Against You

Party

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.