Chapter Text
It’s unfortunate, Oscar thinks, as he trails the overly cheerful assistant through the gleaming, sterile corridors of the McLaren Technology Centre, that his first Formula One teammate just happens to be someone he’s spent his junior years fanboying over.
He’d promised himself he’d play it cool when the moment came – aloof, calm, almost blasé. Maybe toss out something quick and clever, off-hand and a little sarcastic, just enough to make Lando Norris laugh.
But as the assistant beams at him and pushes open the door to the meeting room, where the McLaren leadership is already gathered and waiting, every cool intention goes to hell.
Oscar suddenly becomes hyperaware of his puffy jacket, the backpack straps digging into his shoulders, and the fact that seven – no, eight – pairs of eyes swivel toward him as he shuffles inside.
There’s Andrea Stella, the team principal, teacup balanced neatly in hand – understated, quiet. His opposite, Zak Brown, McLaren’s CEO, commands the room with booming presence and easy charm, the kind of man who fills space without even trying. And then – right between them – Lando Norris. Larger-than-life Lando Norris, whose gaze fixes on him immediately: sharp, curious, appraising.
“Hi,” Oscar says, with a small, polite wave. It feels exactly like the first day of school: walking into a classroom where everyone already knows each other, where he’s the last to arrive, scrambling for a corner to disappear into. He knows the feeling all too well.
“Oscar,” Zak greets him warmly, smile broad. His American accent rolls across the room, easy and reassuring. “Good to have you here.”
Of course, Oscar knows him already – he’d been there in London with Mark, signing the contract that had made all this real.
And then there’s Lando, smiling too – soft, almost bashful – half-hiding it behind his hand. His tan seems to glow against the bleak English winter and the cold fluorescent lights, and Oscar thinks he looks even more imposing here, in person, than he ever did on his Instagram.
Oscar tries to mirror Lando’s warm smile – but it probably comes out more like a grimace, the way it always does when nerves get the better of him. He tells himself he has no reason to be nervous. He deserves to be here. Mark never lets him forget it: F2 champion, F3 champion, whispers of his talent trailing him since the day he’d moved to England and broken onto the scene.
He shrugs out of his puffy jacket quickly, trying to look less out of place, then slips into the chair opposite the trio of team principal, star driver, and CEO, all watching him from the far side of the table.
“You caused quite a stir,” Andrea Stella says evenly. Oscar can’t tell if it’s meant as a rebuke or simply a statement of fact. Either way, it’s true. His shock signing to McLaren had left Alpine fuming, furious enough to try and drag him through court. The case had fallen in his favor, granting him an immediate exit from their driver academy, but the whole thing had been a mortifying ordeal.
Even now, the memory makes him shudder. His entry into Formula One – supposed to be the triumphant payoff of years at the mercy of this sport – had been tainted by Alpine behaving like vindictive bastards. But that’s behind him now, he tells himself. He’s here. At McLaren. A team that, even if not at their peak, carries a history worth belonging to.
“Yes,” Oscar says at last, dragging the chair into place and sitting. “I apologise for all that.”
But it’s not like McLaren has been free of drama either. They’d stirred up a storm by cutting Oscar’s predecessor’s contract short to make room for him. And, of course, his predecessor had been Daniel fucking Ricciardo – only the most popular driver in years. Not exactly the easiest set of shoes to step into.
When Oscar glances up, he finds Lando watching him again, after having leafed through the agenda, curiosity flickering back in those bright eyes.
“Well,” Zak says with his ever-present smile, “let’s hope the bulk of our drama’s behind us now – and from here on, it’s only smooth sailing.”
Oscar resists a laugh. Knowing this sport, that’s wishful thinking at best.
“We’ll do a short onboarding,” Andrea continues, sliding a copy of the agenda across the table. “House rules, brand identity, all that. You’ll meet the people who’ll be essential next year – your race engineer, your mechanics. And we’ve decided Lando should show you around the factory, give you two the chance to get to know each other.”
