Sam Campbell
DRIVER, RED BOAR RACING
Sam jams the microphone button. “Say it again, mate. Say it again.”
The fireworks were too loud, too distracting. It's a historical moment, and he needs to hear it.
“Samuel Campbell…” Samuel? Ugh, way to kill the vibe, Frank. Whatever—the next part’s the important bit. “You have just won the Australian Grand Prix.”
“That’s what I fuckin’ thought you said!” Sam whoops and punches the air over his halo. “I reckon we showed these boys a bit’a Down Under, huh?”
He’s playing it up, but he can’t help it. An Australian hasn’t ever won in Melbourne before—he’s allowed to be extra.
“Kangaroos, thongs, shrimp on the barbie?”
Sam laughs, waving to the crowd during his cool down lap. “Only if you’re paying, mate.”
He slows further and takes his time to savor it. It's the first grand prix of the season, Sam’s first victory of the year, and the first time he’s ever led the Drivers Championship.
The last part could change by next week, but, for right now, victory tastes so, so sweet.
The Ferraros are long gone, but the other Red Boar pulls up beside him, waving and flashing Sam a thumbs up. He has no idea where Lucas placed in the end, but one thing's for sure—the reigning champion passed the line behind him.
Sam parks his Red Boar between both Ferraros, at the first-place sign. He didn’t do all that work not to celebrate it, so he climbs up on his car and pumps his fist to the deafening roar of the crowd.
He’s on the ground for a split second before Sam launches himself into his crew.
The guys are ready for him, and they haul him up, over their heads. Limbs scrabble to get a taste, tossing Sam's body in bursts, like choppy water crashing against a boat.
He loves a good stormy sea.
The guys pop Sam back over the barrier and he walks the line, greeting all the stiff-shirts who keep their distance from the human wave.
He thanks his team principal, shakes his trainer by the shoulder, and hugs his mother.
Shit, he’s still wearing his helmet. None of the pictures will show his face.
Can’t have that—it’s his money maker.
Sam whips off his helmet, shoving his balaclava and earpieces into it, and combing a hand through his dark, curly hair, before swooping down for another hug with his mother.
Without the barrier of fabric and foam, everything is louder. Camera shutters snap nearby, everyone desperate for a piece of his thousand-watt Sammy Smile.
They’re going to get it too—this feels like one of the most important days of his entire life.
He gets weighed, shoves the receipt into his suit to deal with later, and wanders over to the interview area.
“Congrats, man.” Rafael greets him with a friendly clap on the back. “Club later?”
“I know a coupl’a good ones.” Sam’s face is going to crack if he smiles any wider. “I’ll text the chat. Bring friends.”
He doesn’t have anything else in common with the Brazilian, so they stand in amiable silence to watch the rest of Thomas’s interview.
The Frenchman is a rambler, so cameras stay trained on Sam’s face. When the broadcast cuts to him, he winks and laughs.
It’s such a perfect day. The only thing stopping Sam from busting a nut in his race suit is the promise of a nice, wet hole waiting for him at the club.
Enough cameras on him and he won’t even need to wait that long. Some hot celebrity chick has to be creaming herself in a garage somewhere. He’ll find her later.
It’s Rafael’s turn at the mic, and Thomas doesn’t even bother with congratulations.
“Did your balance degrade over the race? You kept dipping further into the gravel at turn six.” The driver stares up at him unblinkingly. It’s unnerving, coming from such a little French man.
But not even Thomas’s stupid race analysis can bring Sam down this weekend. “I still won the race, Big Toe.”
“What is this ‘Big Toe’?”
Sam shrugs. “Toe-mas. Massive toe. Big Toe.” He has stupid names for everyone, but he’s proud of this one specifically. “You’re awfully small for a big toe, though. Little Big Toe.”
“Stop this, Samuel.” Thomas says his name so hoity-toity. Sam-you-elle. “Your car is quick on the straights. Even with DRS we could not keep up.”
Sam doesn’t want to break his race down lap by lap with his longtime rival—that’s what the post-race debrief with his team is for. All he wants to hear from Thomas is “You’re the best driver in the world!” and “I could never compete!” or some other groveling adoration.
When Sam struts up to the mic, the volume of the crowd dials up. He waves to the grandstands, and they go fucking ballistic.
“How are you feeling right now?” the reporter asks, straining her voice over the sound of the audience.
What kind of stupid ques—?
“I’m over the moon, for sure, for sure. Happy to represent Australia today, and happy to bring this win home.” He pumps his fist again, and cheers roar through the stands.
“With this win, you’ve cracked Lucas’s streak for the longest time leading the championship. Will this be the year you win the WDC?”
Sam waits for the excitable crowd to settle down before he says, “Well, I’ve got a good head start to it. I guess we’ll see.” Modesty is so sexy.
“Any plans to celebrate tonight?”
Even the reporters cream themselves over him. “Why? You interested?”
She flushes when she says, “Alright, that’s all the time we have—”
Sam’s last to the cool down room and he pauses when something isn’t right.
Thomas has stolen the middle chair and dragged it closer to Rafael’s. Neither driver lifts their head when Sam enters—both are too engrossed in commentating on the racing footage.
