Thomas tenses. “I walked in through Lucas’s garage.”
“You just—?” Sam had seen the garage clear out, butnobodywas there? “You’re wearing bright fucking red!”
They have like, secrets and shit lying around. Doesn’t Red Boar have security?! Adam should do something about that.
“Yeah.” Thomas looks around, checking that the coast is still clear. “Can I come in?”
Sam wants to say no. The pain’s still fresh, and he can tellhe’s too on edge for a polite conversation. If he still wants to fuck Thomas in the future, it’s better to say no than to burn the bridge with an emotional outburst.
Still, he looks apologetic.
Sam sighs before opening his door wider. The Frenchman takes the hint and darts inside, like Sam might change his mind and slam it in his face.
He might, actually.
“First, I want to apologize.” Thomas has his hands out in front of him. It’s either placating or defensive—maybe both. “I thought I had the space to rejoin behind. I swear, I wouldneverput you in danger on purpose.”
“This was my chance,” Sam says, controlling his voice as best as he can. “I was only eleven points behind him.Eleven.”
“I am sorry.”
Sorry isn’t enough, he needs tounderstandhow much Sam lost today.
“When I woke up this morning, I thought I would fall asleep leading the championship.” He talks slowly, forcing every syllable out. “Now I’m third. Because of a mistakeyoumade.”
“I know.” Thomas stares at the ground. “I did not want it like this.”
“But you sure as fuckgot it!”
A ten second penalty is such a fucking joke. The stewards will take any chance they can to bury Red Boar, to keep them from winning.
“Yes.”
Thomas is still talking to the ground. He never looks at Sam when it matters. When they fuck, when he confronts him, when he apologizes—why won’t helookat him?!
“Whatever.” It’s Sam’s turn to look away. “You can leave now.”
He’ll get over it. It’s stupid to stay upset over things thathappen out on the track. Accidents are common—he’ll move on eventually.
If Thomas had just waited until tonight—until they met up in his hotel room—Sam would probably be too sick of the analytics, the reporter questions, and the replays on social media to care anymore.
Confronting him in his driver’s room, when the pain is still fresh, is such a stupid idea.
“Is there anything I can do?” Thomas asks. “To show you I am sorry?”
That sounds like sex. “You mean sexually?”
“If it proves to you that I mean what I say—that I did not do it on purpose.”
Sam scoffs, his frustration growing. “We fuck all the time. I would havewon. That’s an entire race win you owe me.”
“No.” Thomas finally looks up when he says. “I do not think you would have won today.”
Sam doesn’t know whether to laugh or scream. “Oh,really?!”
Thomas can’t read a room, so he nods. “I will admit that we struggled with the softs during qualifying, but the Ferraro is bet?—”
Sam cuts him off. “I know how you can apologize.”