Lando winks at him. Friendly, warm. Oscar tries to stay calm, to return the smile, but he’s pretty sure it just comes out as another grimace.
And then, just like that, they dive in. And Oscar realises – really realises – that even after four years of Mark hammering it into him, nothing could have prepared him. Formula One is a different beast entirely. He’s no stranger to the spotlight – F2 and F3 were never backwater desert rallies … but this… oh, this is something else.
He starts to understand why he’s always enjoyed scrolling through Lando’s social media. It’s polished, sure, but never hollow – there’s intent behind it. A narrative. Lando’s crafted role is clear: the sport’s funny, warm, genuinely likable little brother. He’s talented, yes, but also entertaining – the kind of guy fans want to spend time with. Approachable, too, streaming games one night, golfing or yachting the next.
Oscar, meanwhile, already feels an identity crisis creeping in. He’s never been good at that kind of openness, at being effortlessly warm. He wants to be liked – of course he does – and usually people do like him, once they get to know him. But he’s awkward, quiet, never the type to wear his heart on his sleeve the way Lando does. So who are they going to make him into? Lando’s awkward shadow? Another name in the line of teammates who lasted a season or two before Lando outshone them into irrelevance?
The thought gnaws at him as he’s dragged through a fifteen-minute presentation on McLaren’s history – as if he hasn’t read every page of that already. When he sneaks a glance across the table, he catches Lando looking down at his phone under the desk, clearly just as bored. Lando glances up, catches him watching, and winks again.
It’s nothing, just a flicker of amusement – but it feels like solidarity, and the short spark of camaraderie is enough to carry Oscar through the rest of the slideshow, which devolves into talk about the meaning of the new orange rebrand (strictly “papaya,” never “orange”), and the inevitable ground rules about what they can and can’t share online.
In short: don’t get too political – the FIA doesn’t like that. Be approachable, but not too open. Drivers aren’t just drivers; they’re meant to be paragons of a certain exclusivity, a lifestyle Oscar doesn’t – yet, at least – fully embody. His girlfriend isn’t a model or influencer; she’s a brilliant engineering student. He doesn’t spend his downtime golfing. And he lives in England, not Monaco.
He’s assigned a handful of sessions with a media coach. Across the table, Lando grins and mimes wiping fake tears, a mock-crying gesture that makes Oscar snort despite himself. Apparently media training is a universal drag.
When the media circus finally winds down, they get to the part Oscar’s been waiting for: racing. Tom Stallard, his new race engineer, launches into a walkthrough of the car. Oscar listens intently, trying to absorb every word – while Lando, predictably, is back on his phone.
“Are we competitive yet?” Tom poses the rhetorical question himself. “Not really. But by the end of the year, with the new wind tunnel? We could make a giant leap forward. That thing’s a beaut.”
“I’ll show you,” Lando cuts in suddenly – so he has been listening. He shoots Oscar a quick smile, and Oscar does his best to return it without looking like he’s grimacing.
So far, getting a read on his teammate feels impossible. Lando’s been welcoming, yes, but distracted, his attention darting everywhere at once. Oscar guesses this is just business as usual: Lando’s third teammate in four years. Why would he bother getting attached to someone who, statistically, will be gone in a year anyway – shuffled off to an even worse team, if he’s lucky?
For Oscar, it feels a little different. Lando’s only eighteen months older, but he’d made it into Formula One much sooner – and Oscar, still in F3 and F2 back then, had made a quiet habit of watching him from across the paddock. They’d crossed paths before, of course, but F1 drivers rarely notice the bare-faced, nervous junior kids drifting around in unbranded polos and second-rate race suits.
If Oscar’s honest, he’s probably a fan. Not that he’d ever admit it – Mark would have his head.
An hour later Zak takes his leave – man’s schedule is a battlefield – and the meeting dissolves. Andrea orders Lando to show Oscar around the factory, the whole sprawl of the MTC. Lando accepts with a grin so wide it seems genuine, like he couldn’t imagine anything he’d rather be doing, and the warmth of it eases Oscar’s nerves a little.
