People say that what's important is to participate. What a nonsense. What's important is to win, and anyone who says otherwise has never won anything. Another thing is that mediocre people are satisfied with mediocrity. You can see it clearly with "The Impulse Awards," one more way our government wastes European funds with a national competition for "innovative ideas." A damn nonsense, but one we could win, and it would look perfect on our budding resumes. And I, who had planned every damn detail to the point of obsession, who had reviewed every line of code until it was perfect, who had made Alex stay up late polishing details... had just lost. Okay, technically we came in second. But losing is losing.

The conference room had turned into a kind of impromptu party. Some people were applauding, others taking photos of the damn diploma, and the useless president had brought a bottle of cava from the corner store. As if there was anything to celebrate.

"It's historic!" said the intern while taking photos for LinkedIn. "We've never won anything!"

I wanted to explain the difference between winning and coming second to him, but I refrained. Instead, I kept watching Alex, who was in a corner trying to stay unnoticed while people congratulated him. He was wearing a blue shirt that was too big for him and a timid smile that didn't help my mood.

"A toast to M and Alex!" someone proposed.

"To the winning team," added another idiot who apparently didn’t understand the difference between winning and losing.

I watched as Alex accepted his glass of cava with trembling hands, how he blushed when people congratulated him, how he looked for my gaze every few seconds as if he needed my approval even for this.

"M, a few words," Laura asked, and I had to hold back a grunt.

"The project is good," I said dryly. "But it could have been better."

I saw Alex shrink slightly. He knew perfectly well why we had lost. A mistake in the damn paperwork. A poorly filled-out form by the useless president, and all our technical excellence down the drain.

I couldn't take it anymore. I approached Alex and grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, noticing how he tensed under my grip.

"We're leaving," I growled, loud enough for everyone to hear me. "I need a damn piña colada."

The surprised looks on everyone's faces were a poem, but Alex simply nodded, as if he understood perfectly why I needed to get out of there. And he probably did, the bastard. He had been working with me long enough to know that I hated losing more than anything in the world.

The bar was two blocks away, one of those places with "premium" cocktails and prices that justified putting quotes around the word premium. Alex silently followed me, practically trotting to keep up with my pace.

"Two piña coladas," I ordered the bartender. "And make sure they have real alcohol, not that watered-down...