Chapter Text
February 13, 2025
The pre-season testing schedule is relentless, but Oscar had long since learned to dance to its tempo. There is a peculiar kind of poetry to it; mornings spent tearing through ghostly tracks beneath overcast skies, the air heavy with the smell of scorched rubber and damp asphalt. Then comes the evenings: slow, cerebral, filled with quiet conversations and debates with engineers boasting degrees from home and abroad. Men and women who speak in numbers and theories, who analyze fractions of seconds with surgeon-like precision.
It all blurs together after a while; the hotel lobbies, the telemetry readouts, the endless circuits looping into one indistinct ribbon of tarmac.
Not to forget, another year of sporting papaya gear and livery. A familiar colour, though lately it bleeds into feeling more like a duty than a chore, more than something he needed to do.
Spain has been unusually grey for February, the skies sleeping still. The cold creeps in beneath Oscar’s skin as he slips out a while after sunrise, walking the sleepy streets of Montmeló, just a stone’s throw from the Catalunya track.
He ducks into a small café near his hotel. It’s modest, understated, in a way that didn’t try to be charming, and in that, somehow is.
He doesn’t need much. Just coffee. Good coffee, possibly made by a real human being with even the most basic knowledge on caffeine. God forbid anyone has to drink that battery acid he’d choked down earlier, sitting inside the lobby, which had done the whole of Spain a disservice.
It’s chilly outside, and Oscar wants something warm, restorative. Something to properly wake him up, and maybe even fifteen quiet minutes—no telemetry, no downforce, and definitely no talk of tyre wear.
He’s dressed down in jeans and a hoodie, damp hair still clinging to his forehead from a rushed shower. He has his spot in mind: a corner table with the perfect view of the cathedral’s silhouette, still blurred by the morning mist.
Inside, the café is nearly empty. A schoolgirl is sitting on the left, her fingers distractedly scrolling her phone, her brows drawn together in frustration. She glances at him—disdain already writ large on her face— then goes back to her screen. Behind the counter, the barista stares into the middle distance with red, sleep-deprived eyes.
Oscar orders a cortado and a croissant, intending to sit, scroll, and pretend the world doesn’t exist.
He is still adjusting to the heat of the cup in his hands when thud, someone bumps into him from behind. Not violently—thank god for small mercies—but just enough to send a ripple of heat up his wrist and jolt his heart into his throat.
“Ah, shit—sorry, I didn’t see you there,” comes a rushed voice behind him. A guy in a hoodie, earbuds tangled around his neck, fumbling a to-go bag and phone like they’re live grenades.
Oscar looks down. The coffee has survived. Miraculously.
“Yeah, I’m good,” he mutters, brushing at a speck on his jeans. “Still hot, still intact.”
The guy gives a half-laugh, then pauses—eyes widening slightly, head tilting a bit. Recognition blooms, but not the kind that tightens strangers into fans. It’s more of an understanding, confusingly enough.
Oscar is about to ask if they have met before but the guy beats him to it by smiling a small, apologetic smile and says, “Well, good luck saving the rest of it,” before stepping up to the counter.
Weird.
Oscar takes his remaining cortado and croissant and sits by the seat he was eyeing, the table clean and speckless. It’s a bumpy start to his supposedly off day—he doesn’t believe Zak for a second, half sure a call is about to ring any moment calling him back to the track—but he finally has his coffee. That’s all that matters, at the end of the day.
He takes a sip and closes his eyes. The picture of the cathedral is like a painting behind his eyelids, the majestic peaks discernible behind mist and smoke. The curves and columns of it, like waterfalls. When he opens his eyes, it’s to a cup being placed on his table.
The bumping guy from before is looking at him sheepishly, the lightest brushes of a dimple adorning his left cheek. His hair has to be the messiest mop Oscar has ever seen. He looks down to the new cup of cortado placed on his table.
“Uh, sorry for spilling your coffee. This is compensation?” The guy sounds unsure about the whole thing, as if afraid Oscar will throw the cup at his face. It’s kind of funny. Enough that Oscar smiles unknowingly and takes the cup gingerly.
“You didn’t have to. I didn’t spill that much coffee,” he tries for reassurance.
That somehow makes him seem even more unsure. Now Oscar feels properly guilty. It’s not even 7am and he’s already scaring kind strangers off with his signature I-haven’t-had-coffee-yet face.
He tries to smile a bit more forcefully and gestures to the seat opposite him. The guy now looks just confused. Maybe he also needs a cup of espresso before his brain starts connecting its plugs to the power system.