It doesn’t take long for Oscar to discover the truth: Lando Norris talks. A lot. He’d always suspected as much – Lando’s eyes smile even when his mouth doesn’t, and in the paddock he’s forever mid-story, gesturing, laughing. But hearing it firsthand is something else. This isn’t nervous rambling, the way words tumble out of Oscar when he’s rattled. This is a man who loves talking, who knows he’s funny, who thrives on filling silence and holding attention.
He has a quip for almost everything they pass. At one point he points to a broom closet. “I once passed out in there after getting wasted at a sponsor dinner. Never seen Zak so angry in my life.”
“Oh,” Oscar says flatly. That was information no one could’ve waterboarded out of him.
When they pass the reflective pool out front, Lando leans in conspiratorially. “By the way, do not try swimming in there. Daniel dared me once, and I got the worst rash of my life. Turns out I’m allergic to whatever algae’s growing in it.”
Oscar starts to doubt the usefulness of this tour. It has nothing to do with the factory layout, the garages, or where he’s supposed to go when he needs travel coordination next season. Instead, it’s a crash course in Lando Norris’ Greatest Hits at McLaren – utterly unhelpful, but admittedly… charming.
By the time they reach the cafeteria, Lando’s already listing which dishes to avoid and which are “edible at best.”
“Carlos and I used to order in,” he adds, eyes bright. “We always had to pay, like, twenty quid in delivery fees because no sane driver wanted to trek out to the MTC. They probably thought it was a prank. But it was worth it. With Danny, though, I had to let the tradition die – he actually liked cafeteria food.” He tilts his head at Oscar, mock-hopeful. “Here’s to hoping you’ll indulge me.”
Oscar arches a brow. “I somehow doubt you and Carlos ever agreed on what to order. Aren’t you, like, the pickiest eater alive?”
Oops. He definitely wasn’t supposed to know that – only someone who’d binge-watched every McLaren challenge video in preparation for meeting his new teammate would.
Luckily, Lando doesn’t notice. “Excuse me, I’ll have you know I love pasta. You can order pasta from almost anywhere.”
“You can get pasta in a cafeteria, though.”
Lando scoffs. “You’re too pragmatic for my tastes. Like Danny. Is that an Australian thing?”
No, it’s a not-being-Lando-Norris thing. Oscar just smiles instead. “Yeah. Maybe.”
When they reach the marketing wing, Lando suddenly throws an arm around his shoulders, practically bouncing. “You know what? I’m really glad you’re my teammate. Finally I get to be the wise, measured older one, not the annoying younger one. That burden, my dear Oscar, now falls squarely on your sturdy shoulders.”
He stops dramatically, planting both hands on Oscar’s shoulders, then squints at his neck. “Speaking of shoulders – mate, you’ve gotta put on more muscle. That neck’ll snap in the MCL60.”
Oscar flushes, tugging his collar higher. “I know. I’m working on it.”
“Good. Soon you’ll need a whole new wardrobe, shirts won’t fit around your neck anymore.” Lando grins, and Oscar can’t help but notice just how broad his teammate’s neck is – thick, solid, almost as wide as his face. A proper F1 driver’s neck. Hopefully his own would catch up sooner rather than later.
Even if Lily had already told him she was going to miss the old one.
As they move further down the corridor, everyone they pass greets Lando – smiles, nods, waves – which slows their pace to a crawl. Oscar trails beside him, feeling more and more like the taciturn younger sibling, overlooked while his outgoing brother basks in four years’ worth of goodwill.
“As I was saying,” Lando declares once they finally reach the stairwell to the garage. Which is strange, because Oscar’s fairly certain he hadn’t been saying anything at all – and if he had, it was half an hour ago.
“You and I are gonna have a great time,” Lando continues, brimming with certainty. “This season’s gonna be fucking crazy, and I’m so excited to see you go through it for the first time.”
