Lexi @afraidofabrokenheart - Tumblr Blog

summary: Oscar invites you to the Miami Grand Prix, but you have absolutely no idea how he knows you exist. That's a question you get an answer to on the very first day in his company, though, now the question is: will you tell him you know? pairing: Oscar Piastri x reader note: This is part two of this, but can be read as a standalone. It's almost 5k long, omg.

You lean back in your chair in the office, staring at the laptop screen, completely baffled by the invitation you received from the McLaren F1 Team for the Miami Grand Prix. Everything’s paid by them, you get a VIP pass as Oscar Piastri’s guest, and you have absolutely no idea why he invited you, a journalist who works for a fashion magazine, not a motorsports one.

The magazine did a photoshoot with his teammate, Lando Norris last year, shortly after he won the championship, but you weren’t the one who made the interview. It was Nora, who still works here, which is why you don’t even know how Piastri even knows you exist. And based on how he usually dresses, he’s probably not the type who would be into high fashion – or fashion in general.

To be honest, he might be the very last driver on the grid you would imagine to see doing such a photoshoot on his own free will.

Still, since you love F1, you open your calendar and block the days you’ll spend there, then decline every single meeting you’re invited to. Luckily, there’s no interview or deadline you’re gonna miss due to this trip. Just when you stand to head to the editor and tell her about the upcoming event, though, it dawns on you that you completely forgot to answer the email. So, you sit back down and type your response, then end the letter with a quick question.

‘I do have one question, though. Does he want us to do an interview with him? Because then I will have to assemble a crew with everything we need for recording a video and doing the photoshoot that is usually required to accompany it. If the editor gives us the green light, that is.’

With a nod, you hit send and finally leave the table to find the editor to tell her about the recent turn of events. Edna is hiding in her office, earbuds in, nodding to the beat of the music as she types something, probably correcting an article she received from one of the journalists of the team. You know what it’s like to be in the flow, but it’s an important conversation you want to have with her.

You knock, but there’s no answer, so you go inside and gently knock on the desk instead. She jumps a little before taking out the earbuds and flashing an awkward smile at you. “Sorry, didn’t hear you over the music. What’s up?” she asks as she leans back in the chair.

While you inhale then exhale, you consider how to begin the conversation that is based on an email you still don’t quite understand. “McLaren’s F1 Team contacted me. They want me to go to the Miami Grand Prix next week,” you tell her.

With a quiet hum, she tilts her head to the side. “Did they tell you why?”

“Not yet, I’m waiting for their response. But, and that’s what surprised me, they said I would be there as Piastri’s guest.”

“How do you know him?” Edna wonders, asking a question that is completely valid.

You snort as you fold your arms. “That’s the fun part. I don’t. We’ve never met, especially since the Norris interview was Nora’s project,” you point out.

“You think he wants an article and photoshoot of his own?”

“That guy? Unless the team holds him at gunpoint, I highly doubt he would volunteer for this.”

“Then why?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” you tell her with a sigh.

Your supervisor leans forward to rest her elbows on the table, deep in thought, so you begin to back out of the office with small steps to give her the privacy she needs to finish whatever she was in the middle of when you arrived. But then your phone beeps, and when you check, you see it’s McLaren’s response to your question. Piastri doesn’t want an interview as far as they are aware, he just came up with the idea of the invitation out of the blue.

Hm, that is truly fascinating. How does he even know you exist?

• • • •

theorangebraincell: Hi.

meethanakoatembers: Hi.

theorangebraincell: So, let me get this straight. You love fashion. You love F1. And, based on the fact your username is the instruction for reaching the point of no return in Cyberpunk, you love video games too?

meethanakoatembers: There are a few I play with, yes.

theorangebraincell: How did you end up like this?

meethanakoatembers: Like… Is that a bad thing?

theorangebraincell: No, on the contrary.

meethanakoatembers: Well, my father and brother always watched F1, I didn’t want to be left out, so I began to watch it with them when I was around eight. As for video games… That’s entirely on my brother, he was the one who bought me a console and taught me how to play.

theorangebraincell: Sounds like you two have a good relationship.

meethanakoatembers: Not anymore, but yeah, we used to have fun together.

theorangebraincell: What happened?

meethanakoatembers: I’d rather not share that.

theorangebraincell: Okay. Well, I have sisters, so I know this can be difficult.

meethanakoatembers: But do you manage?

theorangebraincell: Most of the time, I guess.

