COMING SECOND
FORMATION 1 SEASON 1
DESIREE CHAMPAGNE
SAM CAMPBELL
DRIVER, RED BOAR RACING
Sam jams the microphone button.“Say it again, mate. Say itagain.”
The fireworks were too loud, too distracting. It's a historical moment, and he needs tohearit.
“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’thoughtyou 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’teverwon 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,sosweet.
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.