Oscar spells it out. “You could sit with me.” Maybe too much? After all, the guy might be scared of him. He rushes to correct, “If you want to, of course.”
The dimple makes a fierce comeback, along with a boxy smile that seems to light up his whole face. He nods and slides into the seat comfortably. Drops his various equipment and gadgets haphazardly over the table. Soon, Oscar has to hold both cups of coffee to prevent them from falling over as the guy now bites into a wonderful looking pastry, chewing and nodding as if in approval.
Oscar watches the guy chew, eyebrows knit in an expression of profound concentration. He takes a sip of his own coffee, still warm, and lets the silence settle between them like sugar dissolving in milk; quiet and not wholly unpleasant.
“Do you come here often?” the guy asks, then immediately grimaces. “Oh, wow. That sounded less creepy in my head.”
Oscar huffs out a laugh. “Not that often. I don’t live here.”
The guy nods in understanding. “Yeah, thought I’d recognized you. You spun out here last year, didn’t you?”
Oscar barely manages his surprise. This guy seems pretty sedated considering he knows Oscar enough to recall his past failures. Granted, he might be a laid-back person overall, but it's still refreshing.
One could say Oscar doesn’t have all the most pleasant experiences regarding fans. So he nods slowly and takes another sip. “You watch the races?”
The guy shakes his head a little sadly, ruffling his curls. They truly are a wonder to behold, haphazardly spread over his head. “Nah, mate. Haven’t got enough time for that. Would love to though.”
Oscar contemplates asking for his profession but ultimately decides against it. What even are the odds they’ll ever meet again?
He’s on his way to bite into his croissant when the guy randomly pops up, “Name’s Lando, by the way,” he says around a mouthful of pastry and coffee. Honestly, two whole fluffy, freshly baked pastries at seven in the morning is way past indulgent. It's straight up greed.
Oscar eyes the crumbs a little forlornly. Fuck Artturi and his insistent need to torture the living daylights out of Oscar’s poor soul.
“Oscar.”
Lando looks genuinely happy that Oscar returned the sentiment. Or his name. Whatever. It's still seven in the morning.
“Oh cool! One of my teammates has a cat named Oscar. Bit of a bitch though. Nasty bites.” Lando visibly shudders at the memory.
Oscar raises an eyebrow, unsure whether to be offended on behalf of his name or to ask follow-up questions about this feral cat teammate situation. Also, he said teammate. Interesting.
There’s a prickle under Oscar’s skin now, light and warm like whisky that makes him want to ask more even though he knows he shouldn’t. He runs the mental debate, weighing the pros and cons—Of course you are, a voice that sounds suspiciously like his mother chimes in.
Before he can overthink it further, he blurts out, “Teammate? As in, like, office partners or…?”
He cringes internally. God, please don’t let this man think he’s one of those unhinged celebrities with weird fixations or a fetish for workplace dynamics.
Lando seems to take it at face value, if anything. He smiles—this man has a charming smile, Oscar thinks distractedly—and shakes his head.
“Sorry mate, forgot to say. Most people here already know who I am so I kinda never have to do the whole introduction thing, you know?” he says sheepishly before his brain seems to catch up with his mouth. His eyes widen dramatically, “Wait. I mean, I'm not trying to be cocky or anything, mate. Seriously, woah. That was close. I’m actually a footballer? Yeah, I mean I play football for a club. A big club? Uh, I think you could say that. I mean, we do compete in La Liga, so...” He trails off after he realises he’d been blabbering and flashes an embarrassed sort of smile. It’s endearing.
Oscar laughs a surprised laugh. “La Liga? Don’t tell me you’re a Barcelona player now.”
Lando doesn’t exactly look like a deer caught in a headlight, but it’s a close thing.
Now it’s Oscar who is fully surprised. “Barcelona? Like, F.C. Barcelona, the El Classico club?”
Lando scratches his head and shrugs. “I mean, El Classico doesn’t really mean a club or anything.”
Oscar nods. “Yeah I know. It’s the equivalent of the English derby, isn’t it?”
He smiles. “Uh sort of? I mean, it’s between Madrid and Barcelona but they aren’t from the same city so. But I guess English derby is a close comparison, yeah. Exactly that.” Finishes off his pastries clean with a big bite and gulps lightly as if he didn’t just drop a huge information rock on Oscar’s head. A rock Oscar is still trapped under.
