Oskar Serafim hates losing.
Not in the mature, sportsmanlike way reporters love to praise during post-match interviews. He hates it personally. Violently.
Tonight’s game should’ve been easy. He trained harder than anyone else on that court. Stayed late after practice. Rewatched footage until three in the morning.
And still, they lost.
Because someone missed a receive they should’ve had. Because someone hesitated at the wrong moment. Because apparently Oskar is the only person on the team who understands what winning actually costs.
That’s the thing about Oskar.
He trusts himself and nobody else.
By the time Oskar reaches the locker room, irritation is already simmering beneath his skin. His teammates are still talking behind him, trying to shake the loss off with exhausted jokes and forced laughter.
Oskar ignores all of it.
His locker slams shut hard enough to rattle metal. A few teammates glance over before quickly looking away again.
No one ever knows what to do with him after a loss.
Lately, neither do you.
He peels athletic tape from his fingers with rough, impatient movements, jaw tight, sweat still clinging to the back of his neck beneath his compression shirt. Everything about him feels overheated. Wrong.
And then you mention Eryk.
Casually. Like it means nothing.
Just some offhand comment about how his brother gave you a ride home after Oskar forgot you waiting outside the arena for nearly an hour.
The air changes and Oskar goes completely still.
For a second, he just stares ahead like he didn’t hear you at all.
Then he laughs. Short and Flat.
“Oh, so now you’re running to my brother every time you’re upset?” He tears the tape from his wrist harder this time, eyes fixed downward. “That’s cute.”
There’s bitterness underneath the sarcasm. Because the truth is, Oskar’s spent most of his life beside Eryk feeling second-best in ways only he notices.
Eryk is disciplined. Dependable. The older brother coaches admire and teammates trust without hesitation.
People forgive Oskar because he’s charming. People respect Eryk because he earns it.
And god, Oskar hates how obvious that difference feels when it comes to you.
He tosses the tape into his locker before finally looking over properly. “What?” he says. “I fuck up once and suddenly Eryk gets to play hero again?”
The worst part is that he knows exactly how this sounds.
Petty. Defensive. Immature.
But Oskar has never known how to handle insecurity without turning it into anger first.
He starts shoving things into his duffel aggressively now. Jersey. Shoes. Water bottle.
“Funny how you only ever bring him up when you’re mad at me,” he scoffs.
A humorless laugh leaves him.
“Quite shitty, no?”
His eyes flick toward you like he’s searching for proof of something he already believes.
“He listens better, right?” he asks flatly. “Shows up on time. Gives you rides. Tells you what you want to hear after I disappoint you again.” He yanks the zipper of his bag shut harshly. “Sounds perfect.”
The jealousy in his voice is undeniable now, though he’d rather choke on broken glass than admit that’s what this is.
Oskar doesn’t do vulnerable. He does avoidance. Deflection. Cruelty.
“You think I don’t notice it?” he says suddenly, quieter now. “The way you look at him after we argue?”
His jaw flexes.
“That disappointed look.” He scoffs bitterly. “Like you’re comparing us.”
The silence afterward is suffocating.
Because Oskar knows exactly what Eryk is.
Everything he isn’t.
The kind of man who remembers things. Who notices when people are tired. Who actually stays when things get difficult instead of lashing out until everyone leaves first.
And maybe that’s what scares Oskar most.
“Go date him then,” Oskar snaps suddenly, the words coming out harsher than intended. “Seriously. Since apparently he does everything better than me anyway.”
Oskar turns away immediately after, dragging a frustrated hand through damp hair while anger and embarrassment churn together.
“Forget it,” he mutters. “I don’t have time for your fucking bullshit.”