Archive of Our Own

The campus never truly slept. Even in the early hours, when dawn spilled pale over the brick walkways and long shadows stretched across manicured lawns, the place hummed with life. Dorm doors clicked open, coffee cups clinked in the quiet of hallways, and the faint rattle of bicycles echoed against stone. Yet, in the third-floor dorm of West Residence Hall, the world seemed divided into two very different states of being.

Lando Norris lay horizontal across his bed, limbs thrown in every direction as though sleep had been a battle lost in spectacular fashion. His alarm had screamed twice already, shrill reminders that eight-thirty classes waited for no one, not even nursing majors who prided themselves on night-owl tendencies. Groaning, he flailed an arm across the sheets in a half-hearted search for his phone.

Across the room, Oscar Piastri sat upright at his desk, composed and unwavering. Engineering textbooks lay neatly stacked, a laptop propped open, and a half-empty mug of tea steamed faintly beside him. The glow of the screen cut sharp angles into his face while his fingers moved with precise, almost mechanical rhythm. His posture was perfect, his hair damp from an early shower, expression unreadable.

Lando squinted through the tangle of curls flopping across his forehead. “You’re not human.”

Oscar did not look up. “I’m prepared.”

“You’re insane,” Lando said, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. Sheets clung to his legs as he shuffled toward his bag. “It’s barely seven and you’re reading about… what is that… load distribution?”

“Statics,” Oscar replied evenly.

“Normal people wake up, scroll their phones, maybe check the weather. You’re reading statics.”

“Normal people also fail exams.”

“Touché,” Lando muttered, rubbing his face and wishing sleep would hurry back. He tugged on a hoodie that smelled faintly of yesterday’s coffee and abandoned laundry. “Coffee run? You’re coming this time. I’m not bringing it back just for you.”

“I need to finish this section,” Oscar said.

“Then I’ll drink both,” Lando threatened.

A flicker of movement. Oscar closed his book, dark eyes lifting to meet Lando’s with a mix of resignation and inevitability. “Fine,” he said, sliding his chair back.

The walk across campus was brisk, the air sharp with early September chill. Students spilled from dorms in varying states of wakefulness. Some had earbuds jammed in; others clutched notebooks as if lectures might attack them unannounced.

“You ever think maybe you’d be happier if you didn’t treat life like a timed exam?” Lando asked, hands shoved in his hoodie pockets.

“You ever think maybe you’d be happier if you treated it like one?” Oscar countered, adjusting the strap of his backpack.

Lando barked a laugh that startled a passing student. “God, you’re impossible.”

By the time they reached the coffee shop near the library, George and Alex were already there. George hunched over a massive binder, flipping pages with the precision of a scientist measuring every movement, while Alex balanced a cup in one hand and scrolled on his phone with the other.

“Morning, lads,” Alex greeted, too cheerful for someone with a marketing midterm looming.

“Don’t,” Lando said, dropping into a seat. “It’s too early.”

George barely looked up, muttering something darkly about enzyme kinetics. Lando leaned across the table, flicking a corner of George’s binder. “You look like that thing might eat you.”

“It already has,” George said, voice low.

Oscar arrived silently with the coffees, placing one in front of Lando without a word. He slid into the seat beside George, posture perfect even in the cramped chair. His eyes flicked across the group once, then returned to the cup in front of him.

It struck Lando sometimes how Oscar could sit in absolute silence and still anchor the entire table. He did not fidget; he did not fill the air with commentary like Alex. But when he spoke, every word carried weight, and when he did not speak, the absence was palpable.

They lingered until classes pulled them apart. George and Alex trudged toward the science building; Lando and Oscar veered in the opposite direction. The day stretched long. Nursing lectures blurred together for Lando, his notebook filling with quick sketches and sarcastic doodles. Engineering labs swallowed Oscar, equations flowing like water through his mind.

By late afternoon, they met again at the athletic field. Lando leaned against the fence, hood up against the chill. Oscar stepped onto the grass in training kit, every movement measured, precise. George and Alex were already there, stretching and warming up. Max and Charles, fourth-year seniors, lingered near the goal, their presence calm but commanding. Ollie and Kimi, freshmen still learning the rhythm of the team, hovered at the edges.

Lando watched Oscar with a knot in his chest. There was something different when he played. Not joy, not pride—necessity honed sharp, movements carrying intent as if each step mattered more than the last.

The whistle cut the air, and drills began. Oscar ran, passed, struck the ball with unerring precision, and the sweat and exertion left no room for playfulness. Lando’s hands shoved deep into his pockets as he sipped cooling coffee, stomach tight with worry. Zak’s commands sliced through the field. “Quicker, Piastri. Reset.”

The team shifted into scrimmage. Max commanded the backline, Charles steadied midfield, Alex played with flair, George with determination. Oscar, front and center, drove forward with laser focus, striking the ball cleanly into the net. Zak’s critique was immediate. “Again. Faster.”

Fatigue clawed at Oscar. His chest burned, legs heavy, but he obeyed, sprinting without complaint. Lando’s gaze never wavered. He noted the tremble of Oscar’s hands as he drained a water bottle, the way he bent long over his knees to catch breath, shoulders sagging beneath the weight of both exhaustion and expectation.

By the time practice ended, the team trudged off the field, laughing, joking, falling into their routines. Oscar stayed a fraction behind, measured, unwavering. Lando caught him by the shoulder. “You don’t have to break yourself every practice to prove you’re good,” he said.

Oscar’s gaze stayed forward. “That’s what it takes.”

“No,” Lando said, sharper than intended. “That’s what Zak thinks. You’re already better than half the team.”

Oscar gave a faint, humorless laugh. “Half isn’t enough.”

The semester had barely begun, but exhaustion clung to Oscar like a second skin. Mornings, lectures, labs, training, late nights in the library—they all blended, each task added to the pile until there was no space left to breathe.

Lando noticed it first. Later, George and Alex commented too. Max and Charles exchanged concerned glances. But Zak’s voice remained a drumbeat in Oscar’s mind. Don’t make me regret it. No mistakes. No slowing down. Make it count.

And Lando knew, with a quiet dread, that Oscar would not stop until something broke.

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The morning sun filtered through the tall windows of the engineering lecture hall, painting the desks in gold. Oscar sat rigid in his chair, laptop open, notebook ready, but his gaze wandered. Across campus, the hum of early classes drifted faintly through the walls: the clack of keys in the computer lab, the scrape of pens in the library, the shuffle of sneakers across the quad.

Lando found him after his first class, a steaming cup of coffee in hand. He leaned against the doorframe, grinning lazily. “You’ve got that look,” he said. “The one that screams ‘I haven’t slept in three days and I’m going to regret it later.’”

Oscar’s eyes flicked up from the notebook he’d been half-heartedly filling. “I’ll be fine,” he said, voice tight.

Lando snorted. “Sure, you will. Just like you were fine yesterday when you ran extra sprints after practice.”

Oscar didn’t reply. He packed his bag neatly, sliding his laptop into place. Lando followed him across campus, past the dining hall where the smell of scrambled eggs and toast mixed with the early chatter of students, through the quad where freshmen clustered in nervous knots, and down paths lined with benches and overflowing trash cans from the night before.

By the time they reached the athletic field, the team was already gathering. George and Alex tossed the ball between them idly, laughing when one of Kimi’s clumsy attempts went wide. Max and Charles warmed up in quiet, efficient patterns, both commanding an invisible authority over the space. Lando spotted Zak pacing near the goalposts, clipboard in hand, eyes sharp, a storm cloud behind every word he spoke.

“You’re late,” Zak barked as Oscar jogged toward the group, boots laced tight. “And I don’t want excuses. Not today.”

Oscar’s jaw tightened. “I’m here.”

“Good,” Zak said. “Because the first match of the season doesn’t wait for you to be rested. I don’t care if it’s only a scrimmage. If you want to keep your scholarship, you will be ready. Every second matters.”

The words landed like stones in Oscar’s chest. He didn’t speak, just jogged to the starting position, cleats digging into the turf.

The whistle blew, and the team shifted into formation. Lando found a spot near the sideline, hood up, coffee cooling in his hands, observing the familiar rhythm. The smaller crowd of spectators—a smattering of students who had wandered over after class, along with a few dorm residents—murmured as the game began.

From the first pass, Oscar moved like a blade through the defense. His speed and precision were undeniable, but Lando noticed the subtle signs of strain: the quick inhale that lingered too long, the slight slump in his shoulders after each sprint, the faint tremble in his hands when he collected the ball.

George, Alex, and Lando whispered among themselves on the sidelines.

“He’s pushing too hard,” George muttered, eyes following every controlled movement.

“He always does,” Alex replied. “But I’m worried this isn’t normal anymore.”

Even Max and Charles, who normally tolerated the younger players with careful distance, watched with narrowed eyes, noting every faltering stride, every tight jaw, every blink too slow.

The first half passed in a blur of passes, tackles, and shouted encouragements. Oscar scored twice, each goal clean, precise, and devoid of celebration. He jogged back to his position, shoulders tight, chest heaving in a way that made Zak bark another command: “Faster! I said faster!”

When halftime arrived, the players collapsed onto benches in the locker room, drenched in sweat, muscles aching. Alex flopped dramatically onto a bench. “I’m finished. Carry me home, please.”

George rolled his eyes. “You’re pathetic.”

Ollie and Kimi laughed at something trivial, fresh and light, their laughter threading through the room like a momentary reprieve. Max and Charles silently checked their positions, nodding once in approval at a successful play.

Oscar peeled off his jersey, set it neatly on a bench, and bent to retape an ankle, hands trembling faintly. Lando’s eyes followed every movement, chest tightening. “You alright?” he asked quietly, leaning forward.

“Fine,” Oscar said, voice clipped. It sounded functional, but Lando saw past the mask.

The second half was worse. Fatigue had settled like a second skin. Oscar’s pace was relentless, driven by Zak’s commands, his scholarship, and the gnawing pressure he carried inside. Every sprint felt heavier, every pass demanded a sharper focus, and every shot into the net drained a little more from his body.

Zak’s voice cut through the chaos of the match, a constant reminder: “Don’t let up, Piastri. You’re our striker. Make it count. Your place isn’t given, it’s earned every single second.”

By the final whistle, the smaller crowd cheered, the team celebrating victory, but Oscar’s smile was thin. He bent forward, hands on knees, chest heaving, sweat dripping from his temples. Lando handed him a water bottle, fingers brushing his own in brief contact. “You don’t have to do this alone,” Lando said softly.

