Sam’s crew is pissy, but they always are whenever he doesn’t beat Lucas, so he’s used to it. He smiles anyways.
He’s always smiling. He’s Sammy Smiles after all, it’s his brand. This one is more reserved, a little more, “We’ll get ‘em next time.” He doesn’t want to appear complacent.
He tells the reporters how disappointed he is, how he hopes to turn it around during the race. No, it’s not the car—otherwise Lucas wouldn’t have taken pole. Sam won't blame the car, he’ll just say he’ll do better tomorrow and smile the whole time.
Sam has something to prove, so he races hard. He makes some pretty stupid passes that work, and he manages to move up the rankings little by little.
Thomas gives him a good battle for fourth, the two of them trading blows for fifteen laps straight. It almost feels like karting again—back when they were the only two kids on track worth watching.
It might’ve even beenfunif it resulted in a placement better than fourth. Unfortunately, their fight isolates them from the front of the pack until neither driver can claw their way up to the podium at the end.
Sam parks his car and stays seated. As soon as he stands, he’ll have to be Sammy Smiles again. Before that, he’ll silently mourn the loss of his WDC lead.
Ten points isn’t the end of the world, but it’s a rough blow when he’s up against Lucas.
Well, that’s just how it goes. Here’s to another year of competing for second. He smacks his wheel before removing it and shimmying out of his car. He makes sure everything's back in place before joining the line to be weighed.
At least in fourth place it’s not weird for him to hide behind his helmet. He accepts the receipt and takes off his helmet and balaclava, finally ready to face the world.
“That was good racing.”
Sam jumps. “Jesus, Thomas, don’t sneak up on people like that.”
“Sorry.”
Once his heart settles, Sam registers the original comment. “Yeah, it was good, wasn’t it?”
“Reminded me of years ago.” Thomas sighs. They aren’t the type to make casual conversation, so this is new territory for them. “Should have been the fight to first. Fourth place is a lame prize for a good battle.”
“Right?!” Sam could almost laugh. “I may have won our fight, but I lost the lead in the championship.”
Thomas sucks in a breath. “That blows. Two weekends, though—not bad.”
“Not great.”
“It is two more weekends than I have had. You did the math?”
“Ten points.”
“Ooh.” Thomas scrunches his nose. It’s not cute. “I could run him off the track next week, give you a better chance.”
Sam laughs. For Thomas, of all people, to suggest something self-sacrificing? Yeah,okay. “Go ahead and clip ‘em for me. Better yet, take yourself out too, that would be great.”
“But then you would not have fun. What is the point of racing if it is not any good?”
“Money,” Sam answers immediately. “Fame. Chicks.”
“If that is really all you cared about, you would not have raced so hard.” Thomas tuts at him. “You would not care about the championship. Would not have hesitated before leaving your car.”
“Yeah, well…” Sam didn’t think anyone would notice the extra time he spent in the car—least of all, bratty little self-centered Thomas.
They slow their walking to a stop, the two of them huddled together near parc ferme. No one seems bothered by them, though. No one pays them any mind.
“Could I talk to you? About—about the—” What is Sam even supposed to call it? “Theplanyou had?”
Thomas flinches like he’s been hit. “You do not have to worry about me. I have forgotten already.”
“No, no, I just—” It’s fucking embarrassing, but at this point, Thomas might be the only person who would understand. “Did you ever tell Rafael how you feel? Does he know?”
