“Radio check.”
It’s just another day in the office. He tries to push all thoughts about the championship out of his brain to focus on the here and now.
He sets the pace for the formation lap, keeping most of his attention on his mirrors and tracking the distance between himself and the Ferraros. Lucas must be doing so as well—both of them slow when Thomas does, when he tries to hold up the rest of the pack.
At least it’s an easy move to predict. At the slower pace, Sam swerves to pump heat into his tires. If Thomas has warm tires at the jump, he sure as hell will.
They line up again and Sam grips the wheel extra tight. He’s not thinking about the championship standings. He’s definitely not thinking about the eleven points between him and Lucas.
Lucas’s retirement is the last thing on his mind.
Green flag and the lights illuminate. One, two, three, four championships, five. Lights out and he’s on the throttle.
Sam’s tires grip the road, and he propels forward, cutting to the middle to keep his lead. His attention flits between the road ahead and the Red Boar in his mirrors.
With a squeeze, he’s the first to the apex of turn one and he maintains that momentum through to turn two.
On the straight, he’s surprised to see red in his mirrors. He’s definitely not happy about it.
No good teammate or lover would be happy to see the Ferraros overtake on Lucas. To push him further back in the points. It’s a cruel thing to celebrate, so Sam doesn’t.
He keeps his head down and manages his tires, pushing to extend the gap back before DRS is enabled.
Chicane ahead and a Ferraro is still on his ass. Sam’s fine with that—he can defend harder than anyone.
He’s elbows out, keeping the red car behind as they enter the first turn, but the Ferraro leaves the road—cutting straight across the second turn—and re-enters the race line right as Sam passes through.
Sam’s car jolts with the impact. He tries to wrangle it, to keep it on track, but he ricochets off the Wall of Champions and spins out across the track. He drops the steering wheel on instinct—the last thing he needs is to break a bone—before he hits another wall.
He’s disoriented from the spinning, but he still radios in with, “I’m okay.”
He’s not okay. Sam makes sure his mic is off before he screams in frustration.
This was his chance. Hischance. To lead the WDC, to convince Lucas to stay—all of the hopes he had for the day are sucked down the drain by one stupid,recklessFerraro driver.
He’s positioned facing the pit lane entrance. When his dash lights up with the red flag, the other cars file into the pits. He can only imagine how pathetic he looks—the Red Boar strewn all over the road in pieces when he was supposed to lead the WDC.
Looking around, he doesn’t see a red car.
“Who the fuck pulled that move?” Sam knows who it was. Only one Ferraro driver would put him in the fucking wall.
“We can discuss it later. Glad you’re safe.”
“I’ve got all the time in the world right now.” It’s too unsafefor him to leave his car yet with all the traffic flying past. “Is Rafael out too? Did he send both of us into the wall?”
A vindictive part of him hopes he did. He hopes the Ferraro is completely totaled for that stupid-ass move he pulled. Was he trying to show off for Thomas?Oh, I can take him out for you. What a fucking disgrace.
“Sam, let’s discuss it when you return.”
“I swear, if Rafael isn’t penalized to thefullestextent of?—”
“It wasn’t Rafael.”
What?
Wait.
It definitely wasn’t Thomas—he always fought cleanly. He’s annoying and frustrating, sure, but he wouldn’t do such a rash and reckless move like cutting across a chicane for an advantage.
