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Oscar has been jiggling his leg all night.
He catches himself, stops and sits up in his chair, straightening his suit jacket. The thing is stiff and expensive. He can’t wait to get home and get back into a t-shirt, but it’s hardly the pressing concern on his mind right now.
“You want to relax? You’re making me nervous just looking at you,” Lando quips, nudging his shoulder with the lip of his wine glass. “She’s not going to disappear, mate.”
Oscar shoots him a wary look.
“I’m fine.”
Lando snorts.
“No, you’re not.”
Lando takes a long gulp of wine, and the two of them watch the crowd mill around the bustling room. For one of the swankier award nights in motorsports, it’s a dead boring affair. Monaco reminds Oscar of every cliché about racing drivers he’s heard, so instinctively he hates it. Clean streets, a glittering Riviera jewel, an empty façade.
He can see her smile, buried in some memory of when the topic passed between.
“An anti-Monaco F1 driver? God, you’re not like the other girls.”
He winces.
There’s a prod to his shoulder. Lando is holding a fresh bottle of beer he must have plucked from a passing waiter, offering it up to him. Oscar shakes his head.
“I’m begging you, mate. It’s for your own good.”
Oscar doesn’t drink much, but perhaps Lando is onto something. That’s what their comradery over the last year has been built on, right? Oscar picks up on things even when Lando doesn’t seem aware that it’s a learning moment.
The beer is bone cold, which helps with the taste but not with his sensitive gums. He sucks his teeth, eyeing the bottle accusatorily while Lando chortles.
“God, everything’s difficult tonight, isn’t it?” Lando muses, shaking his head with a self-satisfied grin. Schmuck.
If it hadn’t been for Zandvoort – a reckless confession in the afterglow of his first podium – Oscar might have escaped unscathed. He would normally never dream of sharing something as embarrassing as having a crush with anyone, let alone a teammate. As if the mind games aren’t enough. He doesn’t need the collateral hanging over his head.
He doesn't even remember doing it. Lando is nice enough to remind him the weekend after with a shit-eating grin he can barely contain and a sharp elbow to Oscar’s side every time she walks past in the paddock.
Saying it out loud somehow makes it more real, and much scarier.
There’s movement among the group near the bar that he’s been watching out of the corner of his eye. Lando lets out a sigh.
“You’re up, Piastri.”
Oscar wonders why Lando hangs out with him at these events. Out of corporate obligation, or pity, or god forbid, because he might enjoy Oscar’s company. He’s not sure but he doesn’t bother raising the issue; he’s busy chugging the rest of the awful icy beer that electrifies his jaw while wiping a hand on his pant leg and getting to his feet.
He blinks and suddenly he’s by the registration table where they’re selling entries for the charity draw. He’s too close, close enough that she notices him.
“Well, well. Look who it is,” she says.
Oscar still can’t really feel his jaw but he thinks he’s smiling.
“Look what the cat dragged in,” he replies without thinking. What the cat dragged in? Fuck’s sake. In the midst of his panic, he’d been preoccupied by the thought that she looked particularly feline tonight, slinking around in a long, silky black number. “Uh-”
“We can’t all clean up nice as you,” she says, already grinning as she eyes him up and down. He resists the urge to cross his arms over his chest. “I’m going miss this get up when you go back to gym shorts.”
So, it goes. In the moment, he’s only really half-aware of what’s happening but he knows the warmth and the spike of excitement he feels around her. When he has time to think on it afterwards, he revels in the fact he’s able to maintain any kind of conversation while simultaneously being a bit stunned by her. All he really knows is that he enjoys it a lot. Maybe a little too much.
She coerces him into buying a few entries for the charity draw then nabs half the stubs out of his hand the second they turn away from the registration table. All’s fair in love and war. Oscar figures that he never wins these things anyway.
“What’s the prize?” he wonders out loud as she accepts a new glass of bubbly from a waiter.
“I don’t know, a hot lap around Monaco with Nico Rosberg?”
“I wouldn’t mind that, actually.”
She makes a face.
“Neither, but let’s be real, it’s probably dinner with Paul di Resta or something.” He laughs, his chest warm and fuzzy. He makes mental note to thank Lando for the beer tip later. For good measure, he gets started on another one. “I feel a little sorry for them, they haven’t sold a lot of entries. All these billionaires in one room and no one can chip in a few dollars for charity?”
“Wait, so there’s a good chance one of us might actually win?” Oscar asks seriously.
“Yeah, boohoo.” She checks her phone distractedly. Emboldened, he adds,
“Maybe they should have auctioned off a night with an FIA official instead.”
Perhaps he needs to rethink the thank you note to Lando, because – where did that come from? He blanches and squeezes his bottle, while she turns to examine him with a cocked head and an indiscernible smile.
“You would bid?” she jibes, poking her tongue out. He shrugs and takes a sip of beer to calm himself down.
“Depends on the FIA official.”
“Ben Sulayem, go.”
“Not my type, but I’m open minded so I wouldn’t say no.”
“I’m scandalised – he’s your boss,” she fakes a gasp.
“No, he’s your boss,” Oscar corrects. “But in principle, it could get complicated, I agree.”
She’s laughing, a bright open sound that he wants to chase down again and again. This is a good time as any. He jumps at the brief gap in the conversation, making a show of tugging on the collar of his shirt.
