He guessed croissant #7
“I can set up a meeting with Adam.” Sam digs into his pocket and pulls out his phone. “He’d be so happy that someone with your experience—with your record—”
“Wait, Samuel.”
“Red Boar has the money, especially if they aren’t paying for Lucas anymore. And your sponsors? Fuck, Adam will bust a nut, it’s perfect.”
“Samuel.”
“And we could fight for the championship in equal machinery! Both of us, together in the same car—winner takes all. And those stupid marketing videos? You know my favorite track, and I know the kabob thing—it just makes sense.”
“Samuel!” Thomas doesn’t usually raise his voice. “I cannot leave Ferraro.”
That’s right, he just signed a contract extension. How noble of him to think a piece of paper means his future is set in stone. “Yes, you can. Drivers get bought out of their contracts all the time.”
Thomas makes a frustrated noise. “No, I do not want to leave Ferraro.”
“Yes, you do. You complain about their strategy like, all the time.”
“That—that is not me wanting to leave.” His eyes are wide, but they’re pleading, not excited. “Ferraro has been my dream my whole life. I am winning races in the red car. I cannot give up my dream because you are losing Lucas.”
“Lucas has nothing to do with this.” Hasn’t he heard a single word Sam has said? It’s about competency, it’s about the sport, it’s about the principle of the thing—that’s it.
Thomas shoots him a disbelieving look, so Sam tries again.
“Lucas has nothing to do with anything.”
It’s true. Lucas hasn’t been the one on the forefront of Sam’s mind for the past few months. That place has been occupied by a frustrating little French man who always tries to invalidate his feelings.
But Sam remembers Spa. He remembers the Ferraro on fire, how desperate he was for any information on Thomas.
Sam’s heart stopped that day, and it had nothing to do with Lucas.
“Thomas, I love you.” It escapes as a soft plea. “Thomas, I—I need you. Please.”
He’s not sure he’s still talking about the Red Boar seat. The need is bone-deep—a prayer to keep Thomas close to him. To feel like he has some sort of control over these emotions that are far too big for him to comprehend.
“Samuel.” Thomas looks like he’s been shot—surprised, but pained. “You do not.”
“Stop telling me how I feel. I do, I love you!”
“It is okay for us to only be physical.” Thomas turns away, towards the too-large room. “I know it can be difficult to separate, but please, do not say these things you do not feel for me.”
There he goes again. “I’m saying it because I do feel it. I love you, why can't you understand that?”
“The person you love is Lucas.” Why doesn’t Thomas look at him when he says this shit? “I am just—I am his replacement. You want me in the bed, now you want me in the car.”
“I wasn’t the one who wanted a replacement!” Even after the confusion at the club, Sam never would’ve thought of their arrangement—that was all Thomas. Sam was the one who wanted to forget. “It was your obsession with Rafael that started this whole mess.”
“This is not about Rafael.”
“Then it isn’t about Lucas—it never was about Lucas!” Desperation claws up his throat. “Jesus fuck, even the very first time. You told me to keep quiet, you called out his name, but you still weren’t Lucas to me.”
Thomas’s head finally snaps back. “What?”
“When you turned around and started talking, you were so, so Thomas, I couldn’t picture him anymore. I came thinking about you—looking at your face. Then I asked for more. Stop pretending you know how I feel when you don’t know anything!”
Sam’s breath falls in heavy pants. He might’ve gone too far.
Thomas, on the other hand, is stock-still. “Since the beginning?”
Sam nods violently as he swallows.
“I…” Thomas shudders out an exhale. It doesn’t sound good. “I do not know what to say.”
“Say you’ll join Red Boar. Tell me you love me too—that you choose me over Rafael. Please.”
“I—” Tears well up in his eyes when Thomas finally responds. “I cannot say those things.”
Oh.
So that’s how it is.
His fixation on Rafael is so strong that he’d rather long for a man who doesn’t care about him—a man who thinks he eats croissants—than be with someone who wants him. Someone who knows him. Someone who only has eyes for him.
That’s how it always is, isn’t it?
Second place for Sam. Again.
He picks up his discarded shirt and his shoes in one fell swoop. He doesn’t bother putting anything on, he just walks out of the room.
The sound of Thomas calling his name is cut off by the slamming of the hotel door. It’s almost satisfying for their relationship to end with such a harsh and final noise.
Several people in the hallway turn to see who would dare cause such a commotion, and their mouths drop.
Fuck. Fans.
Sam waves his shirt at them, hoping nobody asks for a picture, but their phones are out and up, pointing to him within seconds.
