Chapter Text
McLaren’s PR team had been on a roll lately, churning out content for their social media platforms at an exhausting pace. And today, Oscar Piastri found himself at the center of yet another TikTok challenge—one he wanted absolutely no part of.
“Come on, Oscar, it’s harmless,” one of the PR managers, Sarah, insisted. “Just a fun little ranking. You don’t even have to take it seriously.”
Oscar narrowed his eyes. He didn’t trust that tone. He was already skeptical of these challenges, but when he glanced at the screen of the phone being held up for him, he groaned.
“Ranking Carlos Sainz’s Looks.”
He turned to Lando, who was grinning like an idiot beside him. “You knew about this?”
Lando shrugged, far too amused. “I may have suggested it.”
Oscar exhaled sharply, trying to ignore the warmth rising to his face. This was so not what he had signed up for. It was one thing to joke around about rival drivers, but Carlos Sainz? That was dangerous territory.
Because, if Oscar was being honest, he didn’t trust himself to keep it together.
Carlos was Carlos. He was charming, effortlessly good-looking, and had that infuriating habit of making everyone around him feel like they were the only person in the world when he spoke. Oscar had done his best to ignore whatever stupid, useless crush had been forming in his chest since he joined F1. But now? Now McLaren wanted him to sit here and rank the man’s face on camera?
Yeah. He was doomed.
“Fine,” he muttered, tugging his hoodie over his chin. “Let’s get this over with.”
The recording started, and Oscar schooled his expression into one of neutrality. He could do this. He had to do this.
The first image popped up—a classic, slightly disheveled Carlos in a Ferrari race suit, hair wild after a tough session. Oscar hummed thoughtfully, trying not to seem too interested.
“I mean… this is a solid six,” he said, fully aware he was already lying.
Lando snickered off-camera. “Six? You sure about that?”
Oscar ignored him. The next image appeared—Carlos looking effortlessly suave in a press conference, his hair styled back, jaw sharp enough to cut glass.
“Seven.”
The third photo showed Carlos mid-race, sweat on his brow, lips slightly parted as he focused.
Oscar swallowed. “Uh. Eight.”
He could hear muffled laughter from the PR team. He scowled.
Then came the next one. Shirtless Carlos.
Oscar froze.
“Jesus Christ,” he mumbled under his breath.
The room exploded with laughter. He could feel his face going red, the heat creeping down his neck. This was so unfair. They knew what they were doing. He turned slightly away from the camera, rubbing the bridge of his nose as if that would somehow erase the image from his mind.
“You still gotta rank it,” Lando reminded him, barely containing his glee.
Oscar exhaled sharply. He could feel the eyes on him, waiting, expecting.
“…Ten,” he admitted.
The laughter grew louder.
“I knew it!” Lando cackled.
Oscar shoved his arm. “Shut up.”
The last image appeared—Carlos post-race, exhausted, running a hand through his hair while wiping sweat from his face. It was an unfiltered moment, nothing staged or polished. Just him, real and raw.
For some reason, that one hit Oscar the hardest.
“…Ten,” he said again, quieter this time.
The teasing around him faded just a bit. Someone ended the recording, and Oscar finally slumped back against the chair, rubbing his face with both hands.
“Alright, alright,” Sarah said, trying to get things back on track. “We’ll edit it, make it funny, maybe blur out your face when you see the shirtless one—”
“Or make it zoom in,” Lando suggested unhelpfully.
Oscar groaned. “I hate all of you.”
A Few Hours Later
The video went viral almost instantly. Of course it did.
Oscar had underestimated just how unhinged F1 fans could be. His phone was blowing up—mentions flooded with memes, edits, and far too many people saying things like “Piastri is just like us fr” and “Oscar, blink twice if you need help”.
And then came the text.
From Carlos Sainz.
Carlos: Interesting rankings, mate.
Oscar stared at his phone, heart pounding in his chest. He was debating how to respond when Carlos sent another message.
Carlos: Shirtless ten, huh?
Oscar made a sound that was definitely not human.
Lando, who was sitting across the room, noticed immediately. “Oh, no way. Is he messaging you? Let me see—”
Oscar threw a pillow at him.
A Few Days Later—Jeddah GP
Oscar hadn’t seen Carlos in person since the video, and honestly? He was hoping to keep it that way for as long as possible.
But fate, as always, had other plans.
He was heading back from media duties when he turned a corner and nearly walked straight into him.
Carlos raised an eyebrow. “Ah, Piastri.”
Oscar immediately cursed every decision he’d ever made.
“Hey,” he said, trying to play it cool.
Carlos crossed his arms, smirking just slightly. “So… I’m a ten, huh?”
Oscar wished the ground would open up beneath him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Carlos hummed. “Mm. You seemed pretty confident in the video.”
Oscar knew his face was red. He knew it, and that only made things worse.
“You—” He exhaled sharply. “You were ranked multiple times. It wasn’t just one ten.”
Carlos stepped closer, just a bit. “But you said it softer for the last one.”
Oscar hated how observant he was.
He folded his arms, trying to regain some ground. “And what exactly are you implying?”
Carlos tilted his head, studying him in that way that always made Oscar feel a little unsteady. Then, after a beat, he smiled.
“Nothing,” he said lightly. “Just nice to know where I stand.”
And with that, he walked past Oscar, leaving him standing there, heartbeat in his throat.
Oscar turned his head just slightly, watching him go.
Yeah.
He was so screwed.