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 driverin 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 alwayshas—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 areyou—?” 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.