“So, like. You’re an academy player or..?” Oscar doesn’t know how to politely ask if Lando’s a benchwarmer, but Lando seems to get it anyways. He laughs brightly.
“Nah mate. ‘Fraid I’m one of the regular guys.”
“So one of the starting eleven?”
Lando nods through his coffee. It spills a little over his lips and he licks it clean. Muscled flesh sneaking through pink lips and gliding across them. Oscar averts his eyes. Tries to reignite the conversation.
“Which position do you play in?”
Lando looks up. There’s still a droplet of coffee on his chin. Subtle enough that he probably doesn’t feel the wetness through his slight goatee.
He shrugs noncommittally. “I play..uh, midfielder?”
Oscar has to recalibrate. Fast. That’s not just a casual footballer flex, that’s world-class. But the way Lando says it, Oscar has to suppress a smile. “Why do you sound so uncertain?”
Lando laughs out loud at that. “I don’t know! I don’t know how much you know about football, mate. I mean, you could be American.” The wince comes immediately, mouth catching up to thought. “You’re not…right?”
Oscar is again at the wonderful (not really) predicament of feeling insulted and humoured at the same time. The only saving grace here is that he's feeling a lot freer, chatting with a stranger knowing they won’t be revealing his tics and tacs (how he likes his coffee, how much air he inhales per minute) to the press. No headlines, no judgement.
“Nah. Thought you could tell,” he waves his hand around as if to encompass all of himself, “with the accent and everything.”
Lando's eyes crinkle with his smile. “I’m not really good with those. Lived my whole life in Britain before signing with Barça. Now look at me.” He smirks. “Bet you didn’t think I was half British.”
Oscar raises an eyebrow. “You’re about as subtle as a Union Jack, mate.”
Lando looks at him ridiculously. “You’re bluffing.”
Oscar fully looks at him, then pointedly at his hair, his face and the tiny British flag stitched into his jacket for decorative purposes.
Lando follows his gaze to his jacket and immediately covers it with his hands. “No, you didn’t see anything.”
Oscar smiles and nods solemnly. “Of course not.”
He lifts the cup to his lips but the coffee sits cold in the bottom. Grimacing faintly, he pushes it aside and polishes off his croissant instead.
He always makes sure to leave a hefty tip whenever he visits this café because no one, absolutely no one in the UK is serving him something as heavenly. He catches himself at the last moment before a groan slips out with thoughts of going back to the gloomy and moody weather of the MTC.
Lando catches the look and raises an eyebrow.
Oscar shrugs helplessly, lifting his coffee cup. “It’s absurdly good.”
Lando nods vigorously. “Yeah, definitely. Whenever I get the time I try to swing by. It’s not even close to my place, gotta trek all the way ‘round the park just to get here. One time I brought some back for Rivera and he loved it, so—oh, Rivera’s our left back. Absolute monster, that fucker. You see him run and you understand what the coach means when he—oh shit. Oh shit.”
Lando frantically checks his watch and deflates like a balloon, sliding down his chair with theatrical flair. It all hits Oscar as quite cartoonish, and for a second he’s tempted to take a picture.
“Late?” he asks, amused.
Lando looks close to tears. Or maybe that’s just the lighting.
“Late? Mate, coach is gonna absolutely toast my arse.”
Oscar coughs a laugh. “You better run, then. Channel the spirit of that teammate of yours, the left back.”
Lando bolts upright, gathering his things in a flurry and downing the last of his now ice-cold coffee—which Oscar thinks is quite disgusting, but doesn’t comment—before fumbling for a napkin. He scribbles something down and slides it across the table, grumbling under his breath.
“—fucking morning sessions. Sorry mate, gotta run, but it was mint to see you. Take care, yeah?”
He goes for a dap, then seems to think better of it and offers a handshake instead.
Oscar takes the offered hand. It nearly engulfs his own.
And then like a train blowing its whistle pulling out of the station, Lando is gone.
Oscar glances down at the napkin, creased and slightly smudged, a number scribbled across it. He pockets it and leans back, letting the last of the morning stillness settle over him.
The sun glides off the cathedral’s body. The white marble of it glistens in the early sunlight. By the time the cafe has its next patron, Oscar is long gone.
11 March, 2025
Australia is nothing short of a disaster.
For starters, it had been raining since morning. That alone should've been a blaring red flag, all the warning he needed. But no—he had to go and race his teammate in the wet. What happened after that was, well. Unfortunate. But deserved, he would say. At least he’d own that much. He took a risk, slipped up and faced the consequences massively.