meethanakoatembers: Good for you.

theorangebraincell: I don’t know what’s going on between you and your brother, but I’m sure it’s not something that can’t be fixed.

meethanakoatembers: And how did you get into F1?

theorangebraincell: What?

meethanakoatembers: How did you become a fan?

theorangebraincell: Oh, right. I always loved cars, I guess it was inevitable.

meethanakoatembers: Alright, keep your secrets.

theorangebraincell: Will you watch the race next week?

meethanakoatembers: Funny you ask that right now.

theorangebraincell: Why?

meethanakoatembers: Because I’m about to travel to Miami for the next one.

theorangebraincell: Planned trip?

meethanakoatembers: No, an unexpected work trip.

theorangebraincell: Why, what do you do?

meethanakoatembers: I’m a journalist. I won’t tell you where.

theorangebraincell: Related to F1?

meethanakoatembers: No.

theorangebraincell: Then why do you have to go to an F1 race?

meethanakoatembers: That is the million dollar question.

theorangebraincell: Stands or the paddock?

meethanakoatembers: Paddock.

theorangebraincell: Ooooh, nice.

meethanakoatembers: I’m not so sure about that.

theorangebraincell: But you love the sport.

meethanakoatembers: But not the one who invited me.

theorangebraincell: Someone I might know?

meethanakoatembers: Definitely.

theorangebraincell: A driver? A team principal? Come on, give me something.

meethanakoatembers: I’m sorry, my lips are sealed.

theorangebraincell: You’re mean.

meethanakoatembers: And you’re nosy. I’d better get going, I have a long trip waiting for me tomorrow.

theorangebraincell: Travel safe.

meethanakoatembers: I will.

• • • •

McLaren apparently chose to book you a private jet for the trip to Miami, which is why you’re surprisingly functional when you step on the tarmac at the airport there on Wednesday afternoon.

You flash one last smile at the flight attendant who helped you with your luggage, then head to the car that’s parking not far from the plane with the driver standing next to it. He takes your suitcase to put in the trunk, but when you want to slide into the backseat, the driver clears his throat, shakes his head, then points at another car waiting in the hangar in the back.

The fact it’s a McLaren that showed up on a trip paid for by the team isn’t surprising, but when the driver shows himself, you freeze in one place. Because Piastri came here himself, and he wasn’t ordered to come here as no one, not even an Academy Award winner actor, could fake such a genuinely happy smile.

“I’m glad you accepted the invitation,” he casually notes as he extends his hand that you shake without hesitation. “How was your flight?”

He points at the passenger seat while he walks towards the driver’s seat, but he still listens carefully, it’s obvious from the way he keeps stealing glances at you. “It was great, although I have no idea why your team went the extra mile with that if I was the only passenger on the jet,” you point out as you sit in the car.

Once he closes the door, Piastri turns to you with a wide grin. “That’s my fault. They said I should buy you business class tickets, but I thought this would be even more comfortable for you.”

The whole sentence comes out so casually like it wasn’t a big deal that he did that, like this was actually the most natural thing one could do. And there’s another part that caught your attention, which you’re quick to bring up. “Wait. You should buy those tickets? Don’t tell me you paid for the whole thing,” you tell him in disbelief.

“I did,” comes his response with a shrug as he turns on the engine.

While the roar is loud and nice, you don’t feel like appreciating the experience, instead you turn in your seat to face him without buckling in. “Why? You don’t even know me.”

“Not yet,” he corrects you as he reaches for his own seatbelt.

“How do you even know I exist? And don’t tell me Norris was the one who mentioned or stalked me, because I have never met him either,” you add.

Piastri lets out a soft sigh, one that isn’t annoyed or frustrated, it’s just a simple sigh as he thinks about what to say to your question. A question that’s supposed to be a simple one, yet he can’t quite find the right words for a few long seconds. In the end, once you buckle your seatbelt to avoid participating in the awkward silence, he bites on his lower lip and steps on the gas to head out of the airport.

Just when you begin to think he will ignore your question altogether, he finally speaks without glancing at you even for a second. “That’s a long story,” he says, and you can tell there’s something else he wants to tell you. You hum, quiet enough for the sound to get lost in the noise created by the engine, but somehow he picks up on it. “Okay, fine. My sister knows your work, she saw some interviews you did for the magazine, and she mentioned that we would probably get along based on your social media posts.”

You cock a brow. “So your sister is playing matchmaker?”

