The man didn’t know how to have fun. Of course a guy like that would hate Sam. There are worse things in life than being disliked by boring people.
Sam might be biased, but the Australian national anthem is byfarthe best one. He’s still humming it even hours later, when he's champagne sticky in his driver’s room and wondering what to eat for dinner.
What did French people eat? Like, snails?
He’s willing to try them at this point—anything that feels celebratory. Anything that isn’t another mindless club.
He’s already declined Owain’s invitation to party. It just seems empty now, to be in a loud room surrounded by strangers he doesn’t even talk to before fucking.
Maybe Sam should leave the group chat. He hasn’t gone out since Australia and he isn’t looking to do so for the foreseeablefuture.
Plus he’s tired of seeing Rafael’s name in his messages every goddamn weekend.
Sam pulls up Thomas’s contact and notices the Frenchman hasn’t sent his room number yet. It’s not weird to reach out first, right? They’re casual. They can text and shit.
Dinner tonight? You choose the place.
Something French tho, not some rando pizza place
Actually, pizza sounds pretty good.
Sam mindlessly scrolls his socials as he waits for a reply and likes all of the posts about his win. There are a lot less French people online. A lot less booing about his super-impressive overtake.
Once he’s seen enough, Sam hypes himself up to peel the champagne-sticky Nomex from his body. It’s a frustrating consequence of a podium, but he’s willing to suffer it over the pain of not winning at all.
When his shirt’s halfway off, he hears the vibration of a text and wills his heart to settle down.
It’s not a date or anything—it’s just dinner. Sam has had dinner with so many people throughout his life. It didn’t mean anything in particular, it’s just food. People eat.
It’s not a date.
Sam leaves the stiffened fabric in a pile on the ground and reaches for his phone.
I have plans tonight
Sorry
Oh.
He should’ve seen that coming.
Thomas is French, of course he’d have family and friends in town. Of course he’d want to spend time with them—to eat dinner with the people he loves instead of some guy he’s been fucking every race weekend.
Especially if that same guy stole his home race from him. Sam is probably the last person Thomas wants to see right now.
He leaves the text on read and changes back into his civilian clothes before knocking on Lucas’s door.
“Come in.”
Sam opens the door, but stops at the threshold.
Lucas is stripped of everything but his boxer briefs. He faces away from the door, his thighs resting on the floor while his chest is upright, pushing backwards and stretching. The ground is carpeted, sure, but it’s not a comfortable carpet.
It’s kinda disgusting, actually.
“Why are you on the floor?”
Lucas shifts to one arm, twisting his torso to look back at Sam. He’s weirdly flexible. “I am stretching.”