He laughs because of course. Of course there are people here to record one of the worst moments of his life. He wouldn’t be Sam Campbell if he was ever given a single moment of peace.
He pulls his shirt back over his still-sticky torso and shoves his feet back into his shoes before taking selfies with the fans. Once they are satiated, he ducks into the stairwell.
With each heavy footfall that echoes in the still chamber, he replays the conversation with Thomas. With each replay, he grows angrier and angrier about what just happened.
Why do people always try to tell him how he feels? Why do they think he’s some musclebound, small-cocked idiot who can’t think for himself?
Sam doesn’t need Thomas, he doesn’t even need Lucas. He can drag Red Boar to the front of the pack all by himself. Not only that, but he can have sex any time he wants.
Actually, clubbing sounds great. Clubbing sounds like the perfect way to celebrate his race win.
Because he’s the one who won the fucking race. He was the best driver on the track today. He’s not a nobody, he’s Sammy fucking Smiles.
Owain hasn’t sent an address to their chat, so Sam shoots him a text before jumping in the shower. A nice, warm shower helps. The water drags all of those stupid emotions down the drain alongside the sticky champagne residue.
Yes, champagne. Who gives flying fuck what the French think? They’re always fuckin’ wrong.
He can drink whatever wine he wants with his cock steak.
Sam calls Ezra for a ride to the club, and Owain meets him outside, dragging him up and over to where the group is sitting, near the DJ.
Throughout all of his disgruntled mumblings and confidence-building pep talks to himself, Sam forgot to factor in that fucking Rafael might be there.
He splays out in the middle of the couch, covered in scantily dressed women. He has no idea the love of Sam’s life chose him. No idea Thomas is alone in that stupidly large hotel room, asking men to fuck him and calling out the wrong name, hoping one day Rafael will choose him back.
Fuck, Sam’s such an idiot.
“Sammy!” A few of the girls squeal with excitement and make room for him on the couch. They’re attractive enough, but right now Sam needs alcohol more than he needs another hole who will only let him down.
He’s several shots and a cup of brown liquor closer to his goal of forgetting about Thomas when Rafael leans around some girl and into Sam’s space. “Come with me.”
“No, thank you.” They have nothing in common anymore, so they have nothing to talk about. If Sam walks away with Rafael, things won’t end well.
“Let’s talk.”
“?No, gracias!”
Obviously Rafael isn’t used to hearing no in any language. He sits back, but continues to glare at Sam over the top of a blonde woman who can’t move her eyebrows.
That’s okay, there are more girls on Sam’s other side. “You said you have a dog?” he asks a brunette, just for something to talk about.
“I actually have two.”
“Fascinating.”
Rafael’s voice is closer when he says, “Aren’t you supposed to be somewhere right now?”
Sam turns, but the buffer of the Botox Blonde has left. Rafael’s too close for his comfort. “It’s none of your business where I am.”
“It’s Ferraro’s business.” Rafael’s face turns up into an ugly sneer. Thomas likes this fuckhead? “And if it’s Ferraro’s business, then it’s my business.”
“Righto.” Sam can’t listen to this right now. He pushes himself up, off the couch, and walks away, hopefully in the direction of a bar. They have their own waitresses, but sometimes it’s better just to leave the table.
Sam can tell Rafael’s following him. He should’ve guessed that would happen, but it still pisses him off.
“Hey.” When Rafael catches up, he grabs Sam’s shoulder. “I was talking to you.”
Sam pushes the limb off. “Well, I wasn’t listening, so go find a groupie and talk at them instead.”
“I know you’ve been fucking him.” Rafael forces himself in front of Sam’s face. His breath smells like too much liquor. “It needs to stop.”
“Alright.” Sam shrugs, his hands flying up. “I stopped. You happy now?”
Rafael still looks decidedly unhappy. He shoves Sam, his stupid hands splayed out over his chest.
Sam’s tipsy enough not to expect it, and he stumbles over. “What the fuck was that for?”
“I’m serious,” Rafael growls. “You need to leave him alone.”
Sam’s a pretty peaceful dude, but he’s still Australian. Nobody hits him and gets away with it. He strides right back up to Rafael and pushes him back, knocking him into a group of strangers.
When Rafael rights himself, he raises his fists. Sam boxes in his free time, so he’s not intimidated. He hefts his fists up as well. Finally, after everything, the guy who deserves a beating is the one asking for it.
Rafael pounces with a decidedly not-boxing hit and smacks him in the face. Sam responds by drilling forward. They fall to the ground in a tangle of limbs, punching and kicking at whatever they can.
Voices yell for them to stop, but as long as Rafael is fighting, Sam will keep fighting. He’s scrappy like that.