With a laugh, he shakes his head and looks at you for a moment. “Not really. She just wants me to come out of my shell, to maybe give an honest interview where people find out I’m not as…”

He falls silent, looking for the right word.

“Cold? Emotionless? Stoic?”

“Wow, these are the words that come to your mind when you think about me?” he asks with a snort as he glances at you for a moment.

“Maybe.”

There’s something about the smug smile that appears on his lips after this word that makes you wonder what’s going on in his head. Because his brain is in overdrive, it’s easy to tell, but he’s not telling you anything. Well, not the things you truly want to hear, because you still don’t know what you’re doing here to begin with.

“So, I asked the PR team if you wanted an interview, and they said no. But now you’re saying you should give us one. What’s the truth here?” you wonder as you turn back to him the moment he stops at a red light.

Piastri lets out a groan as he leans his head back against the headrest. “I don’t know, not yet. I want to get to know you first, then we can talk about the rest.”

You nod briefly at this. “Meaning you want to trust the person you’re planning to open up to.”

A shrug is all you get as a response.

“Okay, where are we going?”

This suddenly brings a smile to his face. “I rented a house not far from the track. Five rooms, I’m sure you’ll find one you like. I choose from the rest,” he tells you casually.

This means you’re staying in the same house. That’s unexpected. “Won’t your team think it’s a bad idea?”

“Don’t know, don’t care,” the driver responds with a laugh.

With a hum, you turn to look out the window, watching the people on the street who are living their perfectly average little lives, while here you are, in the company of an F1 driver who has just announced the two of you will stay in the same house for the next few days. The question is, why didn’t he pick a hotel instead?

• • • •

Oscar – and you started calling him that after he had pointed out being called Piastri was weird – gives you space. He’s never in your way, he just sits on the couch in silence, browsing some social app on his phone while you discover the house. It’s huge, and fancy, and you can barely pick a room to stay in.

But then you find the one, full of pastel yellow and soft gray hues. It calls out for you, like it’s been waiting for your arrival, but it looks like something out of a magazine, so you barely dare to touch anything. What if you break or stain something? That vase on the table next to the window looks expensive. And let's not talk about those sheets…

Once your essentials are out of the suitcase that arrived shortly after you, you begin to wonder what to do now. Oscar is, despite the several times you’ve seen him on TV, a stranger to you, so deep down you don’t even know what to say to him. Still, he looks perfectly nice and friendly, not like some lunatic.

In the end, you decide to grab your laptop and go outside, passing your host on the way to the poolside lounge in the backyard. He barely looks at you, but maybe that’s for the best as you’re planning to work a little now. There’s an article you need to send to the editor in less than twenty-four hours, so you’d better get to work.

When you open Teams, it explodes from the messages that have arrived while you were offline. Everybody wants to know what’s going on with you, if the weather is good in Miami, if your new friend – their words – is behaving well, or if you’ve found yourself a wealthy sugar daddy. As you begin to send out the responses, your phone pings on the table next to you.

theorangebraincell: How was the trip?

It’s hard not to smile when you read the message. Jack has become a good, strictly online friend of yours over the past week or two. You barely know him, yet at the very same time it feels like you’ve been friends forever. So, seeing his message immediately lightens your mood.

You wish you could tell him everything – the private jet, Oscar, the house. But would he even believe it? It sounds too good to be true, which is why you only respond briefly, telling him the flight was long and annoying, but at least you’re here, ready for whatever awaits.

theorangebraincell: Doesn’t sound good. Still, you’re in Miami. Try to enjoy it.

He’s right.

“You okay out here?” Your eyes snap up in surprise only to find Oscar there with his phone in hand. “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.”

“It’s okay. I’m good, thanks,” you respond, then glance down at your phone with the unsent message. You quickly tap send, then return your attention to the driver in front of you.

Coincidentally, Oscar’s phone pings at the exact same time you sent the message. He looks down at it, taps the screen, then laughs a little before placing the phone on the table and taking a seat in the lounge chair next to yours. His reaction is suspicious, although you’re not quite sure of what exactly you find suspicious about this.

Once he lies back, he lets out a heavy sigh. “It’s nice to just relax here. Wanna hear something funny?” When you nod, he goes on. “I don’t want to go anywhere near the track.”

“But that’s your job. I thought you loved this life,” you note.

Taking a deep breath, he pushes his sunglasses to the top of his head, then turns to you. “I can love and hate it at the same time. I don’t know what to expect from the car this weekend, and the new regulations… I don’t know.”

