But Germany was Lucas’s home race. Did Thomas show any mercy then?
Sam hasn’t tasted that top step since Australia—since the very first race of the year. Every single weekend after he has fallen short.
He’s tired of coming second. He’s frustrated with the leftmost step. He isn’t so predictable that a slower car can hold him back with a few defensive lunges.
Sam wants to win.
“No further investigation on Dubois.” The radio crackles. “You’re eight tenths behind and you’ve just set the fastest lap. Two laps to go. Push push.”
“Affirm.”
If Thomas will catch him out on the straight, the best thing Sam can do is to surprise him in a corner. If he’s so predictable, maybe he should try something he’d never do.
Your car is quick on the straights. Even with DRS we could not keep up.It’s why Sam keeps lunging on the straights—it’s where Red Boar does best. The downforce is too strong on a Ferraro to fight in the turns.
So Sam has to.
Buried in a slew of turns, he sends it around the outside of turn six—a turn he’d rather divebomb on the inside of. If it makes Sam uncomfortable, maybe Thomas won’t expect it.
It’s clumsy and inelegant, but it works—Sam pushes throughthe long turn six and slides ahead of Thomas right before turn seven, leaving nothing but open air for the Mistral Straight.
The Ferraro bites at his heels, Thomas’s DRS immediately enabled, but the Red Boar is a powerhouse through the straights and Sam loses him by the exit.
“Great pass, Sam,” Frank says. “Maintain and defend.”
Sam wastes no energy replying. He keeps his head down and focuses on executing the perfect lap.
Thomas fills his mirrors, despite the haggard pace of the red car. He lunges recklessly through turn twelve, cuts too sharp in turn fifteen.
“Final lap.”
Despite his pace, Sam can’t shake the Frenchman. He hops off the race line in the straight, hoping to negate any sort of tow Thomas might pick up, but the red car is still on his ass when he brakes for turn one.
He grits his teeth into the turns, keeping his defenses up where the Ferraro is strongest. He can breathe again once he reaches the next straight, and considers—for a fraction of a second—ignoring the chicane entirely and plowing right through.
Instinct wins and he brakes for the chicane late enough to prevent Thomas from swinging around. He takes the next turn too quickly, possibly triggering track limits.
Whatever. He’s been clean the entire race. It’s fine.
After the final turn, he spots his team hanging off the gate, pumping their fists in the air, but Sam can’t relax yet. He pushes harder, full throttle, and only releases his breath after they finally pass the finish line.
“That’s P1, Sam. P1. Great job.”
Sam screams triumphantly and smacks the halo a few times. “Jesus fuck, that’s music to my ears.” He laughs but disengages his microphone when it starts to sound a little maniacal. “Great car, guys. Mega job to the team. We’re back in this thing!”
He waves to the crowd, even if they’re probably cursing his name.
Doesn’t matter, Sam can’t speak French anyways.
A Ferraro passes him and Sam waves before realizing it’s Rafael’s helmet. “Where’s Thomas?”
“He finished P2, but he’s slowing to the back. He’s waiting to be cleared for doughnuts, though I’m not sure he’ll still want to do them.”
“Right.”
Sam’s stomach drops with guilt and he’s immediately annoyed at it.
He loves to win. It’s his job to win. It doesn’t matter who he’s racing or what track they’re at—the point of the sport is to be the best, and he just proved that he is.