Oscar’s hand closed around the bottle, trembling faintly. He swallowed, voice tight. “I’m fine.”

The ride back to campus was a blur. Oscar leaned against the window, world outside streaked with shadows and streetlights. Lando kept his hand near his shoulder, silent but present. Inside, he felt the slow burn of worry, the knowledge that Zak’s relentless pressure was only beginning.

Back at the dorm, Oscar collapsed onto his bed. Lando settled cross-legged on his own, phone dimly glowing, watching. No words were said. Sleep felt impossible, recovery slower than it should be.

And yet, the first match was just a glimpse of the season ahead. The real challenge—the one Zak had made clear—loomed closer than either of them wanted to admit.

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The campus thrummed with routine, each building humming its own rhythm. The library was a cathedral of quiet focus, sunlight spilling through tall windows onto polished tables scattered with textbooks and laptops. Lando moved through it like a shadow, careful not to disturb the students engrossed in notes, while his own bag was heavy with notebooks he barely had time to open.

Oscar had been there for hours already, sprawled across a table with a pile of engineering manuals, pencils lined neatly beside him. His posture was rigid, his eyes scanning pages with a precision that made every detail matter. Lando watched from the doorway for a moment, coffee in hand, before setting it gently on the table.

“You’ve been here since seven,” Lando said quietly. “Don’t tell me you’ve even finished breakfast.”

Oscar didn’t look up. “I had a granola bar.” His voice was calm, even, but there was an edge to it, a quiet urgency.

Lando’s gaze followed him, noting the tension in his shoulders, the slight tremble when he flipped a page. “You’re killing yourself.”

“I’m preparing,” Oscar replied, eyes still locked on the equations in front of him. “I can’t afford mistakes.”

It wasn’t just the academics. Lando had started noticing the pattern: early morning runs around the track, extra drills in the empty practice field, late nights with the resistance bands and weights tucked into his dorm corner. The campus became a labyrinth of his exertion—stairwells where he sprinted two flights at a time, empty gyms where he lifted in silence, the quad where he ran laps under the dim glow of lamp posts long after most students had gone inside.

The friends noticed too. George and Alex would tease him gently at the dining hall, but concern laced their words. “You can’t live on coffee and adrenaline,” George muttered one evening as Oscar pushed his tray back, untouched.

“I’m fine,” Oscar said automatically, but even Lando, watching closely, could see the dark circles under his eyes, the tension coiled too tightly in his muscles.

Kimi and Ollie, still freshmen, followed the group’s rhythm in a more chaotic fashion, asking questions, joking, spilling juice over textbooks, but Oscar’s mind never strayed long enough to notice. Max and Charles tolerated the noise, occasionally offering pointers or corrections when drills got sloppy, but their focus remained on results.

Every practice carried the weight of expectation. Zak’s voice sliced through the evening air like a whip. “Faster, Piastri! You think St. Andrew’s will wait for you to catch your breath?”

Oscar obeyed without hesitation. Each sprint, each pass, each shot was executed with a perfectionist’s edge, even as his lungs burned and his legs screamed. Lando leaned against the fence, hoodie up, watching the faint tremor in Oscar’s hands when he tied his cleats. His stomach twisted, an unspoken fear knotting tighter with every command from Zak.

Between classes, between study sessions and meals snatched on the run, Oscar carved out extra hours on the field alone. The bleachers behind the soccer pitch were empty when he ran, the floodlights casting long shadows across the turf. He practiced free kicks, dribbles, and sprints, repeating movements until his muscles protested, until fatigue pressed down like a physical weight, until the echo of Zak’s words in his mind made him push harder.

And through it all, the friends watched and waited. Lando kept a careful distance, offering snacks or water when Oscar allowed it, observing the fine tremors in his hands and the tight lines around his eyes. George muttered quietly to Alex one afternoon, “He’s going too far. You can see it in the way he moves.”

Alex shrugged, though his voice carried unease. “Yeah, but if Zak’s driving him like this, he won’t stop until something snaps. We just have to be ready to catch him when it happens.”

Even in the dorm, the exhaustion lingered. Oscar would collapse into his bed, barely pulling the covers over himself, eyes tracing the ceiling, mind spinning through tomorrow’s schedule before drifting into a fitful sleep. Lando sat on his own bed, notebook or phone in hand, half-studying, half-watching, silent sentinel over the friend who refused to slow down.

The weeks crept by. Classes blended into practice, practice bled into library sessions, library sessions stretched into late-night training. Zak’s voice never softened. “Every second counts. You are a scholarship athlete, Piastri. Do not forget it. We do not carry dead weight.”

The first smaller matches gave glimpses of Oscar’s brilliance. He scored goals, set up plays, drove the team forward—but each victory left him more hollow, more ragged, a machine operating beyond safe limits. Lando, George, Alex, and even the cautious Max and Charles exchanged silent looks, noting the strain hidden beneath the controlled façade.

And all the while, the looming presence of the St. Andrew’s match hung over them. Flyers went up around campus, the posters in the student union bold and intimidating: the rival school, undefeated in the last season, a team stacked with future pros. Zak’s eyes sharpened whenever he mentioned it. “This is not optional, Piastri. This is the one that proves whether you belong here. I don’t want excuses, and I don’t want weakness.”

Oscar nodded each time, jaw tight, shoulders squared, but Lando knew the tension was building. Every extra sprint, every late-night run, every moment of forced perfection edged him closer to breaking.

The campus moved around them in its usual rhythm: students bustling to lectures, coffee in hand; freshmen spilling across quads in clusters; the library’s quiet sanctity holding its usual treasures of knowledge; the dining hall’s chaos softened by the hum of conversation. And through it, Oscar ran, studied, trained, relentless.
Lando watched, worried, knowing the first smaller match was only the beginning. The real storm had yet to come, and he could already feel the strain creeping into Oscar’s frame. Every victory carried a price. Every praise from Zak left him more depleted.

The tension stretched tight as the semester wore on, threaded through classes, late nights, library sessions, and endless runs across the field. And the St. Andrew’s match, still a week away, waited like a storm on the horizon, its approach unavoidable, inevitable, and terrifying.

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The dorm was unusually still that morning. Sunlight filtered through blinds in long, thin stripes across the carpet, cutting the room into pale ribbons. Lando stirred first, careful not to wake Oscar, whose head lolled lightly on his desk, textbook open but ignored, pencil clutched loosely in his fingers.

Lando leaned back against the doorframe for a moment, watching him. The exhaustion etched into Oscar’s features was impossible to ignore: pale skin beneath the jawline, dark shadows under his eyes, shoulders hunched from hours bent over work he refused to pause.

“Morning,” Lando whispered, stepping closer, careful not to make too much noise.

Oscar blinked, lifting his head just enough to mumble, “Morning…” before sinking back onto his arms.

Lando slid a mug of steaming coffee across the desk toward him, then a plate with toast, eggs, and fruit. “Eat something. Anything. You can’t keep running on empty and think it’s fine.”

Oscar cracked an eye open, expression half-lidded. “I’ll… eat.” His voice was heavy, almost fragile.

“You’ll eat now,” Lando insisted gently. He pulled the chair closer, sitting across from him as though guarding against another collapse. He cut a piece of toast and nudged it toward Oscar’s hand. “Come on. One bite.”

It took him a few seconds, but Oscar obeyed, chewing slowly. The movement was deliberate, almost mechanical, but Lando didn’t comment. He just watched, noting the tremor in Oscar’s fingers, the way he exhaled sharply between bites, the way his shoulders sagged despite being upright.

“You’re pushing too hard,” Lando said finally, quieter this time, as if speaking aloud might break some delicate balance. “You don’t have to be perfect in every lecture, every lab, every practice. You’re allowed to fail sometimes. You’re allowed to breathe.”

Oscar’s fork paused mid-air. A faint twitch at the corner of his lips suggested he wanted to reply, but he didn’t. Instead, he chewed, then set the fork down. Lando reached over and brushed a stray curl from his forehead. The gesture was soft, intimate without needing words.

After breakfast, Lando helped Oscar collect his scattered notebooks and bag. “We can walk to the library together,” he suggested. “You’ve had enough caffeine for now. Let’s get you moving, but not too fast.”

Oscar nodded, letting Lando guide him gently. Outside, the campus was beginning to stir: students rushing across the quadrangle, bikes weaving through pedestrians, the hum of early classes in the distance. The chatter and laughter felt distant to Oscar, who moved like a ghost through the bustle, anchored only by Lando’s steady presence.

They passed the dining hall, where George and Alex were already arguing over the last granola bar. Max and Charles trailed behind, heads bent in conversation about the next architecture assignment and lesson plan, respectively. Lando waved briefly, then focused again on Oscar, who blinked slowly, trying to process the sounds, the movement, the world around him.

Later, back in the dorm, Oscar fell into his usual spot at the desk, though this time, Lando stayed put. He made sure the window was open for fresh air, pulled a blanket over Oscar’s shoulders, and quietly tidied the clutter around him—textbooks stacked neatly, coffee mugs placed safely on the side, pens aligned in a row.

Oscar’s eyelids drooped almost immediately. “I… I can’t focus,” he murmured, head tilting toward Lando.

“That’s fine,” Lando said softly. “You don’t have to. Rest. I’ll stay here. Nothing’s going anywhere, okay?”

Oscar exhaled, a sound caught between relief and exhaustion, and finally let himself drift into sleep. Lando remained, notebook in hand but untouched, scanning the pages while keeping one eye on his friend. The quiet of the room was punctuated only by Oscar’s even breathing, the hum of the street outside, and the occasional shuffle from neighboring rooms.

Hours passed in small, careful rhythms: Lando refilling water, adjusting blankets, nudging Oscar awake for snacks or bathroom breaks, and letting him fall back into a kind of safe, exhausted slumber. The domesticity was grounding—soft, repetitive, ordinary—but it was exactly what Oscar needed.

By evening, when the sun dipped low and the dorm lights flickered on, Lando pulled Oscar into the common room for dinner. He carried a tray of food, and the group’s laughter spilled around them—George teasing Alex, Ollie and Kimi squabbling over dessert, Max rolling his eyes while Charles tried to mediate. Lando guided Oscar to a chair, letting the warmth of the room settle around him.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Lando whispered, settling beside him. “You just need to be here, and that’s enough.”