But what is absolutely unforgivable is the rookie mistake of letting his thoughts slip past in front of Tom. Who—no sense of loyalty, a traitor to the cause—in turn tattled to Andrea. The rest is why he’s here sitting idle in this quaint little office, waiting to meet a professional. No one told him who exactly he was meeting, creating just enough mystery around it that Oscar feels slightly intrigued but whole lotta bored.
This is stupid. He’s missing sleep, practice, Lily, sleep, sim time, food and did he say sleep already? Yeah. A bunch of time-wasting. He has a million things he needs to do before Shanghai. His oven has been acting up, needs a bit of fixing. He’s been meaning to call some mechanic but keeps on forgetting. Also the guest bath has serious faucet leaking issues. And that bulb that blew out months ago and keeps on taunting Oscar every time he walks past it.
Mentally, he is building a list of all the ways in which he failed at basic domestic upkeep. He was halfway to deciding whether he could qualify for an honorary anti-Bob the Builder award when the door creaks open.
In walks a man who looks suspiciously like the principal from Oscar’s old boarding school. With a tweed jacket, loose slacks and a headful of greyish hair that suggests either wisdom or chronic disapproval—it’s hard to tell. He reminds Oscar vividly of literature professors. Or he could be just projecting.
He shifts in his seat, sitting upright.
The man walks ever so slowly to the desk in the middle of the room and sits down while pulling a slim file close. He skims through it for half a minute before closing it shut and beckoning Oscar closer. Oscar obeys without any fuss.
“Mr. Piastri. How are you today?” The man’s voice is surprisingly gentle and smooth, enough to take Oscar by complete surprise.
“Oh, I’m good.” He pauses. “I’m sorry, I don’t actually know your name.”
The man looks up at him. He has clear blue eyes, like crystals that his sister Amy hoards and insists are spiritually charged.
“Sufjan Monteiro. You can call me Sufjan.” He clears his throat slightly. Even that sounds harmonious to Oscar’s ears. “You came here without any prior information about me, is that correct?”
Oscar nods solemnly. “Psych-checks come with the job.”
Sufjan chuckles lightly. “You’re assuming I’m a psychiatrist.”
Oscar shrugs slightly, “You look the type.”
Sufjan’s eyes twinkle as he smiles warmly. “That’s one way of putting it. Though I’d like to think of it more as a conversation than a check-up.”
There are papers haphazardly thrown across the desk. It’s untidy, even in the loosest sense of the word. Oscar thinks he sees a photo of himself between the pages, but Sufjan starts talking before he can be certain.
“So, Mr. Piastri—mind if I call you Oscar?”
Oscar shakes his head. “Oscar is fine.”
“Oscar. I would say I know a little about Motorsports, but I’d like to hear what it’s like for you.”
There’s a red leather-bound notebook that Sufjan pulls closer. The pages are slightly yellowed at the edges, the thickness hinting at a decade or more of use.
He takes a ballpoint pen and writes down today's date before looking at Oscar. It’s a very calm sort of look—steady; like Perth’s beaches and late evenings.
Oscar sighs and leans back in his chair slightly, stretching out his legs underneath. He’s here anyway, might as well do it.
“It’s not really what people think,” he starts, eyes drifting toward the window that doesn’t actually show much besides a painted wall and the vague outline of a potted plant.
Sufjan doesn’t say anything, just watches. Which, somehow, makes it easier.
“I mean, yeah, it’s fast. It’s loud. It’s glamorous if you’re into that. Monaco and champagne and all that crap.” He chances a quick look to confirm that Sufjan is still looking at him attentively. He gestures vaguely, “I mean, we’re in Monaco. You live here, so you must know all that happens whenever it's race week.”
Sufjan nods sympathetically. “The country shifts to accommodate the race. But it lasts more than just one weekend. The preparation takes a long time.”
Oscar nods. “Yeah, exactly. But underneath all of it, it’s just controlled chaos. And I mean barely controlled.”
It’s a slide down a steep mountain, Oscar realises. He’s sleep-deprived, slightly depressed about the whole home-race fiasco and he misses a body by his side to, hell, just console him at this point. Everyone thinks he has this ice cold mentality, that things just don’t affect him. It’s bullshit; downright crazy. And it’s making him afraid of showing emotions, afraid of breaking this narrative people have created around him. All of this suddenly makes his chest feel a ton heavier, and the words pour out by themselves.
