Sam might be reading too deep into something that doesn’t matter. There’s no way either of the drivers are petty or childish enough to fight for his attention, right? They probably just wanted a better angle of the TV.
Sam climbs up into his chair and watches the replay with his water bottle in hand. “Oh fuck, which Ashton pulled that one off?”
“Probably Giovanni.”
“Laurent has the fluoro T-cam.” Thomas points to the top of the car during the slow-motion replay, as if they needed help identifying which camera he meant.
“Of course.” Lucas scoffs. “Only the young ones make these flashy, dangerous moves.”
“Maybe the old ones are too cautious.” Thomas’s eyes don’tleave the screen, but it still feels like a jab. “We lapped Giovanni at the end, after all.”
The next clip is a Ferraro and Red Boar fighting through the chicane. The red car puts up a good defense, but it’s the navy one that pulls ahead.
That sure wasn’t Sam’s overtake.
“Old ones don’t look too cautious to me.” Lucas leans back in his chair and braces his hands behind his head. “Maybe the young ones are too cocky to recognize good racing.”
Okay, so Sam isn’t imagining the tension. “Wow, that Wilhems is something.”
“Cocky?When I was ahead at the apex?”
“That is not what the stewards say.”
“If it wasgood racing, the stewards would not need to say.”
The screen fades to the Monza GP logo and Sam can only hope it means the broadcast has cut to somewhere else.
Lucas casually unlaces his fingers and lets his hand drop to the backrest of Sam’s seat. Thomas must notice, because his hand whips out and clutches Sam’s thigh.
Being between the two would have been such a beautiful fantasy only a few months ago, but Sam has a sick sense he's being used.
“I need to talk to you,” Lucas says as he holds Sam back after the press room.
Thomas continues past them, but tosses an unbothered, “I will text you later,” and a wink over his shoulder.
“This can’t wait ‘til we’re back in the garage?” Sam deserves an apology more than anyone, but the hallway isn’t exactly private.
The reporters who trickle out of the room pause for a moment and watch the teammates, waiting for something juicy to happen.
Lucas lingers until Thomas turns the corner, out of sight, before he says, “You’re right. Let’s go to the garage.”
Inside his driver’s room, Sam peels the layers from his body. His race suit, his Nomex shirt, his long johns. Once all of thesparkling wine-soaked garments are off, he redresses in the dry clothes he arrived in.
“You were the one who wanted to talk. What’s up?”
Lucas watches the whole thing from Sam’s massage table, his eyes shamelessly roaming over every inch of exposed skin.
Sam’s gut says he has to be interested—that no guy watches another man so hungrily if he doesn’t want him—but Lucas has already denied that. Denied him.
But where is his sudden disdain of Thomas coming from, if it isn’t jealousy? Why, afteryearsof being rivals, are these feelings only surfacing now?
If Lucas hated him, Sam would be able to move on, but these little moments string him along, and leave him helpless to do anything more than fawn over the man he’s admired for years.
“Yes, I…” Lucas sighs and leans back, against the wall. “I wanted you to hear it from me.”
That doesn’t sound good. “Hear what?”
“I am retiring at the end of this season.”