Oscar allowed himself a small nod. For a moment, the world felt manageable again, despite the exhaustion, despite the looming pressure of Zak, despite the first hints of the St. Andrew’s match looming in their schedules.

And in that quiet, domestic cocoon, Lando knew he could hold Oscar upright, at least for a little while longer.

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The mornings grew colder, the sunlight thinner, brushing pale over the campus walkways as students shuffled to their classes. Dorms emptied early, leaving behind faint echoes of alarm clocks and hastily packed bags. Lando had learned to wake before Oscar, to make sure breakfast was ready, the water bottle filled, the small routines in place that kept him functioning.

Oscar remained quiet, seated at his desk, books and notebooks sprawled around him like an organized chaos only he could navigate. Sometimes he would pause, head tilting back against the chair, eyes closed for a moment, and Lando would hover near the doorframe, unwilling to intrude but unable to leave him alone.

“Wake up,” Lando would murmur, shaking the sleeve of his hoodie against Oscar’s shoulder. “Breakfast won’t eat itself.”

Oscar would groan, reach for a piece of toast, and start mechanically, almost robotically, moving through the motions of nourishment and preparation. Lando watched, noting the trembling in his hands, the tight line of his jaw, the dark rings beneath his eyes. The exhaustion was no longer just visible—it was physical, pressing against his shoulders like a weight he refused to acknowledge.

Training sessions had grown brutal. Zak prowled the field like a hawk, eyes sharp, voice sharper. “Piastri! Every step counts! Do you want to be replaced? Do you want that scholarship yanked from your hands?”

Oscar’s answer was always the same. A curt nod, tightened fists, a return to sprinting, passing, striking, as if ignoring Zak could somehow make the words go away. But they didn’t. They lodged themselves deeper with every whistle, every order, every critique broadcast across the field.

The scrimmages were longer, the drills harsher. Lando watched from the sidelines, coffee in hand, stomach knotted, as Oscar ran lap after lap, shoulders heaving, legs straining, eyes fixed on some distant point that no one else could see. The other players joked, stumbled, cursed at each other—light moments of relief. Oscar had none of them.

Even after practice, Zak lingered, cornering him. “Scholarship isn’t a right, Piastri. You get it every day. Every single day. You’re lucky I’m patient, because I won’t tolerate sloppiness when the big game comes.”

Oscar swallowed hard. His throat was tight, his chest a cage of effort. “Yes, Coach,” he rasped, voice thin but steady.

Back in the dorm, he was silent. Lando caught him leaning against the counter, trying to drink water without spilling it, eyes half-closed. “You need to eat,” Lando said softly, guiding a plate toward him.

“I’m fine,” Oscar murmured, reaching for it, but barely chewing, barely tasting.

“No, you’re not,” Lando said, sharper than usual. “You’re running yourself ragged. I can see it. You’re exhausted.”

Oscar didn’t answer, didn’t look up. Lando sighed, reaching over to steady his shoulders, to force him into the chair. “Sit. Eat. You’re allowed.”

They fell into a fragile rhythm: morning classes, rushed breakfasts, study sessions in the library where Oscar’s head sometimes drooped onto open books, Lando gently waking him, urging him to move, to hydrate, to eat. Evening training, Zak’s relentless voice cutting across the field. Return to dorm, instant routines, textbooks reopened, notes copied, equations solved.

George and Alex noticed, too. “You’ve got to eat, mate,” Alex said one afternoon in the dining hall, watching Oscar push peas around his plate. “This is unhealthy.”
“I’m fine,” Oscar muttered, voice clipped.

“Yeah, Zak will say the same thing if you let him,” Lando muttered under his breath, dark eyes scanning the cafeteria, imagining his friend crushed under the weight of expectation.

Night after night, Lando watched Oscar’s eyelids droop, felt the tremor in his hands, the tautness of muscles that refused to relax. He hovered while Oscar slept at his desk, a blanket draped across him, water within reach, notebook open but untouched. Small gestures—adjusting the pillow, brushing hair off his forehead, nudging him toward a snack—were all Lando could do against a tide of relentless pressure.

Even the group noticed the strain. Max and Charles exchanged worried glances during evening training. Ollie and Kimi trailed behind in drills, laughter fading when they caught sight of Oscar stumbling slightly, leaning too long on the goal post to catch his breath. Alex joked loudly, trying to draw attention away from the tension, but George muttered darkly under his breath: “He’s going to burn out before the big game if Zak doesn’t ease up.”

And yet Zak never eased up. His voice echoed constantly in Oscar’s mind: “No mistakes. Scholarship isn’t given. You are replaceable. Every second counts.”

Lando followed him across campus one night after study group, backpack slung over one shoulder. Oscar moved like a shadow, tired but precise, walking through the empty quad with a purpose that felt unnatural in its intensity. Lando stayed close, letting his hand brush against Oscar’s arm occasionally, grounding him against the relentless pace.

“You’re not a machine,” Lando said quietly. “You don’t have to prove anything to anyone.”

Oscar’s lips twitched, a ghost of a smile. “I have to prove it to myself,” he whispered.

“Then prove you can survive,” Lando said, voice soft but firm. “You don’t have to be perfect, you just have to make it through.”

The campus lights stretched shadows long across the stone paths. The dorm loomed ahead, warm and quiet. Oscar allowed himself to breathe a little easier, letting Lando guide him inside. Inside, routines awaited: water, food, a blanket, quiet hours of recovery before the next day demanded more.

And outside, the season pressed on, every drill, every whistle, every command from Zak stacking higher, building toward the storm that was the match against St. Andrew’s—the game that would test every ounce of Oscar’s endurance, every shred of Lando’s patience, and the fragile balance of their small, unbreakable group.

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The stadium was alive, every cheer and groan pressing against Oscar from all sides. The stands vibrated with anticipation, a living heartbeat to match the pounding in his chest. From the first whistle, his body had felt heavy, like running through water, muscles screaming after the relentless weeks of extra training, late-night library sessions, and double practices Zak demanded.

Zak’s voice cut over the roar. “Piastri! Don’t waste a second! Eyes up, move!”

Oscar’s legs obeyed, but sluggishly. He misjudged a pass, the ball slipping just past his foot, rolling toward the defender. He cursed under his breath and pushed harder, lungs burning, head spinning. Every sprint sent a tremor through his core, but stopping wasn’t an option. Not today, not against St. Andrew’s, not with his scholarship hanging in the balance.

The defenders pressed, faster than he expected. One elbow grazed his side, another nudged him off balance, and his vision momentarily tunneled. Sweat stung his eyes. He blinked hard, shaking his head, trying to reset, trying to push the ringing from his ears aside.

Zak’s voice sliced through the chaos again. “Piastri! Focus! Every second counts. Every move matters!”

Oscar gritted his teeth. He forced a sharp turn, chasing down the ball again, sliding past a defender, ignoring the tightness crawling up his thighs. He passed to a teammate, only to see them intercepted. He sprinted back, chasing the loose ball, lungs rasping, heart hammering. A knot of nausea twisted in his stomach, but he pushed on, willing himself to keep up.

On the sideline, Lando’s chest tightened as he watched, hoodie pulled up against the chill. Oscar’s movements were precise but brittle, each stride a little more labored than the last. The edge of fatigue was clear—small missteps, slower pivots, hesitation where there shouldn’t have been any. Lando’s stomach knotted as he saw it.

Oscar shook his head, trying to focus, forcing the exhaustion away. The ball was passed to him again. He cut sharply, a defender closing in fast, Zak yelling over the cacophony.

“Piastri! That’s lazy! Don’t get caught with the ball!”

Oscar sprinted, chest tight, legs heavy, vision swimming as he pushed past fatigue. A defender barreled toward him, shoulder hitting against his side in a harsh nudge. He stumbled but caught himself, forcing a shaky smile. He wasn’t going down. Not now, not in front of Zak, not with the scholarship on the line.

He straightened, dragging a ragged breath, eyes scanning for a teammate to pass to. Another defender closed in fast, closing the angle, their cleats scraping the turf dangerously close. Oscar tried to pivot, to slide past—but his body refused the precision it once had. His foot caught the edge of the turf, and he spun awkwardly, crashing shoulder-first into the opponent.

He shook his head, trying to clear the stars exploding behind his eyes. Nausea churned, dizziness wobbled his stance, but he forced his feet forward again, chasing the ball, forcing one last drive toward the goal.

The crowd roared. Zak shouted, his voice cutting sharp over the chaos. “Finish it! Don’t slow down!”

Oscar lunged, foot connecting with the ball. A clean strike. The net rippled. The goal was his. Relief surged—brief, fleeting.

And then—a second collision. Another defender, faster this time, slammed into him mid-stride. The world tipped violently. Pain erupted in his skull. His knees buckled. Stars and ringing exploded behind his eyes, and his body gave out entirely.

---------------

The whistle shrieked, slicing through the roar of the crowd. Players froze for a heartbeat, then chaos resumed. Lando’s heart lurched as he saw Oscar collapse after the collision. He sprinted across the field, first-aid kit in hand, signaling the medics for backup.

Oscar lay sprawled on the turf, dazed, eyes fluttering, struggling to lift himself. His hands shook. Lando dropped to his knees beside him, voice firm but calm. “Oscar, look at me. Can you hear me?”

A soft, confused groan escaped. Oscar’s body trembled, disoriented. His legs wobbled, knees buckling when he tried to push up. Lando supported his shoulders, scanning for major injuries. Nothing broken—but the glazed eyes, the slow response, the nausea curling in his stomach—concussion. Severe enough to require immediate care.

The rest of the team continued playing, unaware of the severity, caught up in the scrimmage and Zak’s relentless commands. Zak’s whistle shrilled repeatedly, driving them forward. Lando’s focus never wavered, but the split attention was agonizing—he had to get Oscar off the field while the game carried on around them.

Two medics arrived, wheeling a stretcher. Lando stabilized Oscar’s head as they carefully lifted him. “Easy, easy. You’re safe. Just let us move you.”

Oscar’s fingers curled weakly around Lando’s wrist. “Don’t… go…” he murmured, voice trembling, foggy.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Lando said, pressing a hand to his arm. “You’re in safe hands.”

The medics navigated the stretcher off the turf while Lando walked beside them, whispering reassurances. Sweat slicked his brow, adrenaline sharpening his senses. Every uneven blink, every twitch, every shallow breath told him how critical it was to keep Oscar calm and immobile.

