“Checking.”
No immediate radio in? That’s never good. Sam slows even further, watching for a driver that might be standing near the road, but he only sees marshals running along the wall.
He turns the corner and there’s a Ferraro in the barrier. Thick, dark smoke surrounds the vehicle, and the back half is engulfed in flame.
“Whose car is that?!”
Sam can’t look away, though he needs to. Through the plumes he tries to spot a helmet or a T-cam, but he can’t see anything. Did they get out? Was it Thomas?! Is he?—?
“Is it Thomas?!” Sam tries to wait for a response but his head is spinning. Should he park? Could he rescue him? Sam’s clothes are fireproof. “Is he okay?! Fuckingtell me!”
Thomas had brake issues—he probably took the high-speed turn faster than he could handle. Careening into the wall at 200 kph. Burning alive.
“It’s Rafael’s car, Sam,” Frank finally says.“He escaped before the fire started and he is fine. Return to the pits. Restart has been delayed to fix the barrier.”
Sam heaves. Thomas is okay. He isokay.
His heart can’t be convinced—it thuds painfully in his chest, pumping harder than it ever has before.
Accidents happen. They happen all the time, in almost every single race. Sam knows this. He willingly takes the risk. He has long accepted the fact that any day now he might die in his car.
But not Thomas.
Thomas isn’t the one who should be toying with death. The one eager to sacrifice himself to the sport that hungers for blood, pushing himself to the edge of reason for the thrill of the win.
The one stepping outside of what Sam can control.
Sam follows the track through to the pit lane, parking his car behind the working Ferraro.
The Frenchman climbs out, pulling off his helmet and balaclava. He musses up his hair as he looks around. He always has a sense of worry about him, but the emotion is amplified now, his big, round eyes searching for answers.
They’re parked at the furthest end of the pit lane, far away from their garages, but a mechanic in red is there in a second,scooping Thomas up and providing a physical comfort that Sam can’t give him.
He’s okay. It’s okay.
He’s fine. It’s fine.
Sam pushes himself up and out of the car right as his own mechanics reach him. They may have run the length of the pit lane, but they lose all urgency as they pause to watch him.
No hugs in Red Boar, just judgmental looks that flit between their driver and the one in red parked ahead of him.
Fuck, Sam’s so stupid. Losing it on the radio? Calling out for Thomas by name? Such an idiotic mistake.
He starts the long trek back to his garage. Cold water sounds good. Peeing also sounds good. Tending to his basic needs is easier than sorting out his tangled-up feelings, so that’s where he’ll start.
Once he’s back inside familiar territory, he finally removes his helmet, his balaclava, his earpieces. He still has a small hope everyone will just ignore him, but stares fizzle on his skin as he stands at the water cooler and fills a small paper cup.
“Hey, Sam.” Adam throws an arm over his shoulder and Sam’s stomach drops. “Let’s chat real quick.”
“I gotta piss.”
“You can hold it.”
Adam drags him through the garage, making demands of everyone they come across. Social needs to post, engineering needs to check data, an assistant needs to get Adam a Red Boar, dump half of it, and refill the empty space with vodka.
Sam’s not entirely sure whether he’s joking about that last one.
Adam opens the door to Sam’s own driver’s room. “After you.”
