Against You

The Enemy

Then I box.

The tyre change goes perfectly and Oscar comes in just behind me, almost double stacking. I don't even lose enough time to end up behind Leclerc who also boxes. Oscar overtakes him to follow closely behind me.

I have to make this undercut work for us. On brand new soft tyres, I set fastest lap after fastest lap to close the gap on Perez and I pray there won't be another safety car. This is my longest stint of the race, I'll go to the end on these tyres. After Perez boxes on lap thirty there are only a couple of seconds between us.

My car finally passes his in front of the grandstand. The crowd erupts with applause.

"Yellow flag in sector one. Oscar is out of the race."

"Why?" I ask, trying to ignore the way my heart jumps. I'm in first, and Oscar is out of the race. After everything the team has overcome today it seems unnecessarily cruel.

"Mechanical issues."

The rest of the race is a blur. Ten laps to go and our strategy is far better than Red Bull's. They have no hope of catching up. I'm going to do it. Another win, and Leclerc down in third. With five races left and naysayers still saying I'll never steal the championship, this will give them all something to talk about.

Fireworks fly as I cross the finish line. The podium is a mess of faux champagne and confetti. This could be my best win yet. Safety cars, double pitting, a thousand overtakes, dodging debris. I made it through everything.

As I shake my bottle over the podium railings, aiming at my team, I spot someone down there I didn't expect to see. Oscar looks up at me, his face unreadable, his arms folded across his stomach. He doesn't laugh with the others, but that isn't a surprise. Another podium ripped from him right at the end of the race. But he also doesn't look angry.

I congratulate every member of the team as I walk back through the garage, showing off my trophy and letting everyone have a taste of fizzy pink water from my bottle. I'm sweaty and sticky, not to mention exhausted, so I head to my cabin to get changed before the press conference. I'm going to need a little bit of peace and quiet before the celebrations tonight. As I'm pulling on my white t-shirt however, there's a knock at the door.

Oscar POV

It's one of the most rewarding races of the season, despite its intensity. I started second, fell to sixth and now I'm flying up in third, about to pull off a second overtake on Norris and edging my way ever closer to the race win.

That is, until the whirring noise.

It snaps and grinds like a blacksmith's workshop behind my engine covers and suddenly Norris is getting away and Leclerc is catching up.

"What's wrong?" I shout down the radio.

"Pull over, pull over and stop the engine."

"Why?"

The car gives up quickly, barely crawling into the nearest access lane. I turn it off, beating my fists on the steering wheel. I know fine well why. Engine failure, probably caused by the collision with Ocon in the beginning of the race. It's the classic when you're finally about to have a really great and memorable race.

"Are you okay?"

I swear into the radio in reply. The yellow flags are waved for me as I undo my belt and climb out of the car, throwing the stupid steering wheel back inside. I refuse to let the marshal chaperone me, pushing his arm away as he steps forward. I'm not far from the pit lane. I can find my own way back.

Reporters thrust cameras in my face as I walk so I keep my helmet on. My fists are clenched and adrenaline is coursing through my body, even more-so than during the race. I hate this. I hate not having a chance. I hate losing not because of my own inadequacies but because of some stupid engineering failures. I walk straight through the garage into the deserted paddock.