Chapter Text
Oscar sits in the middle of the white sofa. To his right sits McLaren F1 driver (and his teammate) Lando Norris, and to his left, he’s got Mercedes-AMG driver George Russell. In front of him, a sea of bloodthirsty journalists sits waiting. It’s been half an hour since they finished the race. The P1 in the race mixed sweetly with the fact that he’s finally in front of Lando in the drivers’ standings.
“So Oscar, how does it feel to be at the top of the F1 standings?” The voice of F1 presenter Tom Clarkson was getting familiar after his years in the sport. The middle-aged, greying man made sure to keep the playground as even as possible, letting the journalists do their job without jabbing too much at the drivers.
“Bweh, well, it’s definitely a good feeling to win here at Monza. It’s difficult to put it into words, but it’s a bit like finally coming home.” Thrilling. Mind-blowing. Satisfying. Exhilarating. Exhausting. Because while he loved racing, the strain of a long season was starting to appear on his mind and body.
“I'd say it’s a step closer to taking the title,” A cheeky-faced Clarkson adds. 15 races down, just nine more races to go, Oscar’s mind supplied.
“Well, yeah, definitely, but we still have quite a few races left - so there’s still a lot of hard work to be done.”
“Thomas Schultz from the Bild - Lando, how do you think this will affect your relationship as teammates, now that you’re not the top-dog anymore?”
Lando never gets the chance to answer. Clarkson’s expression flickers - barely a twitch at first, just a tightening around his eyes as he presses a hand to his earpiece. The room doesn’t notice it at first, but Oscar does. After his time at Alpine, he’s spent enough time around race engineers to recognize the look of someone getting a message they’re reluctant to repeat out loud.
Then the sound of a sharp inhale gets picked up by Clarkson’s microphone.
A ripple of unease moves through the front row of journalists. Pens pause mid-scribble. Oscar recognises the sound of people starting to video record.
“We’re… getting reports of a huge shunt over at Laguna Seca,” Clarkson says, voice suddenly stripped of its earlier warmth.
The words hang in the air, heavy and metallic.
A murmur spreads across the room - first a few whispers, then a rising tide of fragmented updates as journalists check their phones, their tablets, and their feeds.
Oscar feels his pulse spike. These days, he doesn’t even follow IndyCar that closely, but crashes are universal. Every driver knows the sound of that word shunt in their bones.
“Who’s involved?” someone asks, but it’s swallowed by the noise.
Bits of information drift through the room like ash.
“Three cars…turn 6”
“Car number 14…Santino Ferrucci is out and walking.”
“Shwartzmann too…”
“The last one’s still buried in the tirewall…”
Oscar’s throat tightens. He doesn’t know why - not yet - but something cold curls low in his stomach.
“I think it might be one of the Andrettis,” a journalist mutters.
Another voice cuts in, louder, more certain:
“Yeah - number 28. That’s Sargeant.”
The world tilts.
Oscar doesn’t hear the rest. Not really. The room keeps talking - phones buzzing, reporters scrambling, Clarkson trying to keep control - but it all blurs into a dull roar, like he’s underwater.
Logan.
He stares straight ahead, but the press room lights suddenly feel too bright, too hot, like they’re burning through his racing suit. His fingers clenches to fists, nails digging crescent moons in his palm.
“Still no confirmation from Sargeant,” someone says.
And that’s the sentence that finally punches the air out of his lungs.