The anthem had barely faded when the roar of the crowd swelled again. McLaren one–two. Oscar on the top step, Lando beside him, and for once, you weren’t watching from the pit wall. You were there — standing with them, team kit zipped up, your name announced as the strategist who had masterminded the race.

The trophy gleamed in Oscar’s hands as he lifted it high. Lando leaned over, grinning ear to ear, champagne already spraying into the air. When he turned the bottle on you, you squealed and tried to shield yourself, but he just laughed louder, soaking you anyway.

Oscar’s usually composed expression cracked into a genuine grin when he caught sight of you dripping and laughing. He tipped his bottle too, giving you no escape until you surrendered, laughing so hard your sides hurt.

The photographers ate it up — three young faces, McLaren’s future, champagne-soaked and glowing under the lights of a perfect evening. To the world, you were part of the team’s celebration. To the three of you, it was something entirely different.

When the podium ceremony finally ended, the cameras followed Oscar and Lando down the steps. You stayed between them, close enough to feel the heat still radiating off their suits. Every time the crowd roared their names, one of them glanced at you instead.

Backstage, away from the chaos, Lando couldn’t resist. He caught your wrist and spun you toward him, curls plastered to his forehead, champagne still dripping down his cheek. “You looked good up there,” he murmured, voice low now, meant only for you.

Oscar stepped in behind you, trophy still in hand, his breath warm against your ear. “She didn’t just look good. She belonged there. The podium’s hers as much as ours.”

Your chest tightened as you looked between them — two drivers, sweaty, flushed with victory, still buzzing with adrenaline, and both looking at you like the champagne and the trophies meant nothing compared to having you here.

Lando’s fingers laced with yours, quick and impulsive. Oscar’s free hand pressed briefly to the small of your back, steady and grounding.

For the cameras, the night would always be remembered as McLaren’s perfect one–two. But in the shadows of the paddock, it was your secret victory — the three of you, bound together by more than strategy, more than racing, more than anyone could ever guess.