“The season barely started and you already look tired,” you inform him as you pick up your phone and check to see if Jack has responded, but there’s nothing.

“Maybe that’s because I am tired,” Oscar admits.

“What do you do to get past that for the race weekends?”

He slides down in the chair and closes his eyes, but there’s a smile on his face that tells you this is the answer: doing absolutely nothing. With a thoughtful hum, you return your attention to the laptop in your lap, and continue to type your responses to your colleagues, to some who noticed you’re online so they wrote to you again, demanding answers.

You don’t say much – especially not about temporarily sharing a house with him – because you don’t want questions you wouldn’t want to answer anyway. So you lie, say you’re staying in the same hotel with the rest of the McLaren crew, and try to make it sound like it wasn’t a big deal, especially since everyone who cares to listen to your ramblings knows you’re not his biggest fan. You don’t hate him, you’re just more comfortable supporting other drivers, that’s all.

Oscar fell asleep some time ago, so once you’re done with work, you open Tumblr and check the chat. There’s no response yet, but there is something you really want to tell your online friend. He’s not supposed to know about Oscar, of course, but you can still talk about other details. Your last message was about the whole situation being completely awkward, but this time you want to tell him more.

meethanakoatembers: Is it weird that I’m sitting by the pool, busy working? I should think about this trip as a vacation, right?

When you send the message, the strangest thing happens: Oscar’s phone pings, the screen lights up at the same time, and you don’t miss the well-known Tumblr notification. And you see it. Your username. That’s when your brain begins to put the pieces together, like the moment you sent a message to Jack, and Oscar’s phone pinged at the same time, just like now. Then there’s the fact that, if you remember correctly, his middle name is Jack.

Shit, shit, shit.

So, that’s why he invited you, that’s why he went the extra mile with that jet, that’s why he’s acting so friendly, and that’s why he doesn’t want an interview for the magazine. But how does he even know who you are? You never told him, you made sure no details were given to him, which is why you find it utterly strange that he knows so much about you.

For a moment, you’re planning to wake him up to confront him, but then you change your mind. You need to be smart, you need to teach him a lesson. This is why you come to the conclusion that it’s time to tell Jack about who you’re with, and make sure he starts second guessing everything about you based on the lies you’re about to feed him with.

• • • •

meethanakoatembers: I have a VIP pass, which is cool, but I don’t want to be here at all. I wanna go home. Help.

theorangebraincell: Why? Come on, it can’t be that bad.

meethanakoatembers: It is! My host is the worst. Like, his latest idea is to have dinner with me. Alone. And we don’t even know each other.

theorangebraincell: Maybe that’s the point, to get to know each other better.

meethanakoatembers: This is suspicious, that’s all I’m saying.

theorangebraincell: Didn’t take you for someone who sees the worst in everyone and everything.

meethanakoatembers: I don’t, but he gets the worst out of me.

theorangebraincell: You should give him a chance, he’s just trying to be nice.

meethanakoatembers: How would you know that?

theorangebraincell: Gut feeling.

meethanakoatembers: Gut feeling, right.

theorangebraincell: Someone’s cranky today.

meethanakoatembers: I’m not cranky, I’m just annoyed.

theorangebraincell: That’s the same.

meethanakoatembers: It’s… Whatever.

theorangebraincell: What’s going on with you?

meethanakoatembers: Nothing’s going on with me. Why?

theorangebraincell: I can’t remember you ever being this… annoyed.

meethanakoatembers: It’s not like we’ve known each other for that long.

theorangebraincell: I guess I should let you calm down on your own.

meethanakoatembers: I guess you should do that.

theorangebraincell: Try to play nice, okay? I know deep down you’re not like this.

• • • •

As someone who works for a fashion magazine, you breathe fashion, so while your clothes aren’t necessarily designer pieces, you know how to look good in what you have. This isn’t a date, but you still want to look the part as people will definitely take photos of him, and there’s a big chance you’re gonna be in those photos as well. And people will jump to conclusions if they see you having dinner together, on your own, without anyone else being there to avert the attention.

When you come downstairs to meet him in the living room, Oscar is nervously fidgeting with his hands. Contrary to popular belief, apparently, he does know how to pick clothes that are perfect for a dinner in a fancy restaurant, and a compliment is there on the tip of your tongue, but you bite it back last minute since right now you’re supposed to be mad at him.

And you are mad at him.

