“Fuck yes! Let’sgo!”
Sam may not be as smart asother drivers, but he sure as hell knows how to count.
He parks his car and climbs it, jutting his pointer finger into the air. The other Red Boar parks next to him, in the second position. Of course it's Lucas who helped him pass Thomas in the championship.
Sam jumps down from his car and nearly topples the older driver in his excitement.
Lucas steadies him with a grin. “Red Boar one-two!”
“In the championship too.” For the first time since Sam’s DNF in Canada. “I just passed Thomas in the points!”
Lucas lets out a whoop and squeezes Sam impossibly tighter until he squawks.
“Hey! The season’s not over yet, don’t break anything!”
“I am allowed to be happy for you.” Lucas pats his helmet before nodding over to the reception line.
They wander over to their team and Adam smiles at Sam with pride. “You did great out there today.”
“What’s with everybody?” Sam teases. First Lucas is being all sentimental, now Adam. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Of course not.” Adam’s eyes flick over Sam’s shoulder and back. “Just proud of you. Keep it up.”
Sam turns, expecting to see Thomas behind him, but it’s still just Lucas. Usually Adam saved his melancholic glances for drivers whodidn’twin him championships, but okay.
Screw ‘em. Sam’s not going to let some weird energy between Adam and Lucas affect his race win celebration.
Thomas is wrapping up his interview by the time Sam completes his weigh-in. He hands the microphone off to Lucas and settles next to Sam. “Good race.”
“Even though I’ve moved ahead in the championship?” Sam finally gets his finicky watch strap fastened and dons his team hat.
“By seven points?” Thomas shrugs. “I will be back next race.”
“Big Toe talks a big game.”
“Small Samuel forgets that Ferraros do better on races with narrow corners.”
“Small—?” Sam sputters. “Ofallpeople, you should know that I’m not?—”
“I do.” Thomas has that naughty little twinkle in his eye. “Do not shower tonight.”
“Wait, what?” There are cameras trained on the two of them but Sam’s brain short-circuits. He leans forward and asks, “But the champagne?—?”
“Sparkling wine.” Thomas is nothing if not French. “But, yes. And sweat. I want all of you, so do not wash.”
Don’t get hard, don’t get hard. “Yeah, no, yeah. I’ll just—I won’t. Yeah, cool.”
Sam doesn’t realize Lucas has returned until a microphoneis shoved into his face. The interview passes in a blur and he barely even registers any of the Italian fans booing at him.
After he hands the microphone off to the reporter, Sam falters on his way back to the other podium-sitters.
Lucas and Thomas perch on opposite sides of their stands, unreasonably far apart. They don’t seem to befighting, exactly—Thomas drinks from his water bottle and Lucas fusses with his gloves—but there’s still a weird tension in the sheer distance between them.
They notice him at the same time, both heads turning and smiling in unison. Sam would be stupid to laugh, but he grins in return and nods over towards the cool down room. Obviously he’s just imagining it.
For the first time this season, Thomas lets Sam sit in the middle chair. He still pulls it as he walks by, angling it towards the third-place chair before retrieving his podium hat.
Lucas must also have a passion for interior design. He pointedly pushes the second-place chair until it’s in line with the middle one again, parallel to the screen.