From the sidelines, the team’s shouts and the crowd’s cheers were a distant roar. Zak’s voice cut across the field like a whip, relentless. But Lando ignored it. Oscar’s safety was the only thing that mattered.

Inside the infirmary, fluorescent lights hummed. Lando helped Oscar onto a bed, easing the tension in his shoulders. “We’re just going to check you out. You’re okay. Nothing’s moving until we know it’s safe.”

Oscar blinked, trying to focus, mouth opening to speak but failing. He gripped Lando’s hand weakly.

“You’re alright,” Lando murmured, steadying him. “I’m right here.”

The doctor entered, professional and calm. “Concussion. No loss of consciousness for long, but symptoms are present. Assessments for balance, reflexes, and cognition. He was lucky to get off the field immediately.”

Lando stayed close, brushing damp hair from Oscar’s forehead, murmuring quietly when he flinched at the light. “Breathe. I’ve got you. Nothing’s going to move you until we know it’s safe.”

Outside, the match raged on. The rest of the team battled for possession, their energy undimmed, the scoreboard ticking, Zak barking instructions. Lando ignored the distant shouts. Right now, there was only Oscar, groaning softly, fingertips curling against the blanket, eyes drifting shut in exhaustion.

Oscar whispered, hoarse and fragile: “Lando…”

“I’m here,” Lando said instantly, gripping his shoulder. “I’m not going anywhere.”

For the first time since the collision, Oscar exhaled, letting Lando’s presence anchor him as the sounds of the ongoing game faded to the background.

--------------
The fluorescent lights hummed softly in the infirmary. Oscar lay on the bed, head resting against the crisp white pillow, pale and still. His chest rose and fell in even, shallow breaths. Lando sat in the chair beside him, notebook and clipboard forgotten on the counter, hands folded in his lap, eyes never leaving the figure on the bed.
The door creaked open, and the rest of the team stepped inside, quiet, careful. George, Alex, Max, Charles, Ollie, and Kimi. Their usual banter was gone, replaced with low murmurs and tentative glances.

“Hey,” George said softly, his voice carrying a mix of relief and concern. “Is he… okay?”

Lando shifted slightly, giving them a measured look. “He’s stable. Awake enough to respond earlier, but he’s resting now. Concussion. Needs sleep and monitoring.”

Alex, arms crossed, frowned. “How bad was it? I mean… was it just a knock or—” He swallowed, clearly unsure.

“Serious enough to take him off the field immediately,” Lando said, voice calm but firm. “He had a hard collision and then another, which caused him to lose consciousness briefly. Medics got him here as fast as possible.”

Max stepped closer, jaw tight. “And Zak? Was he—pressuring him before it happened?”

Lando hesitated, then nodded once. “Yes. Oscar’s been under constant pressure. Extra sprints, late nights, nonstop focus on classes and soccer. The stress and exhaustion piled up. Zak’s been pushing him relentlessly, and he didn’t stop, even when his body was screaming.”

Charles ran a hand through his hair. “I mean… he’s always been driven, but this—this sounds dangerous.”

“He’s stubborn,” Lando admitted. “He doesn’t know how to slow down when people are counting on him. He needs reminders… and he needs to rest.” His eyes flicked back to Oscar, small lines of worry etching his forehead. “Right now, he can’t do anything except sleep. Any stimulation, any screens, even talking too much, risks worsening symptoms.”

Ollie and Kimi lingered near the doorway, leaning on each other, clearly shaken by seeing Oscar like this. “He looked… so focused today,” Kimi whispered.

“Yeah,” Lando said quietly, voice soft. “Focused to the point of exhaustion. He kept going even when his body told him to stop. That’s what got him hurt.”

Alex let out a low whistle, finally breaking the silence. “And here we are, all worried about him like he’s some delicate thing… but he’s our striker. Our bloody unstoppable striker.” His smile was faint, brittle with concern.

George gave a sharp nod. “Exactly. He carries so much. Pressure from Zak, scholarship, training, homework… all of it. He shouldn’t have to do it alone.”

Lando leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “He’s not alone now. I’ll stay with him. Make sure he’s okay until he wakes. That’s my job.”

Max exhaled, rubbing his temple. “You’ve got a lot on your shoulders too, Lando. Thank you… really.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Lando muttered, though the edge of a small smile flickered. “Let’s get him through tonight first.”

The room fell quiet again, save for the soft beeps of monitors and the gentle rise and fall of Oscar’s chest. Each of them lingered for a moment, watching him sleep, feeling the weight of what had happened, and knowing that the battle wasn’t just on the field—it was in making sure he recovered, safe and sound.

George finally spoke, voice barely above a whisper. “He’s stubborn. But he’s ours.”

And in that room, under the sterile light, the team’s concern hung thick, a shared promise they didn’t need to speak aloud. They would make sure Oscar got through this.

----------

The streets outside were nearly empty, a cold hush broken only by the low hum of tires and the occasional distant siren. It was just after three in the morning, and the city had that strange, liminal quality, where every streetlamp threw long shadows and every turn seemed unnervingly sharp. Oscar slumped in the backseat, pale and clammy, gripping the edge of the seat as though it could keep him tethered to reality. His hoodie clung damply to his skin, and even the gentle sway of the car made him groan in discomfort.

“Easy, mate,” Lando said softly from the seat next to him, his hand resting lightly on Oscar’s arm. His voice was calm, steady, the anchor Oscar desperately needed even though he could barely focus. “Just breathe. That’s it. You’re okay.”

George drove slowly, carefully, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror again and again. Alex sat beside him, hands braced on his knees, ready to help if Oscar needed it. The quiet in the car was tense, punctuated by the occasional soft groan from Oscar, each one making Lando’s chest tighten.

“I don’t… feel right…” Oscar murmured hoarsely, words slurring slightly, his eyes half-lidded and unfocused. The nausea hit in waves, and he pressed a hand to his stomach, another trembling against the door.

“You’re doing fine, mate,” Lando reassured him, voice low and rhythmic. “We’re almost there. Just a bit further. You’ve got this. I’ve got you.”

“Bag…” Oscar rasped, twisting his mouth as though asking for a bucket.

“Not yet mate, hold it in” Lando said, keeping his hand on Oscar’s shoulder. He glanced back at Alex and George, who nodded in understanding. “I’ll go get something,” Alex muttered sagely.

The dorm lobby was dimly lit, a soft yellow glow spilling across polished floors. Lando helped Oscar out of the car, steadying him with careful hands, guiding him through the empty hallways. Every step was an effort; Oscar’s legs trembled, and his head lolled dangerously from side to side. A fresh wave of nausea made him bend slightly forward. Alex leaned over, murmuring words of comfort, while George braced his shoulders, keeping him upright.

Once inside their dorm room, Lando helped Oscar onto the bed. Pillows were fluffed and tucked around him, a blanket pulled up to his chin. “Alright,” Lando said gently, brushing damp curls from Oscar’s forehead. “We’re home. Try to rest. I’m not leaving your side.”

Oscar’s eyes flickered open, glassy and confused. “Where… am I?” he rasped, voice trembling.

“You’re home, mate,” Lando said softly. “Safe. Dorm room. No one’s going anywhere. Just lie down, keep your eyes closed, try to relax.”

His words seemed to anchor Oscar, if only a little. He let his head sink into the pillows, curling slightly as another wave of nausea passed. Lando adjusted the blanket, handed him a small basin, and stayed close, whispering reassurances. “Use this if you need it. No pressure. I’ve got you.”

Minutes passed like hours. Oscar murmured incoherently in his sleep, soft whines and mutters of discomfort. His body twisted slightly, then relaxed, then tensed again as dreams and dizziness collided. Lando’s hands never left him. He adjusted pillows, wiped sweat from his forehead, and whispered calming words whenever a shiver passed through him.

At one point, Oscar’s eyes flickered open again, panic crossing his features. “I… don’t… know where… I am…”

“You’re with me,” Lando said, firm but gentle. “You’re safe. You’re home. Don’t move too fast. I’ve got you. We’ll take it slow. Nothing is going to hurt you.”

Oscar shivered, clinging weakly to Lando’s hand. His chest heaved in shallow, uneven breaths. The nausea hit again, and he bent over the basin, retching quietly. Lando’s hand stayed on his back, rubbing gently, murmuring, “Easy… easy… just get it out. I’ve got you. You’re doing fine.”

Alex hovered a little back, wringing his hands, voice soft. “Water? Ginger ale?”

Lando shook his head. “Not yet. Let him rest. Just keep close.” His eyes didn’t leave Oscar. Every tremor, every groan, every flicker of confusion was met with calm observation.

Time stretched indefinitely. Every hour felt like ten. Lando stayed upright in the chair beside the bed, alert and tireless, checking Oscar’s pulse, adjusting blankets, brushing hair from his damp forehead. He whispered soft reassurances continuously. “You’re okay. I’m here. Just breathe. You’re safe. You’re home.”
At one point, Oscar muttered incoherently, curling slightly against the blankets. Lando leaned down, voice low. “I know, mate. It’s all right. Just let it out. Don’t fight it. You’re safe.”

Hours passed in a haze of soft murmurs and faint movement. Occasionally, Oscar’s eyes would open, panicked and searching. “I… can’t… see…”

“You’re okay,” Lando said, steadying him with both hands. “The room is quiet. No one’s moving fast. I’m right here. You can close your eyes if it helps.”

When nausea spiked again, Lando helped him tilt toward the basin. “Just a bit, mate. That’s it. I’ve got you.” His touch never faltered, never rushed. His voice never rose above a whisper.

Eventually, the shivers slowed, the murmurs faded, and Oscar’s body began to relax, surrendering finally to exhaustion. He lay more still, eyes drooping, his breathing even and unlabored. Lando leaned back slightly, exhausted in every muscle himself but alert, watching for any sudden twitch, any small sign of a problem.

By the first light of dawn, Oscar’s grip on reality had stabilized just enough for Lando to finally allow himself to relax slightly, though his eyes never strayed far. The night had been endless, heavy with worry and panic, but for now, Oscar was safe. And that was all that mattered.

-------------

The sunlight slanted weakly through the blinds, cutting pale lines across the dorm room floor. It was morning, though the kind of morning that felt like it belonged to the dead of night when you hadn’t slept. Lando’s head throbbed with the remnants of a long, relentless vigil. He had barely moved from the chair beside Oscar’s bed, every muscle stiff, every joint aching. His hoodie was rumpled, hair sticking up at odd angles, and he barely registered the soft knock at the door before it opened.

