They’re headed in the same direction, so they start walkingagain. When they reach the Red Boar garage, Sam excuses himself.
Instead of immediately hiding away in his driver’s room, he waits until Thomas is far enough before he yells, “Later, Big Toe!”
The Frenchman turns and flashes two middle fingers. “I can still cancel!”
Sam cackles as he wanders back into the garage, setting his helmet on the first available surface. His engineers still look pissed, but he feels strangely positive.
“You’re in a good mood.” Lucas is soaked with champagne, his hair dripping with it. They must have finished the podium ceremony already.
“I had a good race. Congratulations, by the way. Both for the win and the championship.”
“I saw a bit—they played a couple of your overtakes in the cool down room.” That’s nice to hear, at least. “I did not know you were close with Thomas?”
“We’ve been racing since we were kids.” Ever since Sam moved to Europe for karting. “So, yeah, I guess we’re pretty close in skill.”
Lucas smiles. “That’s good. Treasure it.”
Sam would be offended by the insinuation that Lucas hasn’t had a good fight since his own contemporaries retired, but it’s too close to the truth. Instead, Sam smiles, promises to do so, and wanders off to the media pen.
Sam shows up to room 2113 with a bottle of wine, three condom packets, and a stomach full of nerves.
It’s stupid to be nervous. It’s just sex. He knows sex. He’ssogood at sex.
He checks his breath one more time before knocking. When the door opens, he stands a little straighter.
For a split second Thomas is almost unrecognizable. Sam never realized how much he associated Thomas with Ferraro red until he’s wearing another color.
Suddenly the mix-up at the club makes more sense.
Thomas is dressed down to a loose-fitting white shirt and grey sweatpants. Though they’re just basic clothing items any guy would have in his closet, they seem almost fashionable on him. Elevated, somehow.
Thomas motions for Sam to enter and carefully shuts the door behind him instead of letting it fall.
Even his hair looks styled. It seems softer? Plush? “Did you blow-dry your hair?”
Thomas lifts a hand to his strands, almost self-consciously. “Yes. It is terrible when it is wet—dripping and everything. Especially during sex.”
“Right.” Great, now Sam’s self-conscious. “I just ran a towel through mine. Is that alright?”
“Yes, of course.”
Still, it feels like Sam should have put in the effort as well.
“You brought wine?”
“Yeah, it’s uhhh… French.” Sam looks at the label, and it sure looks French. He had asked the guy at the bar downstairs for the most expensive French wine they had. Thomas seemed like a wine guy.
“Did you bring a corkscrew?”
Whelp. “No, I didn’t. Sorry ‘bout that.”
“C’est la vie.”
Wait. “Do French people really say that?” Sam thought it was one of those phrases that didn’t actually exist.
Thomas stares at him in French.
“Right, sorry.”