“You’re sitting in this carbon-fibre coffin, basically. There’s a six-point harness digging into your ribs, your knees are up against your chest, your neck feels like it’s about to tear off every time you take a high-speed corner. You’re drenched in sweat before the formation lap’s even done, and the team still expects you to give consistent feedback every lap while going over three hundred km an hour.”
He glances at Sufjan, who hasn’t moved an inch. Oscar presses on.
“People think it’s just reaction time and guts. But it’s all mental. Like, all of it. You’re processing five different things at once: tire temps, engine modes, brake balance, telemetry data the team’s screaming at you through the radio, while also pretending to be levelheaded because the car behind is within DRS range and your teammate is somewhere ahead being a smug bastard.”
The slight jealousy at Daniel for winning their home race shines through. Sufjan’s lips twitch slightly at that, maybe an acknowledgement. Oscar ignores it.
“And it’s not just race day. It’s your body, your diet, your sleep—every gram of weight matters. Every tenth of a second. You skip one training session and suddenly someone’s writing articles about how you’ve ‘lost your edge’ and maybe the team should consider options.”
He pauses, exhales. “There’s no off switch. You’re either on it or you’re falling behind. There’s no space to just be—” He stops himself.
Sufjan tilts his head slightly. “Just be?”
Oscar shrugs again, looking away. “Human. I guess.”
There’s a silence that doesn’t feel awkward. Sufjan scribbles something in his notebook—the pen scratching quietly against the paper. Then he looks up again, voice still low and calm.
“Do you miss it?”
Oscar blinks. “What, being human?”
Sufjan’s smile is warm, the corners tilting upwards. “You tell me.”
By the time Oscar leaves Sufjan’s office crammed into one corner of Monaco’s spiralling heights, he feels closer to collapsing than ever. God. Tom might’ve been right to inform Andrea cause holy fuck. That was a painful session, all the talking leaving him bone-dry with no substance to chew on. He hadn’t known the words were lined up inside him like dominoes, ready to tip at a moment’s notice.
He knows he needs to attend at least one more session before flying out to MTC. Then China for the triple header. Even thinking about it is giving him a major migraine.
The traffic near Rue Grimaldi is crawling like a sedated snail. Oscar drums his fingers against the steering wheel, eyes flicking between the brake lights ahead and the muted, flickering display on the dashboard. The bag of Thai takeout on the passenger seat fills the car with warm, familiar notes—lemongrass, garlic, chili, jasmine rice. It smells like better days.
He didn’t even want to eat, not really, but Lily liked it. And Oscar liked making Lily smile, her face splitting into a picture of joy whenever she tasted good food. The pad see ew from that specific hole-in-the-wall joint near the port has been a favourite of hers for a while now.
Now the rice is steaming gently in the bag with lucid memories of Lily’s hair brushing his face while the world outside his window turns gold with evening, and he’s already regretting everything and nothing in particular.
When he finally pulls into the underground car park, he’s too tired to care about parking straight. The moment he shuts the engine off, silence drops around him like a weight. For a few seconds, he just sits there, palms still on the wheel, staring ahead at the concrete wall in front of his car.
Then he exhales slowly. Grabs the bag and heads up.
The flat is unlocked, which isn’t unusual—Lily never remembers to double-check the door. What is unusual is the open suitcase on the couch, her clothes folded in uneven stacks, half of them spilling onto the cushions. Her laptop charger is coiled in a lazy circle beside it, as if the packing had been interrupted and resumed a dozen times already.
Lily’s in the bedroom. She doesn’t hear him at first. She’s crouched near the bed, zipping up her toiletry bag, hair twisted up in that loose bun she wears when she’s stressed.
“Hey,” he says, softly.
She glances up. Her face lights up instinctively at the sight of him, then dims just as quickly.
“Hey,” she replies. “You’re back. Did you eat?”
He lifts the takeout. “Figured we could share. Like always.”
Her smile turns apologetic. “Shit, Oscar—I was going to text but didn’t want to disturb your session. I have to go. Tonight. My flight’s at nine.”
Something about tonight doesn’t register. His brain logs the information, but his body rejects it, standing stiff and stupid in the middle of the hallway.
“You’re leaving?”
“Yeah, I—” She stands now, brushing a hand through her hair, sighing. “There’s a seminar on cognitive behavioural trends I can’t miss. It’s in-person attendance only, and they’re checking ID. It’s half my grade.”