He pulls out his phone and hands it over. “Save your number. I don’t want to email you if I’m in town and want to hang – that’s depressing.”
Oscar obliges, tapping in his details, momentarily thrown by the reminder that Lando doesn’t live in England anymore. Monaco. Like most F1 drivers.
“I’m skiing next week,” Lando says easily, “but after that I’ll be back in Woking for pre-season. We should make plans. I want to test you.”
Oscar blinks at him. “Test me?”
“Where you land on my very, uh, extensive spectrum of teammates,” Lando explains grandly. “Are you more like Danny – willing to humor me all the way? Or like Carlos – the voice of reason?”
“Do you have a working hypothesis?” Oscar dares to ask.
“Yeah. That you’re a square.” Lando punches him lightly on the arm. “In a good way. I need a square. Someone to remind me to take things seriously.”
“I’m not a square.” Oscar feels heat rising in his cheeks. “I’m fun.”
“Oh yeah?” Lando beams at him, eyes sparkling. “We’ll see about that.”
They cross into the R&D department just as Lando’s phone buzzes. He glances at the screen, rolls his eyes, and sighs. “Oscar, mate, sorry. I’ve gotta run. Show yourself around, yeah?”
And just like that, he bolts – straight through the stairwell door, without so much as a second glance.
Oscar stands frozen, staring after him in disbelief. “Well, thanks, mate,” he mutters sourly under his breath. A very fitting end to the probably worst tour of his entire life.
────────────
He’s at Mark’s London apartment – an old remainder of his Red Bull years – a flat still frozen somewhere in Mark’s twenties and thirties. Too many mismatching decorations clutter the place, some of which barely qualify as decoration at all: a badly damaged front wing (“courtesy of fucking Seb”), three vases in the very suggestive shape of a naked woman’s body, which Oscar finds particularly distasteful, seventeen copies of Mark’s memoir stacked on top of each other to balance a statue of – uhm, well… himself, and the ugliest carpet Oscar has ever seen, blotched with red wine stains.
Mark’s apartment in Australia is way more normal, less unhinged – probably because it shows the hand of his wife Ann, who doubles as Oscar’s manager and feels something like a second mother, where Mark is the second dad.
Oscar sips a soda from the nearly empty fridge while he waits for Mark to finish his phone call in the next room. Mark isn’t quite screaming, but he’s definitely talking at someone – loud, clipped, and impatient.
To pass the time, Oscar scrolls through Lando Norris’ Instagram again. He hovers over the most recent post, a photo dump from the past week. Normally, he’d have liked it already – the first picture he hasn’t in, well, forever. But he forces his thumb away. He can’t be known as Lando Norris’ idiot fanboy teammate. He’s here to carve his own path. And that means no more trying to emulate Lando, or pouring pieces of his persona into his own.
When Mark comes back into the kitchen, Oscar flicks Instagram closed with a practiced swipe and tucks his phone into the pocket of his jeans.
“Sorry that took so long,” Mark sighs, opening the fridge and pulling out a lone bottle of Voss water – the bougie Norwegian crap you drink purely to show you’re above tap water. He cracks it open, downs half in one go, then turns toward Oscar, who’s perched on the other side of the kitchen island.
“This is pretty much my only window to scream at Australians before one of us goes to bed. And they deserved it. Some clown’s been at it again, questioning the legitimacy of the whole Alpine debacle – even though the arbitration tribunal has already decided in our favour.”
Oscar watches, faintly mesmerized, as Mark drains another gulp.
“But enough about my managerial plights.” Mark leans against the counter, his tone softening. “Tell me all about your first day with the big boys.”
It has the oddly homely feel of a dad coming back from work, eager to hear how the first day of school went.
“It was good,” Oscar says slowly, picking through words with care. “I think I like them. It all feels very serious, very real. We spent a long time talking about my image, what I represent for the brand. Prema wouldn’t have cared if I’d stripped naked on Twitter or something – but at McLaren, I can tell it’s going to matter that I present myself exactly the way they want.”