“Morning,” Charles said cautiously, stepping inside with Max carrying a tray. The scent of toast, eggs, and strong coffee immediately cut through the stale, hospital-like air of the room.

Lando blinked slowly, eyes barely able to focus. “Morning,” he croaked, voice rough and hoarse from lack of sleep.

Max set the tray carefully on the edge of the bed, glancing at Oscar. “He’s awake, yeah?”

Oscar blinked, groaning slightly as he shifted under the covers. His face was pale, eyes glassy, but he managed a weak nod. “Yeah… think so.”

Charles crouched down, tilting the breakfast tray closer so Oscar could see the food without having to move. “We thought you might need this,” he said softly, voice gentle but firm. “Lando’s been up all night, so we’re taking some of the weight off him.”

Lando gave a tired, half-smile. “I’m fine,” he muttered, though every word felt like effort. His body was screaming for rest, for just a single hour to collapse completely.

Max raised an eyebrow, arms crossed. “Fine is overrated, mate. Go collapse. We’ve got this.”

Oscar tried to sit up, a wave of dizziness making him freeze in place. His hand shot to the edge of the mattress, and Lando was instantly there, steadying him. “Slow,” Lando warned. “Take it slow. We’re not rushing anything.”

Charles lifted the tray slightly, nudging it under Oscar’s hands so he could focus on eating rather than holding it. “Here,” Charles murmured. “Little bites. No rushing.”

Oscar’s hands shook slightly as he reached for toast, taking small, tentative bites. Lando hovered beside him, hand resting lightly on his shoulder, eyes scanning for any sign of trouble. Even as he fought exhaustion, he could not let his guard down.

“I can manage,” Oscar murmured between bites, though his voice wavered, betraying the dizziness that clung to him like a fog.

“You’re managing, mate, but that doesn’t mean you’re fine,” Lando said, leaning back just slightly, exhaling through his nose in a short, sharp breath. “Keep eating. Keep breathing.”

Max glanced at Lando, eyes flicking to the dark circles beneath them. “Seriously,” Max said, voice firmer now. “Go. Sit. Sleep. We’ll keep an eye on him.”

Lando shook his head stubbornly. “I can’t. Not yet. He’s still weak, dizzy… I need to stay.”

Charles crouched lower, placing a hand gently on Lando’s arm. “You’ve been up all night. He’s stable for now. You’re running on empty. Let us handle this bit. He’s not alone.”

Lando’s shoulders sagged slightly, the exhaustion pressing into him. He gave a slow nod, voice quieter than usual. “Alright… alright.”

The three of them focused on Oscar, guiding him through the small tasks of eating and hydrating. Toast in careful bites, sips of weak tea, a few scrambled eggs, all punctuated by short rests. Oscar leaned slightly against Charles at one point, eyes fluttering closed as the room spun faintly around him.

“You’re doing fine,” Charles murmured. “We’ve got you.”

Max poured a small glass of water, handing it to Oscar. “Slow sips. Don’t rush it.”

Hours felt compressed into minutes. Lando sank onto the floor next to the bed, exhausted beyond words, eyelids heavy, but he kept one hand on Oscar, steadying him with subtle shifts whenever the concussion caused a faint tremor or groan.

Oscar finally managed to finish most of his breakfast, small crumbs clinging to the edge of the plate, pale fingers brushing them away. Lando’s eyes followed every motion, relief washing through him even as his own body protested.

“Thanks,” Oscar murmured, voice barely audible, but the gratitude was clear, weighted with lingering dizziness.

“You don’t need to say it,” Lando said, still holding him steady. “Just focus on sitting up straight. We’ll get there.”

Charles and Max exchanged a glance, nodding at each other. “He’s in good hands,” Max said softly. “You need to rest. Let someone else handle it for a bit.”
Lando gave a reluctant nod, finally allowing himself to lean back against the wall, closing his eyes, letting exhaustion and relief wash over him in equal measure. For the first time in what felt like days, he let himself breathe.

Oscar’s breathing slowed, the nausea fading slightly, the first tentative steps toward recovery beginning with the simple, domestic act of breakfast shared with people who cared—and Lando at his side, ever vigilant.

--------------

Lando had finally given in to gravity. Curled up on the floor beside Oscar’s bed, his hoodie bunched under his head like a makeshift pillow, he’d slipped into a deep, ragged sleep. His breathing was heavy, a little uneven, the unmistakable exhaustion of someone who had burned himself past the edges.

Oscar, propped carefully against the headboard with the help of pillows, watched him for a long moment before looking up at Charles and Max. His head was still buzzing faintly, the lights in the room too sharp even through the curtains, but he managed a weak smile.

“He looks dead,” Oscar murmured, nodding toward Lando.

Max snorted softly, sitting back in the desk chair with his arms crossed. “That’s because he practically is. Didn’t sleep a second last night, did he?”

“No,” Charles confirmed, perched on the edge of the bed, keeping one steadying hand near Oscar in case he swayed again. “I came in early—he was exactly where he is now. Just more awake. Well,” he glanced down at Lando with a half-smile, “less collapsed.”

Oscar huffed a small laugh, then winced as the motion made his head pound. “Of course he wouldn’t sleep. He kept checking my breathing every ten minutes. I think he thought if he blinked too long, I’d just…” He trailed off, shrugging.

Charles softened. “He cares.”

“He overcares,” Oscar said, though his voice held no bitterness, only a weary fondness. “He’s supposed to be the one I don’t have to worry about. But look at him. He’s… falling apart.”

Max tilted his head. “You’re both falling apart, just in different ways. He’s been carrying your weight for a while, I think.”

Oscar frowned, leaning his head back against the wall. “I didn’t ask him to.”

“You didn’t need to,” Charles replied simply. “That’s the thing with him. He doesn’t wait to be asked.”

Oscar let that sink in for a long moment, staring at the slow rise and fall of Lando’s shoulders. He felt guilt prickle at him, but Charles must have seen the shadow cross his face, because he quickly redirected.

“You know,” Charles said lightly, “when Max got a concussion in our second year, he spent two days insisting he was fine while walking into doorframes.”

Max glared. “You’re never going to let that go, are you?”

“No,” Charles said, utterly unapologetic. “And neither did anyone else. You became the entertainment for the entire team.”

Oscar cracked a small grin despite the nausea, the mental image pulling a chuckle out of him. “That’s brutal.”

“Brutal is watching him try to eat cereal when he couldn’t tell which bowl was real,” Charles said dryly.

“Alright, alright,” Max interrupted, rolling his eyes, though the faint smile betrayed his amusement. “The point is, you’ll recover. It’s shit now, but it’s not forever. You’ll be back on your feet, and Lando will stop looking like a haunted raccoon.”

Oscar’s smile faltered just slightly, replaced by thoughtfulness. “Do you think he’ll actually let himself rest once I’m better?”

Charles followed his gaze toward the floor, then shrugged. “Maybe. Or maybe he’ll just find another excuse to run himself down. That’s kind of what people like him do.”

“Then maybe I’ll have to make him rest,” Oscar muttered, the words soft, almost to himself, but both Max and Charles caught it.

There was a beat of silence, then Max smirked. “Don’t worry. We’ll help bully him into it. You just worry about not face-planting again.”

Oscar snorted, then groaned, pressing his fingers lightly to his temple. “Laughing hurts. Everything hurts.”

“Then don’t laugh,” Charles teased gently, pushing the tray of water closer to him. “Sip. Slowly. And try not to think too hard. That’s our job right now.”

Oscar obeyed, sipping at the water, the coolness easing the dryness in his throat. His eyes flicked once more to Lando, asleep on the floor, a small crease still visible in his brow even in rest. And though Oscar felt wrecked, dizzy, and drained, he also felt the quiet, stubborn reassurance of knowing he wasn’t alone.

---------------

The smell of coffee lingered in the small dorm room, curling warm against the stale scent of sweat and exhaustion that clung to Oscar’s sheets. Charles had perched on the desk chair now, long legs stretched out, while Max leaned comfortably against the wall, nibbling on his croissant like he had all the time in the world. For a while, no one spoke. The silence wasn’t heavy, though—it was companionable, a kind of quiet that let Oscar breathe without filling the air with excuses.

On the floor, Lando shifted again. This time it wasn’t the lazy twitch of deep sleep, but the slow, groggy stirring of someone dragging himself up from the bottom of exhaustion. He blinked blearily, hair sticking out in every direction, and let out a soft, confused groan.

“What…” His voice cracked, sleep-thick. “What time is it?”

“Too early,” Max answered immediately, smirking. “Go back to sleep.”

But Lando pushed himself upright, blanket falling around his shoulders like a cape. His eyes, still heavy with fatigue, darted first to Oscar. Always to Oscar. The second he registered that Oscar was awake and upright, his shoulders slumped with visible relief.

“You’re up,” he said, almost accusingly, as if Oscar had broken some unspoken agreement to stay unconscious until properly supervised.

“Yeah,” Oscar murmured, forcing a small smile. “Didn’t want to keep you on babysitting duty forever.”

Lando rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand. “That wasn’t babysitting. That was concussion protocol. You scared the shit out of me.”

“You and everyone else,” Charles said dryly, but there was no bite in it.

Lando finally noticed the extra company. He blinked at the tray of coffee, the pastries on the desk, then at Charles and Max lounging in the room like they owned it.

“Oh. You’re here.”

“We brought food,” Max said, holding out a paper cup. “And wisdom. One of which you’ve already missed out on.”

Lando groaned again, dragging himself up onto his own bed at last, though he kept leaning sideways against the wall like he might topple over any second. “Great. Love missing all the important conversations.” His gaze flicked back to Oscar, sharp and worried despite the haze of exhaustion in his eyes. “You doing okay?”

“I’ve been better,” he admitted quietly. “But I’m still here.”

Something in Lando’s face softened, the tension around his mouth easing. “Good. That’s good.” He scrubbed a hand through his hair, then added in a mutter, “Don’t do that again.”

“As if it was planned,” Oscar said, attempting a weak joke.

Lando straightened stood, “Jokes aside… it can’t happen again. Not like this. Zak has been riding you too hard, Oscar. We can all see it.”

Charles froze, the faint humor vanishing from his expression. “Zak?” His tone had sharpened instantly. “What about him?”

“He’s been…” Lando exchanged a glance with Charles. “…pressing Oscar harder than he should. Piling on the pressure. Making the scholarship into a threat instead of a gift.”