He nods slowly. The bag in his hand is getting heavier.
“You booked it already?”
“Yeah. During lunchtime. While you were out.”
During lunchtime sounds like a jab, another failure being called out point-blank. Your girlfriend was waiting for you yet you couldn’t even manage to eat lunch together.
She walks toward the suitcase and begins zipping it shut. The sound is louder than it has any right to be.
Oscar sets the food down on the kitchen counter. His hands feel useless, like they’ve lost their job.
“You couldn’t wait till tomorrow?”
She looks at him, patient. Tired. “I’ve already pushed back so much for your schedule. Just this one thing—I have to go.”
He wants to argue. To say, Can’t you just miss one seminar? Or, You can get the notes, right? Or even, I had a fucking breakdown in a stranger’s office today and bought us our favourite dinner like a fool in love, can’t you just stay?
But none of it comes out. Instead, he shrugs, turning away slightly. “Right. Of course.”
Lily walks closer, places her hand on his arm. “I’m not leaving you, Oscar. It’s just a seminar. I’ll be back next week.”
He nods again, this time too quickly. He thinks of saying he’ll be back in England by then, but doesn’t. “Yeah. I get it. You’ve got stuff to do.”
She squeezes his arm once, and that’s all. Then she picks up her bag, wheels the suitcase behind her, and walks out the door.
Oscar doesn’t move until he hears the elevator ding.
He stares at the untouched food for a long moment before sitting down on the couch, next to the dent her suitcase left in the cushions. The pad see ew is still warm, barely, and the spring rolls smell exactly how he remembers. He eats two without tasting them. Then gives up.
His chest feels tight in a way he doesn’t want to name.
He isn’t mad at her. He knows it’s not personal. She warned him from the start that her degree came first. He respects it, even admires her for it.
But none of that stops the stupid, heavy part of him that feels like a kid being left at school pickup, last one standing on the curb.
Oscar eats in front of the TV—not out of interest, but habit. Noise fills the apartment the way conversation doesn’t. The pad see ew sits beside him, fragrant and untouched. The aroma of it is enticing, making reality around him fall apart like lego bricks. He flips channels with the remote, one hand balancing chopsticks like an afterthought. News. Soap Opera. A replay of a tennis match. And then—Champions League.
Barcelona vs. Benfica.
He almost flicks past it, but the word “Barcelona” snags his attention. Like a tap on the shoulder. A name that reminds him of something, someone. An English midfielder with untamed curls and terrible sense of time.
Oscar glances up. The camera pans the players warming up on the pitch. Then the lineup slides onto the screen, and without meaning to, his eyes scan for a name and find it.
Lando Norris. Defensive midfielder, number eight. The jersey glides across his shoulders like silk.
He’s talking animatedly with a teammate half a head taller than him, gesturing to the goalpost and penalty area with intent. The guy listens to him with a slight smile to his face, like someone indulging a little child. It feels a bit condescending, but who’s Oscar to judge?
The match kicks off.
Barcelona moves with precision and rhythm. Benfica presses hard, but there’s a control to the way Barcelona handles pressure, like they’ve been choreographed. Oscar watches without expecting to care—and yet, as the minutes pass, he realizes he hasn’t looked away once.
Then, around the 72nd minute, Lando gets the ball near midfield. A touch. A glance. And a diagonal pass that splits the entire back line wide open. It’s so audacious and perfectly weighted that even Oscar, who doesn’t usually do football, sits up a little.
It’s poetry etched across the green field in imaginary ink with precise strokes. The crowd erupts into cheers as the striker scores a goal with that mind-boggling assist.
He gets up. It’s not a conscious decision, not really. He rifles through the laundry basket, digs through the pocket of a navy hoodie. And there it is: the napkin, crumpled. The letters crushed. But still legible.
He pulls out his phone and types.
-At least one of us is getting their sport right.
He pauses. Too self-pitying. Types out a follow-up message.
-Awful pass to that left winger of yours, though.
Better. Dry and safe. He sends it, then immediately closes the phone and tosses it on the couch cushion beside him like it might bite.
He returns to the TV and watches the last twenty minutes in silence.
When the match ends, Oscar blinks at the empty takeout container, mildly horrified to find he’s eaten the whole thing without realizing. He puts it down on the table with a sigh, then leans back and stares at the ceiling like it might have something better to say than the thoughts already starting to spiral. In the end, he’s left wondering if maybe that napkin should’ve stayed buried in the hoodie.
But then again—maybe not.