Mark nods. “Yeah. Absolutely. F1’s a different ballpark. And I retired before any of that branding crap really became important. Just so many more eyes watching now.” He takes another swig from his stupidly expensive water. “What do you think of your teammate?”
Oscar keeps his face carefully neutral. “He seems nice enough. He’s a bit…”
“We’re amongst ourselves. Say it.”
“A bit of an airhead,” Oscar blurts – and instantly regrets it. “No, that’s not fair. He’s not that bad. He’s just… mentally in a different headspace than me. I get the feeling he doesn’t take it all that seriously. He knows he’s basically the most beloved driver in the sport now that Danny’s gone. And he loves to talk. Nonstop.”
Even as he says it, guilt twinges. Why is he picking Lando apart? Lando had been genuinely nice to him. So why does he feel the need to distance himself? To prove to Mark that he’s still that ruthless, unfazed rookie with the ice-cold stare – the one Mark chose to back?
Mark, of course, finds it funny. He chuckles. “Yeah. He’s got that air. And the rest of the gang?”
“Absolutely no complaints. Though… I don’t think Andrea Stella likes me very much.”
“Nah.” Mark shrugs. “He’s just reserved. Like you, in a way. He’s actually the one you should stick close to. Zak’s the hard nut to crack. He’s a hundred percent in Lando’s corner. Family friend and all that.”
Oscar groans. “I hate team politics.”
“Yeah, unfortunately that’s the reality of it.” Mark’s tone turns bitter, and Oscar braces for another familiar rant. “Be glad you weren’t in Red Bull during the 2010s.”
Made Game of Thrones look like child’s play, Oscar recites silently, already knowing the line by heart.
“Made Game of Thrones look like child’s play,” Mark says, right on cue. “Difference is, you’ve got me to guide you through it. Which is why I’m telling you: Andrea’s your best bet. Him and Zak have this strange checks-and-balances thing going on. If Zak’s in Lando’s corner, you need Stella in yours.”
“Okay,” Oscar sighs. “Man, why can’t I just race?”
“If you wanted to just race, you’d be in NASCAR or something.”
“Yeah, but I want to race the fastest car in the world,” Oscar mutters, turning the can in his hand. “I want to be the fastest overall.”
“And you will.” Mark’s voice softens, but it doesn’t lose its edge. “I’ve seen plenty of rookies come through. None of them stack up to you. You’re even better than Lando Norris. You’ll need time to adjust to him, sure, but don’t get discouraged if he beats you at first. He’s had four years to bed in with that team.”
“Yeah.” Oscar’s reply is sparse, as usual. He already knows all this. Mark has drilled it into him a dozen times since their gamble – pulling him out of Alpine’s academy and signing with McLaren. You’re not going to be the fastest one anymore, he’d said. From F3 and F2 champion to trailing your teammate. That’s natural. You’ll adapt.
“Now that you’re officially part of this circus,” Mark says, setting his empty water bottle aside, “it’s time I introduced you to my three golden rules.”
Oscar blinks. “Your three golden rules?”
“For making it in F1.”
He can’t help but grin at the melodrama. “You writing a new book?”
Mark smirks. “Yeah – and you’re getting the free preview. Perks of being my client.”
Oscar leans forward against the counter, meeting his gaze. “Alright then. Colour me intrigued. What are your three golden rules for success?”
That’s Mark’s thing – being a bit theatrical, a bit over the top. But for a man who’d suffered so much in a sport that was supposed to love him, Oscar can’t really blame him for it.
“First rule,” Mark says, drawing it out as he raises one finger. “Don’t trust anyone.”
Oscar groans. “Man, why do you always act like everyone’s out to get you?”
“Because, my dearest Oscar, from 2009 until 2013, everyone was out to get me.” Mark’s deadly serious. “Those Europeans are ruthless. Look at what they did to me. Look at what they did to Daniel. I trusted Christian and Helmut, Danny trusted Andrea and Zak – and now look at us both.”