Max’s jaw clenched. “I knew it.” His voice was low, edged with anger that made Oscar flinch. “I knew he was pushing, but you didn’t tell us it was like that.”

“I didn’t want to drag you guys into it,” Oscar said quickly.

“Too late,” Max shot back, sharper than he meant to. He pinched the bridge of his nose, forcing his voice lower. “You think I’d sit by while he works you into the ground? No chance. If Zak tries this again, I’m saying something.”

Oscar’s stomach lurched—whether from the concussion or from fear, he wasn’t sure. “Please don’t. That’ll only make it worse.”

Charles folded his arms. “Maybe. Or maybe it’ll make Zak realize he can’t bully players into destroying themselves.”

“Or,” Lando cut in smoothly, “we go about this differently. Quietly. We look out for each other, make sure Oscar doesn’t carry all of it alone. Zak can scream all he wants, but we control how much it actually gets to us.”
Oscar leaned back against the headboard, eyelids heavy. His body was tired, his head throbbed, but somewhere under all of it, warmth curled in his chest. Charles, Max, Lando—even in their different ways, they were united in one thing. He wasn’t alone in this fight anymore.

And for the first time, he let himself believe it.

-------------

By the time the sun had shifted high enough to pour through the dorm windows, the small room smelled of coffee grounds, pastry crumbs, and the faint antiseptic tang still clinging to Oscar’s hospital wristband. Lando had finally slumped sideways against the wall again, half-asleep despite himself, while Oscar sat propped against the headboard with his eyes half-lidded, trying to decide whether the world was swaying because of the concussion or just from fatigue.

The knock on the door was more like a battering ram.

“Open up!” Alex’s voice carried through the wood, sing-song but loud enough to make Oscar wince. “We brought snacks and sympathy. Mostly snacks!”

Before either Oscar or Lando could respond, George’s voice followed, muffled but stern: “Alex, don’t shout, he’s concussed—”

The door swung open anyway, and Alex tumbled in first, arms loaded with bags of chips, cookies, and what looked suspiciously like energy drinks. Behind him, George maneuvered two paper bags of takeout containers, far more sensible, and Ollie trailed after with Kimi at his side, both clutching coffees they looked too young to be holding.

The tiny dorm was instantly overwhelmed with chatter and the shuffling of bags onto desks, chairs scraping, and Ollie’s laughter spilling out as he narrowly avoided tripping over Lando’s abandoned blanket on the floor.

“Careful,” Kimi said flatly, catching his roommate by the elbow before he could fall directly into Oscar’s bed.

Oscar managed a faint chuckle. “Guess I don’t need TV with you lot around.”

“Good,” George said quickly, giving Alex a sharp look. “Because you’re not allowed screens for a while. No phones, no laptop, nothing.”

Alex gasped, dramatic. “Tragic. He’ll have to live like it’s 1992. What will he do without memes?”

“Sleep,” Lando muttered from where he’d resurfaced enough to glare at Alex with one eye open. “He’ll sleep. Or try to.”

But Oscar didn’t mind the noise. If anything, it made the edges of his fear blur a little, their presence a shield against the quiet thoughts that had been crowding his head. He leaned back, watching them all fuss—George carefully unpacking takeout containers onto the desk, Kimi methodically tossing Alex’s energy drinks into the trash, Ollie already sitting cross-legged on the floor and tearing into a cookie.

“Everyone’s talking about you,” Ollie announced through a mouthful. “The game, I mean. Scary stuff.”

“Yeah,” Alex chimed in, softer this time. “You had us worried, man. But you looked so good before that—like, Zak was shouting, but you were flying. It was—” He cut himself off, catching George’s glare again. “Anyway. Just glad you’re okay.”

Oscar swallowed against the lump in his throat. “Thanks. I, uh…” He paused, unsure how to put it into words. “I didn’t mean to scare anyone.”

“You didn’t,” George said gently, setting a container of soup onto Oscar’s nightstand. “The situation did. Not you. There’s a difference.”

It was such a George thing to say that Oscar couldn’t help smiling faintly.

From the floor, Lando stretched, running a hand through his disaster of hair. “Alright, visiting hours over. He needs rest, not a circus.”

“A circus?” Alex protested. “We’re the best medicine he’s got!”

“Yeah, and he’s concussed,” Lando shot back, though his tone carried no real bite. His eyes, though tired, lingered on Oscar with that same steady intensity. “He needs quiet. I’ll keep an eye on him.”

George gave a small nod, gathering the empty bags. “Alright. We’ll go. But—” He glanced back at Oscar, his expression softening. “Don’t think you’re carrying this alone anymore. You’ve got us, okay?”

The words hit deeper than Oscar expected. He nodded, unable to speak past the tightness in his chest, and watched as they filed out, Alex waving dramatically on his way through the door, Ollie nearly tripping again, Kimi herding them silently like cats.

When the room fell quiet again, Oscar let out a slow breath. The silence felt different now—not heavy, but settled, as though their presence lingered even after they were gone.

“You okay?” Lando asked softly.

Oscar glanced over. Lando was still perched against the wall, shoulders hunched, exhaustion etched into his face. Yet his eyes were clear, steady, locked onto Oscar like he was the only thing in the world worth watching.

“Yeah,” Oscar said, and for once, it felt mostly true.

------------

The infirmary smelled of antiseptic and coffee left too long on a burner. Oscar sat on the edge of the examination table, hands curled into loose fists in his lap, trying to keep his leg from bouncing. His head still felt like it had been stuffed with cotton, though the pounding had eased in the week since the hit. Still, every fluorescent light seemed too bright, every noise too sharp.

The physician was methodical, shining a penlight into his eyes, asking questions in a clipped voice. “Any headaches?”

“Sometimes,” Oscar admitted.

“Nausea?”

“A bit. Less than before.”

“Dizziness?”

Oscar hesitated, then shook his head. The lie sat bitter on his tongue, but he was so tired of being watched—by Lando hovering at his desk, by George asking if he needed water every twenty minutes, by Alex trying to make jokes to break the tension. He needed this to be over.

The physician hummed, making a note. “You’re healing well. Another week of rest, and you’ll be fully cleared. For now, light activity only. Absolutely no contact play, no training drills, no running until I say so.”

Oscar nodded, the words sliding off him like rain. He should have felt relief. Instead, unease pooled in his chest. Because he already knew what was waiting outside that door.

Sure enough, Zak was there, leaning against the wall of the hallway, arms folded. His smile was sharp, brittle. The kind that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Good news, I hope?” he asked, voice just a little too smooth.

Oscar forced a polite nod. “Cleared for light activity. Another week until full return.”

Zak’s expression didn’t change, but his jaw twitched. He pushed off the wall and stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Light activity. Which means no excuses. Conditioning, weights, tactical drills—you’ll be there. I don’t care if you sit out of scrimmage. You’re not sitting out of work.”

“Coach—”

“You’re here on scholarship, Piastri.” The words dropped heavy between them, cold and deliberate. “Do you know how many kids would kill for your spot? You think I can afford to have my striker benched because he can’t take a hit? You think the dean’s going to keep signing off on your tuition if you’re not on the pitch?”

Heat crept up the back of Oscar’s neck. He could feel Lando behind him, tense, ready to step in, but Zak’s voice held him frozen.

“I’ll be there,” Oscar said quietly.

Zak gave him one last lingering look, something close to satisfaction flashing in his eyes, before turning on his heel and striding away down the hall. Silence stretched in his wake. Oscar kept his gaze fixed on the tiles, breathing carefully, trying to make the trembling in his hands stop.

“That guy’s a prick,” Lando muttered finally, anger roughening his voice.

Oscar managed a faint smile. “You only just noticed?”

But it didn’t reach his eyes.

-----------------

The dorm common room was unusually quiet for a late afternoon. Normally it was filled with George arguing over some obscure bio fact with Alex, or Ollie sitting cross-legged on the couch while Kimi muttered about politics under his breath. Today, though, the noise dropped to a hush the moment Oscar and Lando walked in.
George looked up from the sofa, relief breaking across his face. “So? What did the doc say?”

Oscar shrugged out of his jacket, careful not to meet anyone’s eyes. “Light activity. One more week and I’ll be cleared.”

“Good,” Alex said, voice overly bright. “That’s good. Means you’re basically fine.”

“Basically,” Oscar repeated, his tone flat enough to make Lando glance at him.

Charles, who had been leaning against the counter, arms folded, gave him a sharp once-over. “You don’t look fine.”

Oscar forced a half-smile. “I’m just tired.”

“You’re always tired,” Max said from the corner. He wasn’t accusing—just stating it as if it were fact.

The silence that followed made the air feel heavier. Lando set down his bag and finally broke it. “Zak was waiting outside the infirmary.”

George’s head snapped up. “And?”

“And he was Zak,” Lando said, jaw tightening. “Told Oscar no excuses, told him to be at conditioning, weights, drills. Doesn’t matter that the doctor said rest.”

“That’s insane,” Ollie blurted.

“It’s Zak,” Max said again, dry and unimpressed.

Charles shook his head. “It’s more than just Zak being Zak. That’s dangerous. He’s putting your health at risk, Oscar.”

Oscar shifted under the sudden weight of all their eyes. “It’s fine. I can handle it.”

“No,” George said quickly, almost too quickly. “It’s not fine. You literally collapsed on the field, mate. That’s not something you just ‘handle.’”

Alex leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Why didn’t you say anything before? About how hard he’s been pushing you?”

“I didn’t want to make it a big deal,” Oscar muttered.

“It is a big deal,” Charles snapped, more fire in his tone than usual. “You’re on scholarship, yes, but that doesn’t mean he owns you. There are rules, there are protections—”

Max put a hand on Charles’s shoulder, not to stop him, but to ground him. “He’ll never admit it, but Oscar thinks he has to earn the air he breathes. And Zak knows it.”

The room went quiet again, the truth of that hanging between them.

Lando sat down beside Oscar, close enough their shoulders brushed. “We’re not going to let him run you into the ground. Not anymore. He says something like that again, we’ll go to the dean. To anyone. You’re not alone in this.”

Oscar swallowed, throat tight, and gave the smallest nod. For the first time that day, some of the tension in his chest eased, just slightly. The group had adopted him before he even realized it. Now he could feel them closing ranks, solid and unshakable, and for once he let himself lean into it.

