“Thanks for trying.”
Sam shuffles closer and places a casual teammate hand on his casual teammate’s waist. “You doin’ anything tonight? I know it’s not a win, but it’s still a double podium.”
“Just dinner with Mama. Want to join us?”
Sam grins. “Should I sign anything for sweet Ingrid? A hat? She could have my gloves—they’re full of sweat.”
“You can sign the check.”
“It’s a date.” Sam punctuates the sentence by dragging his teammate closer until they're attached from their pelvises to their thighs.
They fit so well together—two pieces of the same puzzle. Inseparable.
Sam’s grinning when Lucas says, “You can stop, now. You got what you wanted.”
“What?”
Lucas nods over to Thomas who had apparently finished his interview. His wide-eyed stare is down, fixated on the place where the Red Boar drivers are still connected. He blinks and his eyes snap back up to their faces.
“You are ready?” Thomas walks off, towards the cool down room, without waiting for them.
“Why does your mother let you do these dangerous things?” Lucas’s mother coos. She’s one of Sam’s favorite people in the entire world.
“She just doesn’t love me like you do, Ingrid.”
“You letmedo dangerous things,” Lucas says, pointedly.
“But he is just a boy.”
“He is only eight years younger than me.”
“Seven.” Sam wouldn’t usually correct him, but he hates when Lucas tries to widen their age gap.
“Seven!” Lucas says, like it proves his point. “Practically nothing.”
Practically nothing.
Sam wishes he could record that line and play it the next time Lucas wants to talk about their age difference. Instead, he tilts hisgiant beer back and picks at the carb-heavy food.
“But he is such a good boy,” Ingrid says.
“She’s right, Lucas. I am such a good boy.” Sam wiggles his eyebrows suggestively, but Lucas scoffs.
“Don’t be rude, Lucas,” his mother chastises.
“You know what, Ingrid? We should run away together.” Sam leans forward, wrapping his big, calloused hands around her frail ones. “Let’s leave all of this behind. We can live on a beach somewhere—surf during the day, make love all night.”
A noodle smacks his cheek and sticks there. “Stop trying to run away with my mother.”
“I cannot imagine surfing,” Ingrid answers. “My knees are not so good no more.”
“But you can imagine making love?!” Lucas sputters. He’s so cute when he’s all riled up.
Sam pays for the meal, though Lucas was probably joking when he suggested it. Something instinctive in Sam tells him to provide for his mate, so he does.
It is carnal.
No. Shut up. This is different.
