𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐲 𝐞𝐥𝐬𝐞; oscar piastri

PART SIX

Word count; 2,158

Tomás

Shoving my helmet over my head, Liam's hand clasped against mine; he hadn't managed to push past Fernando in the morning session, and confidence sat on me to do better, to see how much we could push the car before the Grand Prix next weekend. It would be a lie to say the pressure had put me on edge - nothing could compare to chasing the championship last year. Yet, my stomach still curled, a result of the words that wouldn't stop playing at the back of my head.

A guy from the middle of no-where, pretending he belongs here, desperate to prove he matters, when we both know he doesn't.

I glanced at my palms, concealed by gloves, and shook my head.

Who does he think he is? Talking to me like that?

Fueld by the desperation to prove a rookie - of all people - wrong, I settled into the cockpit, glancing between the engineers as they worked around me. Then, covers whipped off of the tyres, I drove out of the garage, sunlight falling over the car, absorbed by the black and gold livery. 

"Radio check, radio check," Andi - my engineer - croaked.

"Loud and clear." I responded, allowing the smooth turns of the formation lap to lull my mind. "Car's pulling to the left."

"Roger," Andi added, "Not much we can do about it from here."

I scoffed, the answer seemingly pointless - of course there's nothing he could do, he wasn't in the car. 

Pulling up to sixth position, I noted the cars ahead; a Ferrari, a RedBull, a McLaren and two Aston Martins.

"That's Leclerc ahead," Andi supplied. "Tsunoda behind."

I prompted my brows at the mention of the Ferrari driver, knowing it was one of the only times I'd be behind him. For a man who was so desperate to take my place, he was sure as hell struggling to make use of it.

The lights began their countdown. I tightened my grip around the wheel, as if my fingers had melted against it; an old habit, set in stone by hours and hours of driving with my hands duct taped to it.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Lights out.

My foot hit the accelerator. Approaching the first corner, I slipped past Charles, attempting to build as much distance between us before turn four - an obstacle in itself with the car pulling to the left. Not to mention the fact that one Aston Martin had took it as the perfect chance to hog the centre of the lane, not even allowing Max through - who had just overtaken the McLaren.

"Russel three seconds behind."

"Which Aston is ahead?" 

"Stroll. Running order: Alonso, Stroll, Verstappen, Piastri." Andi answered. "Push for DRS."

"Tell Stroll to get out the fucking way and I'll consider it." I snapped.

It took another five laps of being stuck behind the McLaren before Stroll spun out, allowing Max to speed up to the last Aston Martin, who he quickly overtook. With Russel seven seconds behind, I finally tried to dive past Oscar.

Who does he think he is?

Saying I don't belong here.

Bullshit.