Chapter Text
Oscar shifted uncomfortably in his chair, the sterile meeting room at the McLaren Technology Centre feeling smaller than usual. The air was thick with concern that he didn't share. Andrea Stella sat across from him, hands folded on the table, his expression a careful mix of fatherly worry and professional calculation. Beside him, his dietitian Elena, a no-nonsense woman in her forties who flipped through charts on her tablet. His trainer, Kim, just looked tired.
"Oscar," Andrea started, his Italian accent softening the blow, "this isn't a scolding or punishment. We're simply looking at the data and you've dropped... what is it now?"
"Six kilos," Elena supplied quietly. "At your height, that's... extreme for the demands of an F1 car. Considering the g-forces, the heat, the concentration window. Your body will slowly start to run on fumes, even if you don't feel it yet."
Oscar leaned forward, elbows on the table. His shoulders felt sharp under his team polo, the fabric looser than it had been months ago. He doesn't see it as negatively as they apparently do. "I'm sharper. Quicker reactions in the sim. I nailed every sector last week. The car's responding better because my muscles are taking the front force instead of dead weight. It's just... optimization."
Kim exhaled. "Mate, you've been optimizing yourself into the ground. I don't know what you have felt yet but I can assume dizziness, pangs of hunger? That's your body screaming. We caught it in the telemetry. You get heart rate spikes, reaction times are better than better yes, but it continues to dip in the later stages of runs even if you push through on a good level. You could sit this weekend out, eat properly, get some weight back on those bones. Then you're back stronger for the next one."
"I don't need a break." Oscar's voice was even, but there was an edge to it. He could feel the phantom ache in his muscles, the way his ribs pressed against skin when he breathed deep. The thing they’re trying to paint as weakness was just discipline. Drivers had always cut weight, always worked for the best physique. Ask any formula legend, they had all been pushing off track the same way they do on track. Why was this suddenly a crisis? I'm not making mistakes, matter of fact I have felt better in the car. My focus is sharper and my body is as well. I’m not carrying dead weight anymore, even mentally. I have given everything into this, which is exactly what's needed to make me get better results."
Elena slid a graph across the table. Low body fat percentage, cortisol levels and nutrient deficiencies starting to show. "It's not sustainable, Oscar. Not long-term. You're young and incredibly talented. We don't want to lose you to something preventable like this."
Andrea watched him closely. "It's one weekend. The team will manage. And you'll come back with reserves. Real ones. Not this... edge you're walking."
Oscar stared at the graph, then at their faces. This was ridiculous. He swallowed, throat dry. "And if I say no?"
The room went quiet.
"We're not letting you. It was a courtesy to ask and suggest, but we will push through this decision." Andrea stated, voice kind yet firm.
Oscar’s jaw tightened, a flash of real anger cutting through the fog of exhaustion he’d been ignoring for weeks. He sat back slowly, the chair creaking under his lighter frame, and let out a short, bitter laugh that didn’t reach his eyes.
“So that’s it then?” His voice was low, controlled, but the edge sharpened. “Courtesy? You sat me down, made it sound like a conversation, and now you’re just… benching me.”
Andrea Stella didn’t flinch. His expression stayed that practised soft look, but there was steel behind it. The same look he gave when strategy calls had to be made mid-race, no room for debate. “We care about you, Oscar. Not just the driver but your person. You’ve been pushing this for months, and we let it go longer than we should have because the results were still there. However, it will stop now. The reserve will run this weekend. You’re staying here, or you’re going home to rest. We’ll have medical and nutrition on you daily until you’re back above target health.”
Elena nodded, adding gently but firmly, “We’ve already adjusted your meal plan. High calorie, balanced macros. No more ‘leniency’ on the deficits. This isn’t negotiable.”
Kim leaned in. “You’re one of the best we’ve got, kid. Don’t make us watch you burn out before you hit your prime. One weekend. That’s all we’re asking for.”
Oscar’s hands clenched under the table. His pulse hammered in his ears, a mix of humiliation and defiance. They didn’t understand. The control, the sharpness, the way the world narrowed to just him and the car when everything else was stripped away, that was the point. The hunger kept him focused. The leanness made him feel unbreakable and now they were taking that away, treating him like he couldn’t be trusted with his own body.