--------------

By evening, the dorm had quieted. The earlier chaos of cooking and laughter had faded into the kind of lazy calm that followed a big meal. Alex and George had taken Ollie and Kimi to the library, claiming they had to help the freshmen wrestle their way through essays. Charles and Max lingered only long enough to clean the kitchen before disappearing back to their own apartment, leaving Lando and Oscar alone again.

The room was still, save for the sound of pages turning. Lando sat cross-legged on the floor, a textbook open in front of him, highlighting passages with meticulous strokes. Oscar sat at the desk, head in his hands, pretending to focus on an engineering problem set. He had been staring at the same diagram for nearly twenty minutes, the lines and numbers blurring until they meant nothing.

The silence grew heavier the longer it lasted, pressing in on him until his chest felt tight.

He barely registered the knock at the door until it opened without waiting for an answer. Zak stepped inside, his presence slicing through the calm like a blade. He didn’t bother with pleasantries, didn’t even glance at Lando. His eyes locked on Oscar immediately, sharp and assessing.

“You’re awake.” Zak’s tone was flat, clinical, as though Oscar’s existence was an inconvenience he was checking up on.

Oscar straightened instinctively, ignoring the faint throb at the back of his skull. “Yeah. Just… catching up on coursework.”

Zak’s gaze flicked to the open book, then back. His lip curled. “You missed two practices. We’ve got the tournament coming up. You can’t afford to be falling behind now.”

Lando looked up from the floor, his expression hardening. “He was concussed,” he said, voice sharper than usual. “Doctor’s orders are rest, not practice.”

Zak dismissed him with a wave of the hand, as though Lando were nothing more than background noise. “Plenty of players have pushed through worse. You want to keep that scholarship, Piastri, you need to prove you’re still worth it. Sitting here staring at books isn’t going to get us wins.”

Oscar’s throat tightened. He forced himself to breathe evenly, to keep his voice calm. “I’ll be ready when the doctor clears me.”

“That’s not good enough.” Zak stepped closer, his shadow cutting across the desk. “I recruited you because you were supposed to be hungry. Because you were supposed to want this more than anyone else. If you start pulling excuses now, there are a dozen others who’d kill for your spot.”

The words hit harder than Oscar wanted to admit. The familiar spike of panic twisted in his chest, the reminder that his future wasn’t guaranteed, that the scholarship tethered him to everything—his education, his place here, his shot at something bigger.

Zak leaned down, lowering his voice. “Don’t make me regret putting my faith in you.”

The door clicked shut behind him a moment later, leaving the room in a silence so thick it rang in Oscar’s ears.

Oscar stayed frozen at the desk, hands clenched in his lap, staring down at the blurred equations on the page. His heart thudded too fast, too hard, drowning out everything else.

“You can’t listen to him,” Lando said finally, voice quiet but firm.

Oscar let out a shaky breath, his jaw tight. “Easy for you to say.”

“He’s threatening you with something he doesn’t even control,” Lando pressed, standing now, moving closer. “If you collapse again because you pushed too hard, that’s worse than missing practices. And you know it.”

Oscar shut his eyes, pressing the heel of his palm against his forehead, trying to block out the echo of Zak’s words. He knew Lando was right. But the weight of expectation didn’t lift—it just shifted, pressing harder from another angle.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low. “What if I’m not enough without all of this? Without pushing?”

Lando hesitated only a second before setting a hand on his shoulder, grounding him. “Then we figure it out. Together.”

Oscar let himself breathe, just once, into the quiet that followed.

-------------

The door creaked open again, but this time it wasn’t Zak. Alex stepped in first, tray of snacks in hand, followed by George carrying a backpack stuffed with notebooks and folders. Kimi and Ollie trailed behind, hesitating at the threshold, eyes wide at the tension still hanging in the room. Charles and Max brought up the rear, their expressions a mix of concern and quiet authority.

“Thought you might need actual food instead of pretending textbooks are dinner,” Alex said brightly, setting the tray on the desk. He didn’t meet Oscar’s eyes directly, but the gesture was enough.

Oscar barely nodded, swallowing past the tightness in his throat. He looked up at the faces surrounding him and felt the weight of everything—the scholarship, the practices, Zak’s relentless pressure—pressing harder than ever.

George sat on the edge of the bed, dropping his backpack with a thud. “We heard about the visit,” he said simply. “And… yeah, that’s not okay.”

Ollie and Kimi leaned against the wall, arms crossed, still hesitant but ready to step in. “You’re not alone, okay?” Kimi said softly.

Charles perched on the desk, folding his arms. “Zak can bark all he wants. But you’re human, Oscar. You can’t keep grinding yourself to dust.”

Max added, sharp and pragmatic, “Scholarship or not, collapsing isn’t going to prove anything. If anything, it makes him look like he’s not managing himself. That’s what you need to focus on—your health.”

Oscar’s gaze flickered between them, exhaustion and panic warring for dominance in his chest. “I… I just… I have to keep up. I can’t let everyone down,” he whispered, voice barely audible.

“You’re not letting us down,” Lando said firmly, stepping closer, his presence anchoring the room. “We’ve seen what happens when you push too hard. We’re not letting it go unnoticed. You’re allowed to be human.”

The words seemed to spread through the room, loosening the tension just slightly. Alex handed Oscar a granola bar, George poured him some juice, and even Ollie offered a hesitant, “We’ve got your back.”

Zak’s shadow had been looming large, but for the first time since the concussion, Oscar felt a crack of relief. The pressure hadn’t disappeared, but he wasn’t facing it alone.

Charles glanced around at the group, voice softening. “We don’t need to argue about Zak right now. But we do need to make sure Oscar gets through this without collapsing under the weight of it all. And that means you all—everyone here—have to help him slow down.”

Max nodded in agreement. “Exactly. No heroics. No pushing past limits just to prove something to him. The team is here. You’re not alone, mate.”

Oscar let out a shaky breath, finally accepting the granola bar. For a moment, the exhaustion, the panic, and the weight of expectation were still, held at bay by the people around him.

Lando moved to sit beside him, hand resting lightly on his shoulder. “We’ll deal with Zak when the time comes. Right now, we’re keeping you safe.”

The group settled into an uneasy calm. Snacks were eaten slowly, casual jokes began to creep into conversation, and the oppressive tension from earlier started to lift, replaced by a protective bubble of friends who refused to let him face it alone.

Outside, the afternoon sun hit the windows at an angle, casting warm light across the room. The day stretched ahead, uncertain but slightly more manageable. Zak could wait. For now, Oscar could just be… human.

------------

The sun was low in the sky, a muted orange spilling through the tall windows of the campus infirmary. The fluorescent lights above hummed faintly, sterile and steady. Oscar sat on the edge of the examination table once again, knees pulled slightly together, hands resting limply in his lap. His backpack was tossed on a nearby chair, untouched. The dull ache in his head throbbed with every movement, and his stomach still felt unsteady from the late-night nausea.

Lando stood beside him, cross-armed and tense, scanning the paperwork the doctor had left behind. “Vitals are stable. No internal bleeding. But the concussion’s still there. You’re not cleared to do anything strenuous,” he said quietly, glancing at Oscar.

“I know,” Oscar muttered, though his voice lacked conviction. The fatigue in his limbs was mirrored by the tension in his jaw.

The door opened again, and the rest of the group arrived as a cluster, shuffling in with varying degrees of awkward concern. Alex carried a backpack that smelled faintly of leftover fries, George had a laptop under one arm, Charles had a neatly folded towel draped over his shoulder, and Max’s hands were stuffed into his hoodie pockets, posture rigid. Kimi and Ollie lingered behind, hesitant but wide-eyed.

“You should have called us earlier,” Alex said immediately, voice half scolding, half relieved. “We could’ve—”

“Saved me from Zak?” Oscar interrupted, dry, but the corners of his mouth twitched. Lando gave him a pointed look. “Not helping,” he muttered under his breath.

George leaned forward, placing a hand gently on Oscar’s shoulder. “He’s an ass, Oscar. Zak doesn’t get to make this your fault. Not ever.”

“I know,” Oscar said again, but his voice cracked slightly, betraying the exhaustion he was so used to hiding.

Charles moved closer, kneeling beside the examination table. “We’re here. We’ve got you. That’s all that matters right now. Concussion doesn’t care about scholarship money or practice schedules.”

Max’s eyes softened as he added, “You’ve carried too much weight already. Stop trying to carry more for him. This is your health.”

Even Kimi and Ollie, younger and less experienced, found their voices. “Seriously, don’t push yourself. You’ve got us,” Kimi said, firm.

Oscar let out a shaky breath and leaned back slightly, head tilting against the wall behind him. The group’s presence pressed around him like a shield, absorbing some of the weight that Zak’s constant scrutiny had built up over the past weeks. He hadn’t realized just how tense his shoulders had been until now, until Lando’s hand on his back reminded him he could lean on someone.

The infirmary door swung open abruptly, and Zak’s harsh voice cut through the room like a whip. “Piastri!” He stormed in, coach’s clipboard clutched tightly in one hand. “What’s this about being pulled out mid-season? You think a concussion gets you off the field?”

Alex immediately stood in front of Oscar, a shield between student and coach. “Zak, step back. He has not been cleared by the doctor, and that’s final.”

Zak’s gaze flicked to Lando, then the rest of the group, his eyes narrowing. “And who’s going to make sure he doesn’t drag the team down? You? You think your little nurse friend can keep him competitive?”

Lando’s jaw tightened. “I can make sure he doesn’t kill himself trying to win for your ego. That’s enough.”

Oscar, seated but pale and trembling slightly from the tension, looked between the two men. “I…” His voice was hoarse. “I’m not… I can’t… I’m done for now.”

Zak’s eyes flashed with anger, but the room was too full. Charles stepped forward, placing a firm hand on Zak’s arm. “Enough. He’s under our care. Your yelling isn’t helping anyone.”

Max leaned in, voice low but cutting, “He’s not a machine, Zak. He’s a person. You’re not the only one responsible for him.”

George, standing near the doorway, added, “You’ve pushed him too far already. If anything, the team needs him healthy, not collapsed on the pitch because you can’t manage your own temper.”

For a moment, the silence that followed was heavy. Zak’s chest heaved, fingers tightening around his clipboard, but he could feel the weight of every student in the room watching, judging. Finally, he exhaled sharply, spinning on his heel. “This isn’t over,” he spat, retreating down the hallway with the same stormy aura he always carried.

The tension lingered even after the door shut. Oscar slumped forward slightly, finally letting himself rest against Lando. “Thanks,” he whispered, voice soft, near-breaking.