But that’s Sam’s chair.
That’s the chair for the winner. The winner of his home race. The race no Australian has ever won before. Today, that chair belongs to him.
Thomas isn’t clueless, he just acts like it. He always has—ever since their first karting championship, when he wandered up to the top step like they’d grant him the race win for standing there. That entitled little—
Sam catches himself and forces a smile. He just won his home race. Thomas isn’t going to ruin that for him.
He switches his team hat for the winner’s hat, grabs the provided water bottle, and sits right on Thomas’s lap.
“What are you—?” the Frenchman squawks.
“I'm enjoying the race!” Sam wiggles his bony ass straight into Thomas’s thighs. “From the best seat in the house.”
His fans will think he’s hilarious, his enemies will say he’s immature, but ever since he shoved Thomas off the tallest step of the podium down to the concrete below, he never stole it from Sam again.
Thomas dumps him onto the ground right as the video footage stops. That’s usually a pretty good indication broadcasting has ended.
“Dude, seriously?” Sam asks, splayed out on the ground. “It’s my home race. Of all races, why’d you take that chair?”
Thomas feigns surprise. “Oh! I did not think you would care so much.” His stupid accent sounds fake. I did nah zink. “I just sat in any chair.”
Sam scoffs. “Win in France and see how much you care.”
“I am already planning to.” He has such an arrogant rat-faced smile. “You may sit in my seat then. I am sure I will be far too happy that day to care.”
“Congratulations,” Lucas says, wrapping Sam in a tight hug. Though the Red Boar garage is a flurry of activity, when Lucas invites someone into his bubble, it’s like no one else exists. “I know how important this is for you.”
There’s no animosity about his record coming to an end, just an honest commendation. Lucas is such a good, noble driver.
Sam folds himself over his teammate’s fluffy, light brown hair and inhales deeply. “Nice of you to get that ten second penalty for me.”
Lucas laughs, releasing the hug, and Sam immediately regrets saying anything. “You won’t be so lucky next time.”
“A couple’a guys are going out tonight—you wanna come?”
“Ah…” That’s a negative. “My bones are too old to party like I used to. You know that.”
Sam’s stupid for thinking this time would be any different. “But today is special—you know that.”
Lucas’s mouth turns up into a small smile as he shrugs. “Alright, I will think about it. Send me the address?”
“Yeah!” Today may be the best day in all of human existence. “Yes, yeah, of course. See you there?”
“We’ll see.”
Sam is three drinks down when he spots his teammate.
Their group is a rowdy bunch—everyone both happy for Sam and excited for the new season. They have a table upstairs, sparklers, and enough scantily clad bottle girls to spell out “SAM CAMPBELL P1” on individual letter signs.
Women drape themselves over Sam, laughing at everything he says, even when he isn't joking. He’s just that naturally charismatic.
It’s great—definitely an ego boost—but he still spends most of the time keeping an eye out for Lucas.
He spots the German driver along the balcony, clutching a drink and gazing out over the dance floor. The scene from above is addicting to watch—the thrum of sweaty, nearly naked bodies intermingling, thrusting about to the heavy beat and flashing lights.
Sam has had enough liquid courage to offer his teammate a private round of sweaty, naked intermingling and thrusting.
He slides up behind him, casually as ever, and settles his hands on his waist. He ducks down, to Lucas’s ear, and says, “I’m glad you could make it.”
Sam doesn’t pull back, his lips hover just over Lucas’s neck, ready for any signal that this might be okay—that tonight’s the night they can finally cross this line with each other.
Lucas doesn’t say a word, but his hand travels up and buries into Sam’s hair, dragging him closer with a guttural moan.
That’s a pretty good signal.
Sam grips Lucas tighter and lavishes his neck for all he’s worth. They’re both drivers in the public eye, so he knows he can't leave any lasting marks, but he can’t pull himself away.
Lucas’s scent is intoxicating, though it’s different than usual. A new cologne for the club—maybe even specifically for Sam.
The thumping bass and strobe lights distort his senses, making his teammate appear even slimmer, more grabbable. Sam gives himself over to it, splaying his hands over the smaller man’s hips.
Lucas groans, pushing his ass backwards until they’re grinding, swaying to the beat. He fits perfectly in his arms and Sam’s hands wander up his slim body to his chest.
These ‘old bones’ are almost liquid with how fluidly Lucas moves in his embrace. It’s better than Sam’s ever imagined it would be. Sexier.
Lucas’s head falls back against Sam’s shoulder and he moans, “Yes, Rafael, just like that.”
Raff-aye-elle.
Sam jerks back and gasps when it’s Thomas’s face that turns around, confused.
“Samuel?” The Frenchman squints, though the club lights aren’t that dim. “Where is—?”
He looks around and Sam can tell the exact moment he spots Rafael across the room, still on the couch. Thomas does a double take and gulps. “You are not Rafael.”
“No shit.” Sam can’t breathe. Or he might be hyperventilating. Can he do both at once? “Well, you’re not Lucas, so I guess we’re both disappointed.”