If it wasn’t Rafael and it wasn’t Thomas, who else could it be? Did Ferraro have a reserve driver running this weekend? Surely Sam would’ve noticed.
“We’ve reported Dubois—both for the collision and for leaving the track and gaining an advantage—but the stewards are already investigating it.”
Dubois is Thomas’s last name. “But Thomas doesn’t race like that.” Maybe Frank got the two confused. It’s hard to distinguish the cars sometimes. “He’s a better driver than that—that was a rookie mistake.”
A Ferraro dives into the pit lane, followed by the other Red Boar. It’s definitely Rafael—his obnoxiously fluoro camera and gaudy helmet is visible from anywhere.
Teetering behind the two, another Ferraro stumbles back. His front wing is snapped and dragging on the ground.
It’s Thomas’s car.
Sam smacks his steering wheel and screams again.
Thomas only needs eight points to tie second place in the championship. Twenty to overtake the lead.
Why did Sam think he knew him so well? Because they fuck?
I could run him off the track.
Sam thought Thomas was joking, but maybe he just didn’t understand what the Frenchman was willing to do—how far he was willing to go—to win the championship.
“Track is clear.”
Sam jumps out of what’s left of his car, making sure to return the steering wheel for all it’s worth. Skid marks and pieces of his car litter the road, showing his trajectory. It’ll take time to clean up the debris.
Enough time for Ferraro to assess the damage to Thomas’s car, fix it, and get him back in the race.
Great. Fucking fantastic.
The race is already up and running again by the time Sam is cleared with medical. His mechanics are all pissy to see him, but he’s even pissy-er to be stuck in the garage instead of racing.
After all the lead up for this weekend—three free practices in the lead, pole position, the perfect start—Sam didn’t get to complete a single lap.
He pulls up a chair and watches the rest of the race with his team. It sucks without him, so the broadcast keeps cutting to the camera trained on Sam’s furious expression. He can’t even force a Sammy Smile. The haters have to be loving it.
All of his focus and ire stays trained to Thomas’s “DEB” marker as he progresses through the field. Sam isn’t hoping he’ll crash again, but every successful overtake is another punch to the gut.
The race ends and Sam can’t decide which feels more like a personal blow—Rafael winning the race or Thomas finishing sixth and gaining exactly eight fucking points. He ties Sam for the championship, but forces him down into third place.
Lucas’s garage clears out as they head for the podium, whileSam’s own mechanics bitch and moan about the work they’ll have to do to get the car back to working before Miami.
Yeah, Sam also wishes his car had four wheels. Join the club.
He dreads the press line, so Sam retreats to his driver’s room, grabbing his phone and throwing himself onto the cushion. It’s been hours since he’s been here, but his race suit isn’t even sweaty. That’s how quickly his race ended.
He replies to the most important texts, emojis the others, and scrolls social media as he tries to determine how long he can avoid press before someone notices. Just as he is about to give in, a light tap on his door catches his attention.
Nobody at Red Boar lightly taps anything. He loves his team, but even in the best of times, they’re brutish.
“Who is it?” Sam calls out. Maybe a reporter traversed through his garage, desperate to get the first comments about his DNF.
“Thomas.”
Wait, what? In the Red Boar garage? It’s undoubtedly his pompous-ass voice, but Sam still has to see it to believe it.
He answers the door but immediately regrets it. Thomas has clearly raced—his face is red, his hair dripping with sweat.Oh I knocked you out of the race, but my car kept working, so now I’m second in the championship, nyeh nyeh.
“Who the fuck let you back here?”
