Driven to you - OP81

At sixteen, Oscar Piastri wasn't famous. Not yet. His name wasn't on highlight reels or trending hashtags. He was just another kid at a boarding school in the English countryside, quieter than most, with a focused way about him that made teachers appreciate him and classmates sometimes misunderstand him.

But before the world of motorsport had taken hold of him, before karting weekends became his calendar's cornerstone, there had been cricket.

Oscar loved cricket with a quiet sort of loyalty. It was slow, yes—but precise, deliberate, strategic. Where karting was pure adrenaline, cricket was meditation. It helped him focus, helped him think. So when his school's cricket coach approached him after PE and said, "Still got that clean swing, Piastri. Want a spot on the squad this term?"—Oscar didn't hesitate. He nodded. No fuss. No ego.

He didn't expect Costanza Arlotta to become his own personal cheer squad.

They'd been inseparable since they were fourteen—unlikely at first glance: Oscar, all stillness and logic; Cocco, a whirlwind of emotion and opinion, bright scarves and ink-stained hands. But somewhere between quiet study sessions and shared tea on rainy afternoons, a deep friendship had become something more. Not dramatic or showy. Just solid. Real.

"So, cricket," she said one evening in the common room, flopped on the couch with a book sliding off her chest. "You're gonna wear that marshmallow outfit, aren't you?"

Oscar didn't look up from his homework. "It's called a kit."

"It's called a fashion crime," she replied, smirking.

Still, the next Saturday, she was there—earlier than anyone else. She had dragged a beanbag out onto the grass by the school's cricket field and was sipping lemonade from a mason jar she'd insisted made it taste better. She wore a scarf far too yellow for the setting and held up a crumpled sign that said GO OSSIE GO in aggressively underlined blue letters.

Oscar spotted her while warming up. He didn't smile right away—he was already slipping into his match focus—but his shoulders relaxed a little.

The first innings began. Oscar batted third. His stance was quiet but clean. He didn't go for flash; he waited, read the bowler, stayed calm. It took him a few overs to get comfortable. But once he did—four runs. Then two. Then a boundary that made even the upperclassmen mutter "Nice" under their breath.

Cocco didn't understand the details. She clapped every time he made contact, regardless of where the ball went. At one point she cheered for a block, then turned to the parent beside her and whispered, "Was that... good?"

But when he hit a crisp cover drive straight to the ropes—his best shot of the match—she whooped like they'd won a championship. "YES, OSSIE! THAT'S MY BOY!"

Oscar caught her eyes as he stepped back into position. The corner of his mouth twitched upward. Just for a second.

Later, during the break between innings, she snuck onto the edge of the field with a bottle of water and handed it to him.

"You're a menace," he said, unscrewing the cap.

She grinned, wide and unapologetic. "You're good at this. I didn't know that."

He took a long sip, then shrugged. "Played a lot when I was little. Before karting."

She nodded, eyes softening. "You love it."

"I guess I do."

She tilted her head. "You're always so serious when you play. It's like... watching a different version of you."

Oscar blinked at that, surprised. "I'm not different."

"No," she said. "But it's like you're quieter on purpose. Like you've chosen to let your hands speak instead."

He looked down, not quite able to meet her gaze, but clearly affected. "That's... accurate."

She nudged his shoulder. "Just don't forget to smile when you win, yeah?"

By the end of the match, his team had edged out a win—barely. Oscar's steady middle-order batting had helped them hold the line. He didn't brag. He didn't shout. But he did something rare for him: he jogged over to Cocco, a little dust on his white pants, and reached out to kiss her.

"I like that you came," he said, quiet but earnest.

"I'll come to every match if you promise to let me keep yelling like an idiot."

"I'd expect nothing less."

They started walking back toward the main school buildings, their shadows long in the late afternoon light. Cocco swung their linked hands back and forth and asked a dozen questions about rules she still didn't understand. Oscar answered every single one.

The following weekend, she returned again. This time with snacks in tow—grapes, a handful of granola bars, a thermos of iced tea. She set up camp again on the edge of the field, this time dragging two beanbags from the art room and bribing one of the first-years to help her carry them. By the third game, people had started to expect her, and a few even joined her makeshift cheering zone.

It became a rhythm: cricket on Saturdays, quiet dinners after. Sometimes Oscar would talk about the games. Other times, he'd listen while Cocco recounted whatever chaos had unfolded in debate club.

She never learned all the rules. He never expected her to.

But there was one Saturday, about halfway through the term, when the skies opened up. Rain lashed the school grounds, turning the pitch into mud and flooding the outfield. The match was postponed, but Cocco still showed up at the field in her oversized yellow raincoat, holding a half-drenched bag of crisps.

"Rain check," she said, laughing. "Literally."

Oscar smiled from under his umbrella. They sat together in the dugout, feet dangling, talking about everything and nothing.

"You know," she said at one point, "I think I like cricket now."

He raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

She leaned her head against his shoulder.  "Well, I like your cricket."

That spring season stretched out like a memory already forming. The matches, the dust, the claps, the quiet pride Oscar never quite spoke aloud but Cocco always seemed to understand. Cricket didn't make him famous. It wasn't the path he'd follow. But it was part of him, and in that moment—with Cocco cheering from the sidelines, too-loud scarf whipping in the wind—it felt like enough.

And though karting would soon take center stage—contracts, travel, the chaos of racing life—on that Saturday in spring, it was cricket that reminded him of home.

Of stillness.

Of Cocco in the grass with orange scarves and too much lemonade.

Of the life he had before speed.

And the person who grounded him through it all.