“I don’t think there’s this anti-Australian bias you’re convinced of.”
“It’s not about being Australian. It’s about needing allies.”
Oscar sighs. “But you just said I can’t trust anyone. How the hell am I supposed to find allies?”
“I said allies, not friends,” Mark corrects sharply. “Don’t let yourself get backed into a corner. Power politics are like vines – they grow slowly, and suddenly they’re around your ankles and you can’t move.”
“I don’t… think vines work that way.” Oscar hates bad metaphors. And this one is hanging on by a thread.
“Second rule,” Mark continues, completely unfazed by Oscar’s interjection. “Keep improving. Think you’re the best at something? Don’t rest on it. Capitalise. If you’re better at something than Lando Norris, train it even harder. Because he’ll be improving, trying to catch you. You cannot lose your advantage.”
That one at least makes sense. “And what about the things he’s better at?”
“That you’ve gotta train,” Mark says flatly. “Obviously. You improve your weaknesses, yes – but you also double down on your strengths, so he can’t turn them into weak spots. Makes sense?”
“Yes.”
“Seb was a beast at that,” Mark goes on. “He studied my strengths, then improved on them until he beat me at my own game. I don’t know enough about Lando Norris, but he strikes me as the same kind of operator. He’ll yap your ear off, put on a big show – and meanwhile, he’s quietly poisoning the well.”
Another metaphor hanging by a thread.
“And the third rule?” Oscar prompts, because honestly, he can’t take much more of this.
“The third rule is: never take the high road.”
Jesus Christ. Mark’s truly off his rocker today. Oscar just stares at him blankly. “You sure you didn’t mean the other way around? That I should take the high road?”
“No.”
“Okay.”
Mark leans forward, pinning him with a look. “Taking the high road gets you absolutely nothing. Remember Multi 21?”
“How could I ever forget,” Oscar sighs. It’s Mark’s festering wound – the moment the whole world saw just how little Sebastian Vettel cared for his teammate.
“All these rules are things I did wrong during my time in F1,” Mark says. “And since you could argue I wasn’t exactly super successful, flipping those mistakes on their head – that’s your roadmap. Don’t let them bully you into team orders. Ever. Because if Lando’s even half the man Seb was, he’ll use every concession you make, twist it, and get the team on his side at your expense.”
Oscar nods slowly. “But… what if he’s nice?”
“Who, Lando?”
“Yeah. What if he isn’t like Sebastian? What if McLaren isn’t like Red Bull? And I just come in all leery and contrarian and paranoid? I don’t want to alienate anyone who might be of use to me.”
He thinks of Lando again – his outgoing, genuinely friendly teammate, who’d seemed to enjoy spending that time with him. At least, until he got distracted, forgot about his responsibility entirely and drifted off like the careless breeze he is. Still, Oscar is sure of it: Lando Norris is no Sebastian Vettel.
“I’m not saying you should go around spitting in their teacups,” Mark scoffs. “But you’ve got to be on your guard. Don’t pay kindness forward – it won’t be repaid. Not here.”
He fixes Oscar with a steady look across the kitchen island. “You’re here to win, and nothing else. Don’t ever forget that.”
────────────
“Honestly, his pep talks are starting to scare me,” Oscar sighs, lifting his beer off the coaster and rolling it between his hands in the dim light of the pub. Across from him sits Logan Sargeant, his old F2 teammate, who’s also made the leap into F1 as a rookie this year. Logan’s landed at Williams – a team with a history as rich as McLaren’s, but weighed down by the same failure to keep pace with its own legacy.
“It’s like he’s talking to this twenty-one-year-old version of himself, trying to stop him from making the same mistakes he did.” Oscar sighs, dragging a hand over his face. “You wouldn’t believe the tips he gave me today. Pure paranoia. Maximum level.”
