Driven to you - OP81

When we first joined Prema, we were a bunch of barely-legal speed freaks, too young to rent cars in most countries, let alone make adult decisions. It was all testosterone, late-night sim racing, protein powder milkshakes, and the constant, agonizing mystery of girls.

Every driver had their thing — nerves before qualifying, weird superstitions, flirty grid walks, breakups over WhatsApp. We were fast on track, emotionally confused off it. Except for one guy.

Oscar Piastri.

While most of us were busy spiraling over whether or not a girl liked our Instagram photo from two months ago, Oscar was... married.

Yes. Married.

Since he was 19.

Now for one year.

To his high school sweetheart.

The first time I found out, I laughed out loud. I thought someone was joking. But then I saw his phone wallpaper — a candid picture of a girl with messy curls asleep on his shoulder, both of them tucked under some tartan blanket. The kind of photo that felt too intimate to ask about. So I didn't. None of us did, for a while.

But curiosity got the best of us eventually.

"Wait, you're actually married?" one of the guys asked during dinner in Barcelona. It wasn't meant rudely — we were just all stunned.

Oscar just nodded, stabbing a piece of grilled chicken with that usual calm demeanor. "Yeah."

"Like... rings and vows and stuff?"

He smiled. "Exactly like that."

It wasn't that he bragged. He never talked about it unless asked. But once we started asking — and trust me, we all did — he answered with the kind of quiet pride that made it clear this wasn't some teenage fling.

They'd known each other since boarding school, he told us. She was Italian. Studying law. Her name was Costanza, but he called her Cocco, and when he said it, it sounded like the softest word in the world.

He never went clubbing with us, not because he was boring — but because he was busy. If he wasn't testing or sim training, he was FaceTiming Cocco or catching a flight back to wherever they were staying that month. Turin. London.

While we were ghosting girls we met in the paddock lounge, Oscar was helping his wife apply for postgraduate programs.

While we were downloading Tinder in six languages, Oscar was learning how to properly swaddle a baby.

Because yeah — it didn't stop at marriage.

The day we found out Oscar had twins, it broke everyone's brains.

We were at testing in Monza. He showed up a little late to dinner, looking tired, but not in a jet-lagged way — in a new parent way. Bags under his eyes. Hoodie instead of a polo. Phone glued to his hand.

One of the engineers asked how his week off had gone.

Oscar shrugged. "Pretty good. We had the twins last Thursday."

Silence.

"The... what?"

"Twins. Elia and Sofia."

The room exploded.

"You have kids?"
"Since when?"
"What do you mean twins?"
"Are you actually 40 pretending to be 20?"

He laughed — actually laughed — and passed around a picture of two tiny babies in matching onesies, with a tuft of blond hair sticking straight up and curled up against a stuffed bear.

There was a stunned kind of reverence. Like we'd just been told one of our classmates casually discovered a new planet.

I remember sitting there, stunned, still thinking about the girl who left me on read that morning, while Oscar explained how he'd been changing diapers between simulator sessions and how Cocco still managed to pass her tort law exam the week after she gave birth.

He wasn't trying to make anyone feel small. He never made anyone feel that way. But he was miles ahead of us in a way that didn't show on a leaderboard.

Oscar didn't need to impress anyone.

He had his own world.

And it was quiet. Fiercely private. But so, so full.

Sometimes, when we were away for weeks on end, I'd catch him looking at his phone between runs — not scrolling, just looking at a photo of his wife and kids. Once, during a post-qualifying debrief, I saw a page sticking out of his duffle bag — a notebook with messy cursive writing. Later I found out it was their "Dreambook," something they'd kept since they were teenagers. Pages of hopes, goals, and letters to each other.

That hit me harder than a front wing to the shin.

Because the rest of us were out there chasing adrenaline and podiums, afraid of missing out. But Oscar... Oscar had already found what most of us didn't even know we were looking for.

He had a home.

He didn't need noise. He didn't need hype.

He just needed her.

There were times we teased him — harmless jokes about being "Dad of the paddock" or asking if he packed juice boxes in his race bag. He took it all in stride. Never defensive. Never smug. Just... grounded.

And you know what? That grounding made him faster.

Oscar never cracked under pressure. He didn't care about grid drama or online chatter. He had a bigger reason to be good. He had Elia and Sofia. He had Cocco. Every lap meant more.

It showed.

Every time he got in the car, he was driving not for ego, but for something deeper. For a life he was building with every lap, every corner, every risk.

I don't know where the rest of us will end up. Maybe some of us will make it to F1. Maybe some will burn out. Maybe we'll keep chasing something we can't name.

But Oscar?

He figured it out years ago. On a school bench in England. In a dreambook. In the quiet. In the kind of love that doesn't need to be loud to be real.

And I think — even if none of us ever say it out loud — we all look at him with a kind of awe.

Because Oscar wasn't just racing for trophies.

He was racing home.