Thomas laughs and it bothers Sam for some reason. Like he’s being made fun of.
“What languages do you speak?” Sam presses.
“Why?” Rafael usually looks somewhat disoriented, but it’s stronger now. “Are you becoming a reporter?”
“Just curious.”
Rafael counts on his fingers. “English, Italian, a little French, and Portuguese, of course.”
“Of course,” Sam echoes. No Spanish? Thomas must feel pretty smug. “Hey, I don’t know much Portuguese. How d’ya say ‘Good morning’?”
Thomas interrupts with, “Looks like they are about to start.”
“Next time, then, buddy.” Sam pats Rafael’s back in a way that’s supposed to look friendly, but might be a tad too rough. Whoops.
When the anthem wraps, Rafael wanders off and Sam takes his place, walking alongside Thomas back to the paddock. “I hoped you’d sing along.”
“I already said I would not.”
“Yeah, but I still thought I’d catch you mouthing the words.” Sam wanted more material to tease him with. “Do you not know the lyrics or somethin’?”
“Doyouknow the words? Were you paying attention?”
“To the French song famously sung in French, a language I don’t know? Not really.”
“That is too bad.”Zat izz. Not cute. “Maybe you can be listening better to it after the race.”
Sam stops for a moment while he tries to remember if the French anthem is played more often than any other anthem. It’s not, right?Not unless?—
“Hey!” Sam has to skip a couple of steps to catch up. “Are you talkin’ smack to me?”
He’s more confused than offended. Sure, Sam and Lucas rib each other about jumping the start, but he’s never had that type of teasing relationship with Thomas. No, the Frenchman always seemed like he was above that sorta shit.
Then again, maybe it’s easier to be confident since Thomas is starting on pole. That, combined with Sam’s recent string of second-place finishes, doesn’t exactly bode well for an Australian anthem at the end of the day.
“If I am looking like Lucas from behind, maybe you are defending for me during the race.”
Sam's jaw drops. Was that a joke?! Is Thomas almost…funny?
“What happened to ‘I never want to be handed a victory, even for my home race’?”
“I like changing my mind.” Thomas smirks when he says it. “I used to hate you, after all.”
“Used to?” Sam repeats. “And now?”
Thomas doesn’t answer. He just wanders off with a hum towards the Ferraro garage.
Sam holds onto P2 through to the call to box. He doesn’t get to taste the race lead for a single moment—Thomas darts into the pits right as Sam does. The back of the Ferraro stays burned into his retinas.
Sam mashes his thumb into the mic button. “That has to be an unsafe pit entry.”
“Focus on the pit stop. Adam will handle the penalties.”
It’s a quick stop, but not enough to jump in front of the Ferraro on exit. The red car leads the way through the grid and Sam is powerless to do anything but trail behind.
Sam’s car is faster. Heknowshis car is faster, but Thomas knows his weaknesses and he’s out in full force today. Even through the Mistral Straight with DRS—no matter which side Sam tries to pass on, Thomas jerks over and blocks him.
Well, this is his home race. Like Albert Park is for Sam. It gives him that extra fire, the extra motivation to succeed. There’s a story there, about the hometown hero coming out on top and winning it all. Makes anybody want to root for him.
