got it?”
What Adam expects, he gets.
“Got it.”
Sam doesn’t stand up until after his team principal leaves. When he does, his legs wobble and he braces himself against the wall.
The race will restart soon. He needs to leave, to get back to his car. Hard to do when he feels like he’s just been run over.
The broadcast screen says he has a solid ten minutes left, but Sam ducks out of his garage and avoids the pit wall as much as possible. For everyone’s sake, he hopes the assistant made Adam’s Red Boar a double.
Frank stands by Sam’s car and he welcomes the driver with a solid pat to the shoulder. “Just pass Dubois and Adam will forgive you.”
“I seriously doubt that.”
Lorenzo is just ten feet away from them, the Ferraro team principal talking at Thomas with flailing hands. Either he’s mad too, or he’s debriefing his driver in Italian. The mechanics don’t seem to mind, each of them laser-focused on their section of the car.
“Did they fix the brakes?” Sam asks.
“I don’t wanna state the obvious, but it’s hard to tell since the car is still parked. They were just working on them, though.”
Sam’s eyes trail from the back of the car to Thomas’s race boots. His gaze slides up, up, mapping the body he knows so well, until he meets Thomas’s return stare.
He wants to turn away, but he can’t. Thomas looks wrecked, like he’s just returned from war. His eyes are tinged with red, his face blotchy.
Sam only thought he lost Thomas. Thomas almost actually lost Rafael.
“Sam?”
His attention snaps back to Frank. Sam has a job to do—that’s it. It’s his job to take advantage of an opponent’s weakness. It’s his job to race, and it’s his job to win, and when he gets in the car he will do both of those things.
At the end of the race, Sam pulls up to the third-place sign. He considers, for a moment, just staying in the car. The mechanics can pack him up and ship him directly to the British GP, just like that.
No need to face any reporters, no need to look at any other drivers. Just Sam and his car, prepped and ready for the next track. Eager to write over a weekend that used to be Sam’s favorite race.
A couple of thunks to his helmet drag him back to reality.
“It is still a podium,” Lucas says, his voice muffled by the barrier of both helmets.
“Tell that to Adam.”
“I will.” More thunks to the helmet. “Come on. We should celebrate.”
Sam exhales before pulling himself out of the car. Lucas drags him over to the gathered crew where Adam looks surprisingly pleased to see them.
Sam will have to thank his assistant later. He walks the line, patting and congratulating Lucas’s mechanics when cheers make him turn towards the team in red.
Everyone has their cameras up and their phones out to capture Thomas and Rafael embracing over the security line.
The Brazilian looks fine, sans the light gauze wrapped around his wrists. Thomas stretches himself up onto his toes, making himself taller and wrapping himself around the larger driver.
They look like lovers.
Someone turns Sam’s helmet away, and his body follows on command.
“Go get weighed,” Adam says, cursing. “Help him, Lucas.”
Lucas takes the lead again, dragging him towards the scales while rattling on about something his mother said.
Sam can’t turn back around, he can’t go looking for Thomas again.
He’s already fallen way too deep.
In Britain, Sam finishes sixth. He should be disappointed, but he’s just hollow. He replies to Thomas’s room number text with “I’m busy tonight” even though he isn’t. He falls asleep, but only after tossing and turning for several hours.
In Hungary, Sam finishes third and convinces himself he can have sex without feeling anything. He’s done it before, so he can do it again. He shows up to Thomas’s room and lets himself indulge. When he wakes up first, he keeps as still as possible to watch the smaller driver sleep.
Sam finishes third again in the Dutch Grand Prix, but he overtakes both Ferraros so he’s basically cured. When Thomas asks for “doggies” again, Sam spends the rest of the night wondering if he’s imagining Rafael.
“That’s P1, Sam. Congratulations.”
Sam whoops and waves at the Monza crowd. If France hated him, he can only imagine what Italy’s reaction will be. “Tell me when Thomas crosses.”
“Will do.”
He’s happy with first place, of course, but there’s another competition still at stake. Sam taps his steering wheel as he waits for the results. Every added second feels like there’s no way Thomas could be P2.
“Dubois, P3.”
“Fuck yes! Let’s go!”
Sam may not be as smart as other drivers, but he sure as hell knows how to count.
He parks his car and climbs it, jutting his pointer finger into the air. The other Red Boar parks next to him, in the second position. Of course it's Lucas who helped him pass Thomas in the championship.
Sam jumps down from his car and nearly topples the older driver in his excitement.
Lucas steadies him with a grin. “Red Boar one-two!”
“In the championship too.” For the first time since Sam’s DNF in Canada. “I just passed Thomas in the points!”
Lucas lets out a whoop and squeezes Sam impossibly tighter until he squawks.
“Hey! The season’s not over yet, don’t break anything!”
“I am allowed to be happy for you.” Lucas pats his helmet before nodding over to the reception line.
They wander over to their team and Adam smiles at Sam with pride. “You did great out there today.”
“What’s with everybody?” Sam teases. First Lucas is being all sentimental, now Adam. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Of course not.” Adam’s eyes flick over Sam’s shoulder and back. “Just proud of you. Keep it up.”
Sam turns, expecting to see Thomas behind him, but it’s still just Lucas. Usually Adam saved his melancholic glances for drivers who didn’t win him championships, but okay.
Screw ‘em. Sam’s not going to let some weird energy between Adam and Lucas affect his race win celebration.
Thomas is wrapping up his interview by the time Sam completes his weigh-in. He hands the microphone off to Lucas and settles next to Sam. “Good race.”
“Even though I’ve moved ahead in the championship?” Sam finally gets his finicky watch strap fastened and dons his team hat.
“By seven points?” Thomas shrugs. “I will be back next race.”
“Big Toe talks a big game.”
“Small Samuel forgets that Ferraros do better on races with narrow corners.”
“Small—?” Sam sputters. “Of all people, you should know that I’m not—”
“I do.” Thomas has that naughty little twinkle in his eye. “Do not shower tonight.”
“Wait, what?” There are cameras trained on the two of them but Sam’s brain short-circuits. He leans forward and asks, “But the champagne—?”