His stupid gut needs to get over itself. They have celebrating to do.
Sam pulls up next to Rafael’s parked Ferraro and climbs up on top of his car with excitement. Looking out over the sea of people gathered to see him in his prime, he strikes his signature strong-arm pose.
Fuck, it’s good to be back on top.
Sam throws himself against his crew and they topple over themselves as they try to grab at any part of him they can reach. His helmet echos with the sound of smacks and his shoulder kinda smarts, but he can’t care about that today.
He backs up and pulls off his helmet, balaclava, and earpieces to walk the line. Adam first, then his trainer, then his manager.
By the time he turns back around, Thomas’s car is parked, but the man is nowhere to be found. Where could he have disappeared to? He's short, but not?—
Oh.
The Ferraro drivers are together in front of their team, embracing like they’re mourning the death oftheir child or some shit. Like, Jesus fuck guys, get a room. Everyone can see them crying—it’d be less gay to blow each other.
Sam stomps past them to the scale, dumps his helmet on the stand, and dons his hat and watch. If the Ferraros are so busy with each other he can just start the interviews himself.
He steps up in front of the screen, takes the proffered mic, and smiles.
Boos ring out from the stands, loud enough to drown out the first question.
“What was that?” Sam asks, smiling. Always smiling. “Couldn’t hear ya there.”
“That is… quite the reaction,” the reporter says instead.
“Yeah, well, I get it. Big Toe was in the lead for most of the race, so I’m sure I just became public enemy numberun.”
He laughs at his own joke, though no one in the crowd does.
They discuss the fight at the end and Sam has to stop himself from turning around and watching the footage. Hopefully the last lap looked just as sick as it felt.
Sam’s dismissed, but Thomas and Rafael are still holding onto each other, their heads tilted inwards.
“You’re up.” Sam shoves the microphone in between them.
Thomas finally makes eye contact before accepting the microphone and turning away.
Guess Sam’s not going to receive any congratulations anytime soon.
“You shouldn’t play games with him,” Rafael says, completely unprompted.
“What?”
Had Thomas told him about them? How much of their situation did he know about?
Rafael doesn’t bother to look at him—he’s watching Thomas. The crowd is absolutely feral for their hometown hero, and it’s impossible to hear any of what he’s saying.
“You didn’t attack until two laps to go?” Rafael scoffs. “You’re in the fastest car. You let him think he could win, only to snatch it away at the last second.”
Oh that’s fucking rich. “He took the win from Lucas in Germany on thelast lap. Thomas will get over it.”
Lucas won’t if he retires.
“Ah, I see. So it was for revenge?”
Sam bristles under the scrutiny. “If you have a problem with how I race?—”
“I have a problem with all of you.”