“You don’t have to thank me,” Lando murmured, smoothing Oscar’s hair back gently. “You just have to survive today.”

Charles and Max lingered near the door, exchanging a look that said what no one would voice. Zak’s pressure was still there, looming over them all, but the group had gathered, united around Oscar. Even Alex, George, Kimi, and Ollie stayed close, forming a protective circle.

Oscar allowed himself to breathe, truly breathe, for the first time in weeks. The tension of the scholarship, the practice, the endless pressure—it was still present, but it had been shared, shouldered by people who cared. For now, that was enough.

Lando held Oscar’s hand as the group slowly dispersed, murmuring plans to get food, check homework, and just stay close. Outside, the sunlight had begun to fade, evening creeping into the infirmary. Inside, there was quiet, soft but protective.

The fight against Zak, against the expectation, against exhaustion itself, was far from over. But for the first time, Oscar felt that he wouldn’t have to face it alone.

------------

The sun had barely climbed over the campus when the team congregated in a cramped conference room near the athletics office. The air smelled faintly of disinfectant and paper, but it was electric with quiet indignation. Max leaned back in his chair, tapping his fingers against the tabletop, while Charles paced in small circles, voice low and tense.

“This isn’t about wins,” George said firmly, his binder clutched tight. “This is about safety. Health. Zak’s crossed every line.”

Alex nodded vigorously, leaning forward, eyebrows drawn. “Oscar’s not a machine. And he shouldn’t have to be. None of us should. We’ve got documentation. He’s concussed. He was pushed beyond reason. The board needs to see it.”

Ollie and Kimi lingered in the corner, not fully part of the adult-level strategizing, but their concern was palpable. “I just… I don’t want him hurt again,” Ollie murmured, voice barely above the hum of the fluorescent lights.

Lando, arms crossed, sat beside Oscar, who had been silent until now. The faint bruise under his temple and the lingering pallor of his skin reminded everyone exactly what had been at stake. Oscar’s jaw was tight, but his eyes flicked between his friends, absorbing the collective energy of protection.

“I’ll speak,” Lando said finally, voice low but firm. “I’ve got the nursing notes, the observations from the game, and everything from the infirmary. If anyone can make them understand how dangerous Zak’s management was, it’s me.”

George placed a hand on Lando’s shoulder. “We all can. We’re a team. Literally and figuratively.”

The board was a blend of administrators, athletics directors, and faculty representatives, their expressions neutral but attentive. As the team presented their case, laying out schedules, doctor’s notes, and eyewitness testimony, the room grew tense with the weight of collective outrage. George highlighted the discrepancy between Zak’s demands and NCAA safety standards, while Lando emphasized the physical and mental toll on student-athletes.

Oscar sat quietly beside Lando, head bowed at first, still trembling from the adrenaline and residual concussion fog. But as each teammate spoke, detailing long practices, extreme pressure, and repeated warnings ignored by Zak, a mixture of relief and disbelief washed over him. They were fighting for him. They were protecting him in a way he had never allowed anyone to before.

Hours later, the verdict came down. Zak was relieved of his duties effective immediately. A murmur ran through the room, some relief, some disbelief, some lingering tension over how a man could have held power for so long. The new coach, Andrea Stella, was introduced the following morning.

Andrea, tall and lean, with sun-darkened skin and an easy, disarming smile, carried himself with an effortless confidence. His voice was lilting, Italian-accented but clear, as he addressed the team. “Good morning, ragazzi. Let me be clear: health comes first. Fitness, yes, performance, yes, but if any of you are injured, you will rest. Understood?”

The room collectively exhaled. Lando’s hand found Oscar’s, squeezing it briefly. Oscar’s eyes, tired and wary, flicked toward Andrea. Relief pooled there, tentative and fragile. He had expected pressure, expectation, the endless push to prove himself. Instead, he was met with calm authority and a promise of care.

“Rest,” Andrea repeated, meeting Oscar’s gaze directly. “You play smart. You play safe. No exceptions. The team succeeds together, not at the cost of anyone’s health.”

Oscar leaned back in the chair, body slack, as though he could finally let go of the tension he’d carried for weeks. His chest rose and fell unevenly, the weight of exhaustion pressing down in tangible waves. He managed a weak, incredulous smile. “I… I can rest?”

“Si,” Andrea said warmly, placing a hand briefly on Oscar’s shoulder. “Rest. Then when you are ready, we will train smarter. Together.”

The team swarmed him with relief and laughter, some teasing lightly, others just holding him close, grounding him. Alex clapped him on the back with enough force to rattle him gently. “See? We told you we’ve got you.”

George crouched beside him, voice soft but firm. “You don’t have to carry everything anymore. That’s over.”

Max gave him a small, almost imperceptible nod. “Take your time. Nobody’s rushing you. That’s not how it works now.”

Even Lando, who had spent the night awake monitoring every minor reaction Oscar had, felt tension leave him in a slow, quiet flood. He brushed a hand through Oscar’s hair. “No more running until Andrea says so. Promise me.”

Oscar’s lips twitched into a faint smile, a mix of disbelief, relief, and still-barely-contained fatigue. “Promise,” he whispered.

That afternoon, back in the dorm, the world seemed softer. Lando helped Oscar settle into his bed, stacking pillows just right, bringing water and light snacks, ensuring he was comfortable without hovering too tightly. The sun filtered in through the curtains, warm but muted. Outside, the campus hummed with life—students walking between classes, bikes clattering along brick paths, distant laughter—but inside, there was quiet, gentle, restorative care.

Ollie and Kimi lingered, sitting cross-legged on the floor, occasionally glancing at Oscar to see if he needed anything. Charles and Max prepared light sandwiches, while Alex fussed over arranging clean towels and blankets. George hovered with a water bottle, ready to help with whatever Oscar needed.

For once, the pressure that had hung over Oscar like a storm cloud was gone. Zak’s voice no longer echoed in his mind. The relentless drive to push past his limits, to earn approval at any cost, had been replaced by a different rhythm: one of safety, of trust, and of shared responsibility.

Oscar closed his eyes, finally allowing himself to feel the exhaustion that had been building for weeks. The team’s presence was comforting, grounding. Lando’s hand rested lightly on his arm, the faint warmth a reminder that someone would always be there to watch, to care, to hold the line for him.

And for the first time in months, Oscar didn’t feel like he had to prove anything. He could simply exist, simply rest, and simply let the people who cared about him carry the burden for a while.

--------------

The campus carried a different air in the mornings now. Not quieter, not slower, but somehow lighter, as if the weight of tension that had clung to the dorms and fields all semester had begun to lift. Oscar stirred awake in his own bed, the pale sunlight spilling across the sheets, and for the first time in weeks, he didn’t wake to the phantom echo of Zak’s commands.

Lando, predictably, was already nearby. He had insisted on checking in before anyone else stirred, just to make sure Oscar’s night had been calm and uneventful. Now, he sat on the edge of the bed, still in a hoodie, notebook open but untouched, watching Oscar blink slowly at the light.

“Morning,” Lando said softly, a teasing edge to his voice. “Sleep well?”

Oscar cracked a small, genuine smile. “Surprisingly. Not a nightmare in sight.” He flexed his fingers, testing them gently. “Feels… normal.”

“Good. You’ve earned normal.” Lando leaned back, stretching out long arms. “You still want coffee, or are we going straight to breakfast?”

Before Oscar could answer, there was a knock on the door, and in bustled the rest of the group—George balancing a tray with fruit and yogurt, Alex lugging coffee for everyone, Charles and Max carrying sandwiches and granola bars, Ollie and Kimi trailing with bright, worried smiles that melted into relief the moment they saw Oscar upright.

“Look at you,” George said, setting the tray down on the bedside table. “The walking miracle. Didn’t think we’d ever see you like this again.”

Alex plopped onto the chair by the bed. “We’re all just here to make sure you don’t faint on us before lunch.”

Oscar laughed softly, leaning back against the pillows. The room felt warm, safe, and absurdly ordinary—a world away from the blinding stadium lights and Zak’s constant pressure.

Lando leaned closer, brushing a stray lock of hair from Oscar’s forehead. “I stayed up all night, you know,” he said with mock reproach. “You made me a zombie.”

“You didn’t look that bad,” Oscar said, voice still hoarse from lingering fatigue.

“Trust me, I did,” Lando replied, smirking, but his eyes softened. “But it was worth it.”

Andrea had come by earlier that morning to check in. His voice, lilting and calm, had reminded Oscar that performance could coexist with care, that success didn’t have to come at the cost of health. “We train smarter now,” Andrea had said, resting a hand on Oscar’s shoulder. “And we win together.”

The thought settled over Oscar like a warm blanket. No more relentless pushing. No more fear of losing scholarship, of losing approval, of losing himself in the process. Just presence, care, and patience.

By mid-morning, the dorm had transformed into a scene of domesticity. The group clustered around, teasing, sharing stories of mundane campus life—the library’s new coffee machine, the never-ending cafeteria lines, George’s latest bio mishap, Alex’s ridiculous marketing pitch for the student union bake sale. Lando stayed close, occasionally reminding Oscar to sip water, take a bite, or simply breathe.

Hours passed with laughter and gentle ribbing, punctuated by quiet moments of watching Oscar stretch, moving without pain, slowly reclaiming the rhythm of his body. For once, exhaustion was a shared concern, not a private burden. Max commented on the new training plan Andrea had implemented, Charles teased Ollie for his endless questions about history notes, Kimi flopped dramatically onto the floor next to Lando, and Alex made a mental note to buy celebratory cupcakes.

Oscar looked around at them all—friends, teammates, a family of sorts—and felt a rare, unshakable calm. He didn’t have to be perfect, he didn’t have to sprint past limits, and he didn’t have to carry everything on his own.

“Thanks,” he said quietly, voice carrying just enough for the group to hear. “For… everything. For fighting for me. For watching out.”
Lando squeezed his hand, warm and reassuring. “Always. That’s never going to change.”

The afternoon sun slanted through the curtains, golden and forgiving. Outside, the campus continued its ceaseless hum, but inside, there was laughter, warmth, and quiet comfort. The season ahead felt less like a battlefield and more like a shared journey.

Oscar closed his eyes for a moment, letting the exhaustion and tension seep away, replaced by the slow, steady beat of trust and friendship. He could rest, he could recover, and he could play again—but this time, on his terms.

And for the first time in a long while, he felt ready to embrace it all.