He stared at the table for a long moment, the graphs and charts blurring slightly. Dizzy again. He hated that they were right about that part.
“Fine,” he said finally, the word clipped and cold. “But I’m not sitting at home eating pasta while someone else drives my car. I’ll be at the track and the garage. I can’t just slack off.”
Andrea studied him, then gave a single nod. “That we can work with. But the moment we see you pushing too hard and not focusing on recovery, that changes. Understood?”
Oscar met his gaze, something stubborn and wounded flickering behind his eyes. He gave the smallest nod in return.
Inside, though, the thoughts raced faster than any qualifying lap: This isn’t over. I’ll get the weight back on. I’ll show them I can handle it. I have to.
---
The tension hung heavy in the room as the meeting wrapped up with logistics and schedules. Oscar stood first, already mentally calculating how little he could eat while still technically complying.
Later that evening, the McLaren data centre hummed with quiet activity. Screens glowed with telemetry, sector times, and tyre degradation curves. Oscar stood hunched over one of the stations, eyes narrowed, mentally replaying the reserve driver’s lap data from the afternoon. Just one more sector. One more comparison.
A hand touched his shoulder. Elena.
“Dinner,” she said simply. Her tone left no room for negotiation, and the stern set of her mouth told him she’d loop in Andrea and Kim if he pushed it. Oscar sighed, straightened up, and followed without argument. He was already on thin ice. No point making it worse.
They walked in silence to the team hospitality area. The usual buzz of engineers and staff felt distant tonight. Elena had been reassigned for the weekend for full-time oversight on him. No more remote diet plans traded over email with his trainer and the wider performance team. She’d be here, in person, for every meal. If the pattern held, someone else would start delivering trays soon enough. Like he was a flight risk who couldn’t be trusted with a plate.
He felt a pang of guilt twist in his stomach. Elena had other athletes, other responsibilities. Now she was babysitting him because he’d… what? Gotten too good at managing his own body?
They sat at a quiet corner table. A covered plate waited for him. When Elena lifted the lid, the smell hit first. Rich, creamy, heavy pasta. Fettuccine or something similar, swimming in a thick cream sauce with pieces of chicken and herbs. It looked like something designed to pack on calories fast.
Oscar stared at it.
“This is… a lot,” he muttered, poking at the pasta with his fork. “Way too carb-heavy. I get they want me to put weight back on, but this is ridiculous. Normally it’s a banana, some porridge, maybe a piece of fruit. This is like… recovery food for someone who just ran a marathon.”
Elena sat across from him, her own lighter meal in front of her, and gave him a long, measured look. “It’s exactly what you need right now. Controlled surplus. High calorie density so we’re not forcing volume down you, but balanced. You’ve been running a massive deficit for months, Oscar. Your body is breaking down muscle along with that last bit of fat.”
He twirled a small amount of pasta reluctantly, the creamy sauce coating everything. It smelled good—too good—and that only made the resistance sharper. Eating this felt like surrender. Like admitting the sharpness he’d chased wasn’t strength, but something fragile. His mind flashed to the car, to the way the g-forces pressed on a lighter frame, how clean and precise everything felt.
“I’m not even that hungry,” he said quietly, though his body betrayed him with a low rumble. He took a small bite anyway, chewing slowly, face tight with reluctance. “This is going to make me feel sluggish tomorrow.”
“You’ll feel better in a few days,” Elena replied calmly, watching him eat. “And we’ll adjust as we go, but you’re not skipping this. Not any night this weekend.”
Oscar ate in silence after that, each bite heavy with resentment and that nagging guilt. He hated that they’d had to do this. Hated that part of him already felt the difference—the warmth spreading, the way his thoughts slowed just a fraction. But mostly, he hated how much he wanted to push the plate away and go back to the data.
As he picked at the pasta slowly, forcing small forkfuls down, his body waged a quiet war against itself. One part of him—the starved, hollow part—wanted nothing more than to devour the entire plate. It was creamy, rich, and seasoned perfectly. Easily the best thing he’d tasted in months. But the stronger voice, the sharper one he’d trained for so long, recoiled. It felt heavy. Greasy. Wrong.
