Oscar POV
I love parties. I love loud music and losing myself in a crowd. I love the feeling of letting go, there's nothing to be won here, and nothing to be lost.
It's the end of my first week at McLaren, and boy has it been eventful. I've met so many new people and learnt so much already. It's been stressful, but it's what I wanted. Everything is falling into place.
"Hey, Oscar. Why are you standing over here all alone?" one of the mechanics asks me.
I shrug my shoulders. "Just soaking in the atmosphere."
"We're going to have some games soon, why don't you join in?"
"Games?"
"Yeah, you know. Beer pong."
My face breaks into a wide smile. I am the best at beer pong.
The guy, I don't remember his name, writes our names together on the sign-up sheet. We'll form a team together, and he's ecstatic about it. While we wait for our turn I hang around by the bar and bob my head to the music. I people-watch and try to run through everyone's names in my head. I know it's not that important, but it's best to know for future reference.
Then I see him.
I didn't expect Lando Norris to be at this party. Maybe I should've, but I just didn't take him for a party kind of guy. I know he doesn't drink much alcohol and I can't imagine him dancing. In fact, I think he could be the world's biggest introvert.
And yet there he stands. He has a huge circle of people around him, even though he's not doing much. He sips on a yellow drink with a childish umbrella and slice of pineapple stuck in it. My stomach feels unusually acidic. What's so interesting about Lando? He's such a brown-noser.
My beer pong partner pushes through the crowd to get to Lando and says a couple of words in his ear. Then he spots me staring and beckons me over too. I shake my head, but he looks stricken. He mouths two words at me.
Beer pong.
Is this going to be what I think it is? I traipse over to the ping pong table where the cups are already set up in large triangles. I join my partner on one side, and... Yeah. Of course Lando stands across the table.
I shoot him a stony glare.
He takes the first shot, a slow bouncer that barely makes it to the triangle. We've danced around each other all week, but now it's time for him to realise what I'm made of. The taste of cinnamon burns on my tongue. I land the ball in the middle cup with one try. A smirk at Lando's stricken expression.
Next up is his teammate, a guy called Jon. I remember him from racing together in the lower formulas. This guy is basically Lando's babysitter. To my dismay, he lands his shot too. My teammate downs the drink.
"Wish me luck," my partner says as he wipes the ball on his shirt and throws. It misses and then it's Lando's turn again. The idiot takes a deep breath and misses the table completely.
"Hand-eye coordination isn't my thing," he says with a terse smile.
I land in the cup right under his nose.
I know Lando hates beer so it's extra satisfying when he has to down a second half-cup. He screws up his face and looks at Jon imploringly, begging his teammate to land a shot to even the score. He doesn't do it.
We play a few more rounds, trading points pretty closely. Jon and I are the only ones with any skill although my teammate lands one or two. I watch Lando get increasingly frustrated the more he misses and at this point I'm almost cringing for him. Both teams have two cups left and most of the staff have crowded round to watch the most tense game of the evening.
"Come on, Oscar!" my engineer encourages me. I grip the ball tightly and line up my shot. Lando's eyes are wide, tipsy, and full of dread.
It goes in.
The crowd cheers and I grin. This is what it's all about, this is the perfect outcome. I've cemented myself as the alpha wolf, and all it took was a game of beer pong.
Now it's Jon's turn, and the stress causes him to miss his shot. I high five my partner, who I still don't know the name of, and he lines up his shot with extra care. It's in.
The crowd goes wild as my teammate hugs me and Lando's shoes scuff the ground in defeat. I search my mind for something scathing to say, but then I realise that would be overdoing it. I have to let my obvious superiority shine for itself.
The rest of the night is a blur of bright drinks and British songs that my colleagues scream along to. I'm swept along by the crowd, singing nonsense and not having to pay for a single drink. This is, after, all, my welcome party.
From the corner of my eye I see Lando, bundled up in a coat, leave through the main exit. He never was one for big crowds. Then my favourite song comes on and I forget all about it. Zak Brown climbs onto a table to make a speech about great potential and how welcome we all are, then the music gets turned up another notch and we all pile onto the dance floor.
The time is four in the morning when the last of us stumble out of the bar, calling taxis and trying to work out who lives closest to whom. As we dance around the car park in the newly starting rain, I spot something weird by the trees.
It's a brand new McLaren.
"That's Lando's car," someone says as we rush up to peer through the windows.
"What is it doing here? I thought Lando left hours ago?"
I hang back, not wanting to get involved. I thought he left too, but then what is his car doing here? Did he really get so tipsy off six mini-cups of beer that he couldn't drive home? Is he really that much of a lightweight?
"Is this area safe for a car like this?" a woman asks. I focus my bleary eyes and realise that it's Grace. She turns to me as if I've been living here more than one month.
"I don't know," I shrug. "Australia is pretty safe, I don't know about Woking."
She grins as if that was an amazing joke and I notice how perfectly aligned all her teeth are. I guess it doesn't matter about Lando's car. It's the company's really, so it won't affect him if it's stolen. Although it would be funny if it did.
"We could pull a prank on him," Jon's drunk eyes shine in the street lights.
"Like letting all the air out of his tyres?" I ask.
Grace waves her hands above her head. "No! You don't have to like Lando, but you can't overdo it!"
I stare at her open-mouthed, but quickly shut it and tear my eyes away, feeling everyone's gaze on me. My cheeks flush in their drunken state.
