“I think I speak for everybody when I say we were allveryimpressed you managed to finish the race with that broken wing—much lesspodium.”
The spectators roar in response.
“Yeah, thanks. As long as the car could still run, I wanted to push it to the end.”
“You even managed to hold Thomas off for several laps—it was very exciting driving!”
Exciting, maybe, but disappointing nonetheless. “Thanks, yeah, glad you liked it.”
“Is something wrong?”
Fuck, Sam let his guard down. He drags the corners of his mouth upright and says, “Yeah, nah. Unless we win, we all think we coulda done better. I just wish I coulda held Thomas back enough for Lucas to stay ahead.”
“There’s always next weekend.”
Next weekend isn’t Lucas’s home race.
Sam’s dismissed and he lets his face fall as he wanders off camera.
Thomas looks like he’s expecting praise for his win, turning those giant, creepy eyes in his direction and smiling.
It’s better for Sam not to say anything, so he stands a little too far away and watches Lucas’s interview in silence.
“It is dangerous to race so hard when your front wing is falling off.” Thomas appears at his side like a magician’s worst trick. Would it kill him to be quiet for a single moment? “It could have broken away and hit another car. You should have boxed, maybe then you could have pushed a faster lap time.”
“It would have to be quite an impressive lap time to make up for the twenty-five seconds I’d spend in the pits.” Longer, really, to switch the front wing.
Thomas seems to consider it. “With new softs and light fuel, it might have been manageable. When did it break?”
“The lap before you caught up to me.” Why else would he have fallen so fast?
“You sound upset.”
When did everyone become his freakin’ therapist? “Yeah? Well, I’m a little pissed you’re pushing this issue when there’s nothing we can do about the outcome now! You won, go be happy somewhere else.”
Thomas is quiet for a record-breaking several seconds before he whispers, “This is about Lucas?”
“Just shut up.”
It works until it doesn’t. “It is not your job to give him the race win.”
Sam bristles. “Since I’m agoodteammate, it basically is.”
“Right.” Thomas crosses his arms in front of himself. “He would not want to win like that.”
“How the fuck would you know?”
“I know I would much rather fight to the end and lose than blame my teammate for not holding my competition back—even for my home race.”
There’s a glaring problem to that argument. “Well, you aren’t actually Lucas.”
He just plays him in the bedroom.
It’s Thomas’s turn at the mic, and Sam is relieved to watch him go. Lucas is better to talk to anyways.
“Your front wing broke?” Lucas asks, straining his neck to peek over at Sam’s car.
“Yeah. I tried to keep Big Toe back for you, but he still got away from me.”
