𝗻𝗼 𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗿𝗼𝗹 ━━━━ oscar piastri

03. sonnets and hymns

Despite not working for Ferrari — which is entirely their loss because she has sent them no less than thirty emails since graduation about why they should hire her (the latest of which had featured a PowerPoint presentation that George Russell would've framed above his fireplace) — Cherry Rivera finds herself standing beside their garage on Friday evening giving a pep talk to one Oliver Bearman.

"You look like you're about to spew," she observes as he pulls on his racing gloves with trembling hands.

Ollie laughs. It sounds more like a squeak, really, but Cherry isn't sure if that's the nerves or because he's too young to have experienced his first voice break. Is he even legally old enough to drive a car? He looks like he should still have stablisers on his bike.

"I'm totally fine," Ollie claims. His eyes dart around the place, searching for any eavesdroppers. Sensing none, he leans in and asks in a whisper, "Did that sound convincing? I've been practicing in the mirror."

Cherry picks up the boy's helmet from the ground and moves to stand in front of him. "Maybe just let your racing speak for you," she advises gently, placing the helmet over his head once he'd secured his balaclava. It's a bit difficult since he's a few inches taller, but Cherry is nothing if not determined.

"Right, I can do that."

"Everybody here knows you're perfectly capable of doing this," she continues, "otherwise you wouldn't be here, would you? This is Ferrari we're dealing with, kid — you've officially made it."

Some of the tension loosens in Ollie's shoulders at the reassurances and he nods, seemingly to himself. "You're right. Thanks Cherry."

"You know my name?"

Of course he does. McLaren had hard launched her relationship with Lando in a joint social media post after the race in Bahrain last week. It had been a picture of them laughing together in the paddock, expertly cropped so the world would never know that they had actually been laughing at Oscar, who is no longer in the shot, the poor sod.

"Duh," deadpans Ollie and Cherry doesn't have to see his face beneath the visor to know he's rolling his eyes at her. "Have you even been on the internet recently? Because you sorta broke it."

"I hope the diagnosis is terminal."

"And my friend Kimi has been sending me all the trending memes," he continues, oblivious to Cherry's despair, "some of them are pretty good. Lots of fruit puns, as I'm sure you could've guessed."

Cherry hums. Story of my life; cheers mum and dad.

The earpiece Cherry is wearing transmits a horrible staticky screech before Will, Lando's race engineer, informs them that he's about to get into his car. If Cherry has any chance of claiming a good spot on the pit wall to watch the qualifying, she really needs to leave.

"Right. Well, good luck, Ollie. You're going to do brilliantly. And if you fuck it up just blame the strategists, nobody would question it."

"Thanks? Strange pep talk but we move."

"Yes, we move. Specifically to the McLaren garage before Lando has a diva meltdown. See you later, kid." She waves over her shoulder as she hurries past crowds of people towards her destination.

Ollie qualifies eleventh in the end. He shoots her a thumbs up across the pitlane after clambering out of the car and Cherry responds with a salute. He'd done a good job, though not so much as Oscar and Lando, who had qualified in fifth and sixth respectively.

A decent day all around with plenty of opportunities to capitalise on that during the race the following evening.

Cherry tries to keep that positive mindset when she gets back to her hotel room, but she finds it is quickly soured by the sight of an endless amount of papers strewn haphazardly across her bed. She had been in such a rush to leave that she hadn't thought to move any of them — perhaps some optimistic part of her brain had figured she would come back and do some work, but that certainly isn't going to happen.