"You don't like Lando?" one of the mechanics screw their face up. "How is that even possible?"
"It's a long story," I say. "Besides, it's not that I don't like him. I just..."
"Hate him," Grace completes my sentence. A scowl stings my face. I should never have told her anything. That stupid therapist's office tricked me into letting out my true emotions, but unlike a therapist, Grace has no obligations to keep them secret.
"Oscar, taxi's here," someone calls and I'm grateful for the excuse to leave. I hop in the car and the guy I'm sharing with tells me excitedly about the time he visited Australia when he was ten years old. I rest my head against the window and count the seconds until we pull up outside my apartment. I'm exhausted. I enjoyed the party, but I'm not sure my reputation did. Now everyone knows me as the only guy in the world who hates Lando Norris.
Lando POV
I usually hate parties. I hate the noise, I hate the crowd, and I hate that everyone wants to talk to me just because I'm 'famous'. The only exception, the only party I feel normal at, is the McLaren welcome party.
Here I'm surrounded by friends, colleagues I've known for years and some who helped me grow all the way from karting. We laugh and reminisce, the barman knows my favourite drinks and doesn't try to get me drunk, and there's no pressure to be anything more than who I am already. It's the best party of the year.
Until he shows up.
Oscar Piastri is a liar. He has a different face for every occasion and he switches them around like jigsaw puzzle pieces to create a garbled mess of a personality. Today he's wearing lazy, vacant airhead who doesn't care about anyone or anything. It's only when Jon repeats my name a third time that I realise I'm glaring.
"What did you say?"
"I said Marty's organising beer pong, do you want to team up?"
"Sure," I reply distractedly. "Although it didn't go well last year, and I haven't practised since."
"Are you really British if you can't play beer pong?" Grace asks with a grin. "We used to play in primary school with juice instead of alcohol, it was a popular party game."
I shrug. "Not for me."
It turns out there's a huge queue for beer pong as the bar only has one table and everyone's hungry for redemption after last year. The venue is still filling up though and I run into a group of people I haven't seen yet this season. They crowd around me, some of them with Christmas gifts they never managed to deliver, and I try my best to relax and answer all their questions. There sure are a lot.
One by one, teams are knocked out of the beer pong championships. Finally it's time for the last game, ours, and I've almost forgotten about Oscar Piastri when I find him standing across the table from me with a sneer smeared on like mud.
I look at Jon imploringly. He returns a half shrug.
Seeing as we have the ball, I take the first shot, hoping to catch Oscar off guard. I miss in my haste and Oscar smirks. I clench my jaw. Since when was this so important anyway?
It gets worse when Oscar sinks shot after shot and, according to the rules of the game, I have to drink the beer from the cups he targets. The taste is disgusting, cheap and bitter, and it makes me want to burp or throw up in the nearest toilet. It also makes my head spin, which doesn't help when it's my turn to throw the ball.
Jon is a godsend. He keeps us in the game when I can hardly stand without my hand clutching the table. Both teams have two cups left and a crowd has gathered, making me blush. Do people really care about this?
When I next look back at the table, the crowd is jeering, and we've lost.
It isn't a big deal.
The party goes on, people dancing and fewer people taking interest in me as they did at the beginning. It isn't always easy being the most famous person in the team, so I need events like these for everyone to stop putting me on a pedestal. But that doesn't mean it's not exhausting.
My mind is slow and clunky, my body is exhausted after the day's simulations and the night's drinking and games. I'm all socialised out and ready to hit my bed, so I grab my coat from the cloakroom and stumble out into the frosty night.
The sky is clear and scattered with a million stars. It reminds me of the farm at home, when I would go out riding in the middle of the night with my sisters without our parents ever knowing. It's quiet, despite the noise inside. The wind is biting and clean.
It's only when I've sat down in my McLaren that I realise I probably shouldn't drive.
I drop my head back against the headrest. What can I do? It's only midnight so I could easily take a taxi, but can I really leave my car here overnight? What if someone steals it? It isn't mine, but the company's, and they would never forgive me if something happened to it.
In the end I have no choice. It's not like anyone at the venue is insured to drive it for me and I can't exactly sleep here overnight. I call a taxi and hope for the best, making sure the McLaren is securely locked as I walk towards the main road to meet my ride. I sigh heavily, pulling my jacket around myself more tightly. This is all stupid Oscar's fault.
When I finally get home, I walk upstairs and turn on my computer. This was not a good day, but I'm too het up to go to sleep. My cursor hovers over the Twitch app, but I decide not to bother my followers at this time of night.
I rock alone on my gaming chair, just me and my glass of water.
Stupid Oscar Piastri.
Before this, every new season started better than the last. Though the years I've become more confident, more knowledgeable, and most importantly I've made great relationships with the other people in the team. It's teamwork that'll win us races. Without the team we have nothing.
And then he comes along.
Oscar Piastri is the most self-obsessed, insufferable driver I've ever met. Sure, there are bigger personalities on the grid, there are those who hate the media or are rude to fans. But Oscar is worse, because he's selfish even underneath the surface.
My head hurts so I rub it with my hand. My eyebrows are tight from frowning. After a long moment of indecision, I open Call of Duty and decide to solve my problems with a virtual killing spree. But it doesn't help.
I get into my cold bed feeling sick and dirty. At least tomorrow is the weekend. At least I don't have to see Oscar Piastri for another two days.
Only for another two years.