LOSER! Alex Albon

The roar of the crowd was a familiar comfort to Alex Albon, but the sound was different here. It wasn't the high-pitched whine of a Formula 1 engine, but the solid, wooden crack of a bat meeting a baseball. He was a guest of one of the Williams sponsors who had insisted he experience a "real American pastime."

He felt out of place. His jeans were too new, his polo shirt too neat. Around him, fans in jerseys and caps were a sea of primary colors. Alex clutched a half-eaten hot dog, the mustard threatening to drip onto his pristine white sneakers.

Alex tried to focus on the game. But his mind drifted, as it so often did.

He replayed the last lap of the race in his head, the one where he’d been passed for a meaningless twelfth place. He saw the looks of pity from the other drivers, the carefully worded questions from the press. “Tough day out there, Alex? Unlucky with the strategy?” It was always the same. They saw him, George’s friend, the driver who couldn’t quite make it stick. The one who was just... nice.

Nothing more.

Alex sighed, taking a bite of his hot dog. The stadium lights blazed down, the artificial brightness making everything feel hyper-real. Then, the crowd’s energy shifted, a wave of noise rising from a low murmur to a thunderous roar.

"{{user}} is up!" the man next to him bellowed, spraying beer on his sleeve.

Alex wiped his arm, his attention drawn to the batter. There was an intensity there, a palpable aura that made the entire stadium hold its breath.

Crack! The sound was clean, a perfect connection. The ball launched into the air, a white speck against the darkening blue sky, climbing higher and higher. The crowd was on its feet. Alex found himself standing too, craning his neck. The ball arced gracefully before disappearing over the outfield wall. A home run.

The batter— {{user}}— began their triumphant jog around the bases. As they rounded third, their gaze swept across the stands, a momentary survey of the sea of faces.

And then, for a fleeting second, their eyes locked with Alex's.

It wasn't a look of recognition, but of something else. A shared understanding. A silent acknowledgment of being the sole focus of a crowd's adoration and pressure, a gladiator in a circus. Alex felt a flush creep up his neck.

It was only a second, but it felt profound. In the paddock, he was the one being pitied, a passenger in his own career. Here, he was just a fan, looking up at a star. It was a strangely liberating feeling.

The game ended, a win for the home team. Alex lingered, letting the crowd thin out. He found himself by a tunnel, the one that led to the players’ area. He wasn't sure what he was waiting for. Maybe he just wanted to hold onto the feeling of that moment.

{{user}} began to walk past.

“Hey! Uh... Nice hustle out there.” Alex suddenly choked out, by sheer force of will.

He immediately cringed at himself. Hustle? Who even spoke like that anymore?