For a moment, when his eyes fall on you, there’s a small smile on his face, but it fades as soon as you stop in front of him with a cold look in your eyes. He gulps, waits, then clears his throat before speaking. “Ready?” he asks nervously, as if he didn’t know what the best ice breaker would be.

You nod, then follow him outside to the familiar McLaren that’s parking in front of the main entrance. But even though you both take your respective seats, the driver doesn’t start the engine, instead stares ahead with one hand on the wheel, biting on his lip as he thinks about something. It’s hard to tell what’s going on in his head. Maybe if you knew him better, you would know, but he’s not the guy you’ve been chatting with for a short while now.

He lied to you. He never told you who he was, he never told you how he figured out who you are, instead he invited you to this weekend out of the blue, without an explanation, and acted like sharing a house for these days was perfectly normal. If you came here knowing that he’s the ‘Jack’ you’ve been speaking to online, things would be completely different. But you had no idea, which is why you’re not planning to make things easy for him.

But after five minutes of tense silence, you can’t help yourself. “Spit it out,” you tell him with a sigh.

Oscar draws in a deep breath before turning to you. “Is going out for dinner really such a terrible idea?” he asks, and you can tell all it takes is one little push to break down the dam that’s holding back his frustration.

You know perfectly well what he’s talking about, but officially, you have no idea, so it’s time to play dumb. “What makes you think it’s a terrible idea?” you ask innocently.

“Oh, I think it’s a great idea, but every time I look at you, I feel like it’s the world’s worst idea ever.” You raise a brow and tilt your head a little, trying to look confused. “I just… I don’t know what’s going on with you. You were sort of friendly until late afternoon, but now? If looks could kill, I would be dead.”

“It’s funny that you say that, a friend of mine phrased it a little differently and said I was cranky today,” you inform with a pointed look, and you can see the strange look in his eyes, as if he had a revelation all of a sudden.

His mouth opens slightly, but no words come out, he can’t find the right words to say. And you can’t blame him, he’s on thin ice after all. After half a minute or so, you begin to feel bad for him, and even consider telling him you know, confirming what he’s been suspecting now anyway. There’s no need for that in the end, because Oscar pinches the bridge of his nose and inhales deeply.

Once he exhales, he looks back at you. “How did you find out?” he asks quietly, deliberately avoiding your gaze by looking out the window.

With a huff, you turn in your seat to face him. “You put your phone on the table by the pool, fell asleep, and when I sent ‘Jack’ a message, your phone pinged, and the notification with my username showed up. It wasn’t that hard to put the pieces into place after that,” you explain to him.

Finally, he looks at you with guilt in his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he says, and you can tell he means it. “I should have handled this better.”

“You mean, you should have told me at the very beginning. And by the beginning, I mean the invitation. How did you even figure out who I am?”

Oscar gulps, then licks his lips, taking his time to respond. “I had help. I… I didn’t know how you got all those things right, so I asked someone to help me figure out if you were working in F1, or knew someone there, or I don’t even know. It’s bad, I’m aware of that, and trust me, I regret doing it,” he adds.

“You could have just asked,” you point out casually.

“Sure. I asked you, remember? The ask I sent you? I wanted to know exactly that, and you said it was likely you got a few things right with the amount of your posts.”

He’s right, you did tell him that, but that was the truth. You open your mouth, ready to tell him this, but he raises a hand to stop you.

“If you knew it was me, would you have given me a chance? Because I wasn’t lying, I just want to get to know you, this is what the dinner invitation is about – hell, the whole weekend is supposed to be about this.”

This guy sure knows how to pull out the puppy eyes, mixed with the kind of quiet desperation over possibly losing you for good that you can’t help but sigh. “Alright, fine. But we’re staying in tonight, I don’t feel like being on gossip sites because I was seen with you,” you clarify.

While Oscar nods, you know there’s something, maybe a comment he bites back. So, you give him a look to make him talk, and within a matter of seconds, he begins to talk again. “But you’re coming to the race weekend with me, right? And, I mean, if tonight turns out fine, maybe we could arrive together. It would be practical, after all,” he’s quick to add with a smug smile.

And here he is, the little shit you’ve got to know through his interviews in the past years. Shaking your head, you let out a laugh, because honestly, this is the first time today when you feel like this might turn out just fine after all.

<------------------------>

Taglist (one-time event, I'll figure something else out): @evalynkillgrave @pitchplease95 @dessashippr @airenicbibliophile @recklessyears

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