“Do you want to head outside for a breather? It’s a bit hot in here.”
A rush of cool, sea air washes over them as they step into the hotel garden adjacent to the ballroom. For a hotel in the middle of a bustling metropolis, it’s almost serene. There are other attendees lingering outside, but the din is gone and it feels oddly far more intimate than it did a few minutes ago. They stroll through rows of hedges and past an ornate marble water feature.
It’s nippy enough that she tenses reflexively when a breeze passes. He shakes off his jacket despite her protests, and moves forward to arrange it across her shoulders.
“You still hate Monaco?” she asks as he adjusts the jacket sleeves. Oscar rolls his eyes.
“I don’t hate Monaco. It’s just not my thing.”
“I’m moving here next year,” she confesses, dropping her voice to match the quiet of the environment. “They’re setting up some kind of drivers commission they want me to help with.”
Oscar goes to step back, but she reaches up and grab his bowtie. All he can manage is a soft oh as she begins to fiddle with adjusting it for him.
“This is where you say you’ve changed your mind and you love Monaco,” she prompts.
“I’ve changed my mind, I love Monaco.”
The crinkles in the corners of her eyes when she smiles are worth it. Fuck it.
“Hey,” he blurts, “I’m probably going to overstep here and ruin the vibe but I…” He searches her face for something, anything. A reason to stop. Her hands have stilled on his bowtie but they’re still there, resting on his chest, too close to his all too loud heart. “I like you.”
There’s a pause that feels like several sunless millennia, then –
“I like you, too.”
She’s too earnest, and he’s dismayed by the prospect of having to properly convey the depth of his despair to her.
“No, I mean – I like you.” God, he sounds like a kid.
“I know,” she laughs, “I like you as well.” He blinks, not quite registering what this all means.
“Okay, but…” He scratches his head. “Uh…well that’s good to hear.”
“So are you going to kiss me, or..?”
“Yes. Yep – okay, yes…” He’s still mumbling when their lips make contact, and thankfully she swallows all his meaningless words. She kisses like she laughs; like music. It flows through him and renders him pliable as jelly, standing in the warmth of her bonfire, sucked into her gravitational pull.
He’s a goner.
When she releases him, he stands there for a second, unsure what to do with himself.
“That was…that was nice,” he manages at last, with a breathless laugh. “Can I take you to dinner sometime?”
Her smile drops a little.
“No.”
“No?” It’s like whiplash. The world is spinning again.
She looks younger now, gazing up at him, apologetic and imploring wrapped up in one small smile. It softens all her harsh edges; the sensual gown and sleek make up that would have terrified him a year ago.
“Wouldn’t expect her to be your type, mate.”
“Oscar,” she says, a touch amused as her eyes drifting out to the night. “It’d be a PR nightmare.”
“It’s just dinner.” He keeps his tone light but his tongue feels like lead in his mouth. To step into a puddle of sunshine, then immediately back into the rain. How is he meant to forget this now?
“Of course.” Her knowing smile says that she also knows it won't be just dinner.
“I’ll pull a few strings. Promise you won’t be fired.”
“You promise?” She’s humouring him, the irrepressible smile back on her face that presses dimples into her cheeks. She pauses, then shakes her head. “Plus, you’re…what, 22?”
“23 in a few months,” he interjects, puffing out his chest.
“Don’t you think I’m a bit old for you?”
“You’re younger than my mum.”
That earns him a slap on the chest.
“That cannot be your criteria.”
He laughs as he pretends to massage the wounded spot.
“Yeah but you’re like, what?”
“A lady never tells, but I’m 26,” she replies, running her hands down her dress to smooth out the fabric. It’s immensely distracting but he focuses on her face. “Try again in a few years when your frontal lobe has fully developed. If you’re not married by then.”
“I seriously doubt that’ll be the case.”
“You seem like the marrying type,” she accuses.
“You’re really kicking me when I’m down?” he retorts, earning a snort of laughter.
A loud, tolling bell echoes through the garden, calling guests back like cows coming home to the paddock at the end of the day. They’re ushered back inside, but not before she returns his jacket and makes a final adjustment to his bow tie.
The rest of the event passes without incident. The view from Oscar’s seat is directly of the stage which allows him to ignore Lando’s raised eyebrows and attempts to play footsie under the table.
At the close of the evening, they announce the charity draw winner. It’s her – sweeping onto stage like a pageant queen, a little bewildered, accepting the largest bottle of Dom Perignon he’s ever seen.
The crowd begins to disperse out into the casino, where invites to after parties are dished quietly among those in the know. Oscar can’t wait to be back in his hotel room, though Lando is still prodding him with his foot as he sways from side to side, flicking through his phone.
“So, you’re coming to kick ons?”
Oscar grimaces.
“I kinda just want to go to bed.”
“With…?” Lando begins with a wicked smile, but he freezes. Oscar looks up just as the bottle falls into his lap, shockingly heavy.
“Your prize,” she says, offering him a small slip of paper between her fingers. His raffle stub. “Hi Lando.”
“Hi.” Lando has his top lip between his teeth in some awful attempt to stop smiling, but she doesn’t pay him much attention. Instead, she's staring at Oscar. He hopes he isn't as transparent as he feels.
"Thanks for the chat earlier. In a few years, right?" She grins. He returns it without hesitation.
"Sure. In a few years."
He can't quite put his finger on why it doesn't feel like a no.