Logan laughs, bright blue eyes catching the light under the brim of his dark cap, golden hair just visible beneath it. Logan’s one of the prettiest people Oscar knows – an all-American dream boy, the kind Taylor Swift might’ve written songs about if she were fifteen years younger.
“Yeah, well, at least you’ve got a veteran in your corner,” Logan says, pinching a fry from the basket between them. “Someone to guide you through all the… inherent European-ness of it all.”
“I guess so,” Oscar sighs, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest. “But enough about me. How are things with you? How’s Williams?”
“Good, I think,” Logan says, a little uneasy. “I really like James – I think we’ll get along well. And Alex’s not too bad, either.” By James he means James Vowles, Williams’ team principal. Alex is Alexander Albon, once a Red Bull prodigy, later chewed up and spit out by the machine.
Williams hasn’t been competitive in what feels like the entirety of Oscar and Logan’s lifetimes. But the team has a familial warmth to it, fans who are loyal, fierce, and forgiving in their expectations. Oscar thinks Logan will do great there – he just fits, in a way.
“It’s surreal, really,” Logan adds after a pause, his voice quieter. “We’ve both made it. Us two.”
“Yeah,” Oscar says, trying not to dwell on the impossibility of it all. Two best friends, teammates, both lifted into the sport they’ve always dreamed of. It feels almost too good to be true – like they haven’t yet paid the full price. “But to be fair, we were the most talented.”
Logan laughs. They both know it takes more than talent to claw your way out of F2 and into F1 – the thin cream layer at the top of motorsport, where everyone clings desperately to their seat so it doesn’t churn as frothily as the formulas below.
Oscar’s had talent, sure, in buckets. But he’s also had Mark Webber: a former F1 driver and almost-champion who took him under his wing, steered him away from disastrous choices – like Alpine – and leveraged his bargaining power to get Oscar in front of a team like McLaren.
Logan plucks another fry from the basket, chewing thoughtfully. “So how do you get along with Lando? You were always kind of a fan, weren’t you?”
“You caught that, huh?” Oscar tries not to look too embarrassed.
“Didn’t you, like, camp in the mentions of his biggest fan accounts?” Logan grins. “And remember that joint interview? You were all, ‘oh my god, it would be such an honor to work with Lando one day,’ while he was sitting right next to you, probably wondering who this little fanboy was.”
“Bitch, please,” Oscar shoots back. “He knew my name. We’re, like, eighteen months apart. We were always friendly.”
“That doesn’t answer my question. How do you get along?”
“Good,” Oscar says after a pause. “I think. Haven’t had much time to hang with him yet. He kinda bailed on me during the factory tour. So… yeah. Don’t think I’m very high on his list of priorities.”
That seems to cheer Logan up, oddly enough – maybe because he feels the same way, stuck low on the Williams pecking order.
“Don’t worry,” Logan says. “He’ll start paying attention once you’re outperforming him.”
“You’ve got more faith in my abilities than I do.”
“Piastri, you’re F3 and F2 champion. Lando missed out on F2 – he lost to George fucking Russell. You, however, lost to no one.”
For some reason, Logan’s earnest words do more for Oscar’s confidence than all of Mark’s erratic praise. Because they’re true. Ever since stepping into the F1 world – confronted with new rules, new eyes, new pressure – he’s forgotten how invincible he’s been so far. Who’s to say he won’t be just as good in F1? Just because it’s the top layer? Just because you can’t go higher?
“You’re right.” Oscar exhales. “And you’re gonna do great too. I’m sure of it. An Australian and an American, ready to conquer the European world of motorsport. You’ll see – that’s the headline they’ll write about us.”
Logan flashes that wide, disarming smile that’s always bewitched him. He lifts his glass and clinks it against Oscar’s over the table. “We’re gonna be great – or nothing.”
Oscar leans in, locking eyes with him. The season’s going to be fucking exhilarating. He can’t wait to make F1 his bitch.
“Great or nothing,” he echoes, their glasses meeting in the dim light.