He stopped mid-bite the moment the olive oil hit his tongue, that unmistakable slick richness. Way too calorie-dense. Pure fat. His mind instantly calculated hundreds of extra calories just in the sauce. He set the fork down after clearing roughly two-fifths of the plate, pushing it slightly away.
“I can’t,” he said flatly, staring at what remained. His stomach already churned, unaccustomed to anything this heavy even in small amounts. It sat like a stone.
Elena watched him with calm patience that somehow made it worse. “Oscar, you’ve barely touched it. Half the plate. That’s the minimum tonight.”
They went back and forth for several long minutes. Oscar insisted he was full, that he’d already eaten far more than usual, that this would just make him bloated and slow. Elena countered with facts—his current deficit, the need for consistent surplus and that it will just take longer for him to get back fully if they went too slow. Her voice stayed even, professional, but unwavering.
Eventually, she offered a compromise. “Fine. No more pasta tonight. But you finish that with an apple. At least that.”
Oscar grimaced, the idea of forcing anything else down making his stomach twist harder. But an apple… that was familiar. Safer. He’d had a few in the last couple of weeks and it beat this in healthways by miles.
“Deal,” he muttered.
Elena signalled for the apple, and a few minutes later it arrived. Oscar took it reluctantly at first, but the first bite brought a small wave of relief. Clean. Tart. Something he recognized. He ate it steadily, the familiar texture grounding him even as the heavier pasta sat uncomfortably in his gut. He wasn’t happy, not even close. But at least this felt… manageable and controlled.
Elena nodded once he finished, making a quiet note on her tablet. “Good. That’s progress. Tomorrow we’ll keep it steady.”
Oscar leaned back, pressing a hand lightly to his stomach. The guilt was already creeping in, two-fifths of that pasta, plus the apple. Too much. The apple’s aftertaste lingered, a small victory in a day that felt like one long defeat.
Oscar slipped back into the data centre, the low blue glow of the screens welcoming him like an old friend. He dropped into the chair and pulled up the same telemetry he’d been studying before dinner but the numbers wouldn’t settle. They blurred and swam, his mind hijacked by the heavy feeling in his stomach and the deeper weight of everything else.
Benched.
Practically force-fed like some kid who couldn’t be trusted.
The reality crashed over him all at once. He wasn’t driving this weekend. Someone else was sitting in his car, wearing his helmet, while he played spectator. All while they were going to monitor every bite he took. The pasta still sat like lead in his gut, the apple doing little to erase the greasy aftertaste.
He slapped himself hard on the cheek once, sharp enough to sting. “Focus,” he muttered under his breath. The decision was fucked, but it was what it was. No point dwelling. He just had to play the game smarter.
A quiet resolve hardened in his chest. He’d make the most of this forced break. He’d be strategic: pick his battles carefully with Elena and the others. Push back on the heaviest, fattiest meals and negotiate for cleaner options, more lean protein, vegetables, things that wouldn’t bloat him or slow him down. He’d work off whatever they managed to get into him with extra training sessions, mobility work, anything that burned calories without raising red flags. Even though he wasn’t driving, he’d turn the weekend into an advantage. No time wasted.
He’d live in the garage. Study every lap, every data trace, every strategic call in microscopic detail. Drill reaction times and mental prep even harder. Perfect his recovery routines so they couldn’t point to even the smallest dip and say “see, we told you.” He’d go above and beyond. Compensate. Prove that this “problem” they’d invented hadn’t slowed him down at all—in fact, it would make him stronger, sharper, and undeniable when he got back in the car.
Oscar straightened in the chair, forcing his eyes back to the screen. The slap had left a faint red mark on his cheek, but the fog lifted a little. He zoomed in on a corner exit, comparing the reserve’s line to his own from previous sessions. His fingers flew over the keyboard, pulling more files, more overlays.
The hours slipped by as he buried himself in the work, ignoring the persistent fullness in his stomach and the quiet voice in the back of his head whispering that this might not be sustainable forever.
Oscar made it back to his hotel room late, the weight of the day pressing on him like extra g-forces. He forced himself through his usual wind-down routine, calming the racing thoughts until his exhausted body finally gave in. Sleep came fast and deep—almost too deep, like his system was desperate for recovery.