Hi everyone, so I was working on a new part of the ongoing story, but I was involved in a car accident and fractured my right hand. Things have been kinda dicey since then. I hope to be back once the splint is off and I meet with the orthopedic doctor. I'm hoping for the whole thing and recovery; it doesn't take more than 6 weeks.
Anyway here's an x-ray of the 4th metacarpal bone at the base of my palm that was fractured.
Summary: Back when Frida Montoya was just starting her F1 career, before Max was her driver and her champion, before she gave herself the liberty to love and be loved, Friday was just a girl. A girl who missed what it felt like sitting in a kart, a girl who almost disappeared from the world of racing. But she didn't, she came back, McLaren giving her the chance and marking this the beginning to what she would become.
Requested: Yes
A/N: I wanted to build up on Frida's lore and also keep adding to the story between her and Carlos. Let me know if you'd like to see any other stories!
Masterlist
2019 – Woking, England
Carlos Sainz had just launched the first episode of DONTBLINK, his new vlog series capturing life as a Formula 1 driver. It was the start of a new chapter with McLaren, a team rebuilding itself from the ground up. Energy buzzed through the factory, a mix of cautious hope and raw ambition.
Frida had slipped into this world without fanfare. She wasn’t a driver anymore, but she carried herself like she was still taking the corners faster than she should have. This was her first year, after graduating a month ago, interning with McLaren’s strategy department, shadowing the team’s senior race strategist and handling data simulations, sector analysis, and pre-race modeling. Quietly, she became indispensable, especially to Carlos.
They had history.
Years ago, they raced each other in Spain, long before sponsorships and press conferences, when the only thing that mattered was lap time. Frida was a rising star in the international karting scene, she had made waves and turning heads on the European circuits. Carlos remembered her as the girl with the sharp lines and sharper eyes. He had beaten her once. She had beaten him twice. The rivalry burned bright for a while, but life took them in different directions. She left racing, unvolunatily, before she could make the leap to Formula 4. He never stopped.
Now here she was, in his orbit again. Older, more focused, still fast in the ways that mattered.
Carlos didn’t say anything at first. Just watched her from the other side of the debrief room, his expression unreadable. Frida had grown used to people recognizing her name from old karting footage, but this was different. Carlos looked at her like no time had passed at all.
It was Lando who broke the tension. He gravitated toward her almost immediately, asking questions about race craft and setups, teasing her when she corrected his assumptions. He called her “Coach” half-seriously, and she rolled her eyes but never pushed him away. To him, she was the cool older sister who knew everything. To Carlos, she was the ghost of something unfinished, or rather somwthing they never really started.
Frida hadn’t expected to end up at McLaren. She had spent the last two years mentoring young karters and volunteering with development programs across Europe and the U.S., building a quiet but powerful reputation behind the pit wall, all while finishing her last years in college. When she applied for the McLaren internship, she didn’t think it would go anywhere. Then the call came. The recommendation letters from karting teams had opened the door, but the surprise endorsement from Jos Verstappen had sealed it. She had her suspicions about that one. Max had never said a word, but she remembered their last race in Genk. She had passed him cleanly on the final lap in the rain. He never forgot a loss.
By the time the third episode of DONTBLINK was filmed, Frida had settled into the rhythm of paddock life. She stayed off-camera, focused on the numbers, on strategy briefs and software models. But Carlos had other plans.
McLaren had organized a fan event—a karting challenge where guests could race against Carlos himself. It was meant to be lighthearted, fun content for the vlog. What the fans didn’t know was that Carlos had quietly enlisted a second driver. Someone who hadn’t touched a kart competitively in years. Someone he wanted to see on track again.
Frida didn’t agree right away. She tried to laugh it off, telling him she was rusty, that she didn’t want the attention, the scars from her acciddent becoming a prominent thought in her mind. Carlos just smirked. “I remember what you’re capable of. Don’t pretend you forgot.”
That was how she ended up there, standing just outside the frame as the cameras rolled. Carlos played his part for the vlog: charming, relaxed, hyping up the event. Lando was there too, doing commentary and teasing fans about the “mystery driver.” Frida waited in silence, her helmet in hand, watching it all unfold.
The scent of fuel and rubber filled the air. Her heart beat steady in her chest, but something stirred beneath it. It wasn't nerves or fear. This was something deeper. The sensation of returning to a version of herself she thought she’d buried came back with full force.
When she finally stepped out onto the track, some of the fans recognized her. A few shouted her name, others whispered in confusion. Carlos looked over at her, eyebrows raised, and nodded once. It was a silent acknowledgment of the past they shared, and maybe a challenge too.
She lowered her visor, slipped into the kart, and let muscle memory take over. This wasn’t a vlog anymore. This was personal.
The engine purred beneath her like an old friend greeting her after spending years apart.
Frida adjusted the strap on her helmet and lowered herself into the seat, the familiar creak of the chassis settling beneath her weight. Her gloves were slightly too big. The kart had been adjusted in a hurry. None of it mattered here. Not the film crew, not the fans watching from the sidelines, not even the cameras mounted on helmets and barriers to capture every angle for Carlos’s vlog.
None of it could touch the silence she found in those final seconds before the green light.
Carlos stood by the barrier, helmet tucked under his arm, his smile for the camera faltering for the first time that day. He had seen her in a kart before, years ago on sun-drenched tracks in Spain and Belgium, surrounded by boys who underestimated her until they were eating her dust. But this was different.
She hadn’t raced since the accident.
The crash in Lonato had been brutal. She didn’t talk about it often, but the paddock whispered. A fractured wrist, a concussion, and the death of the woman who had never missed a race: her mother. Everyone thought she’d come back. Frida Montoya was too talented, too driven, too fast to disappear. But she never did return.
Until now.
Carlos watched her tighten the straps and settle in, her expression wasbunreadable beneath the helmet visor. He should have felt proud, vindicated even, for convincing her to do this. But what filled his chest instead was a weight he couldn’t name. Something protective. Something familiar. He remembered her the way she was at fourteen, fearless and focused, teeth gritted as she dived into apexes like the world depended on it.
Carlos remembered the way her eyes looked in Barcelona two years after the accident when they ran into each other at a race and she flinched at the sound of engines in the distance. She had changed since that day. But here she was, back in the kart, surrounded by fans and filming crews, the past hanging between them like smoke.
The flag dropped.
Frida launched off the line cleanly, her reaction time sharp. Not perfect, she hadn’t driven competitively in years, but the instinct was still there. She took the inside line into the first corner, tucking into a tight angle that forced the fan beside her to back off. By the third lap, she was running in second, eyes locked on the kart in front of her.
Carlos didn’t cheer. He didn’t joke. He stood still, visor down, fingers twitching around the edge of his gloves.
She was fast. She wasn't racing like she used to. Fer decisions weren't wild or reckless. She raced with measured, quiet, relentless desicions. Frida wasn’t about to prove anything. She wasn’t beating Carlos or Max. This was about control. This was about reclaiming something that had been taken from her when her world shattered on a dusty Italian circuit.
Halfway through the session, she overtook the leader with a clean outside move, braking late and rotating the kart through the corner in a single elegant motion. It was the kind of move that could only come from someone who had once lived for this.
Carlos exhaled slowly. His chest ached in a way that surprised him.
Frida didn’t look toward the barrier. She didn’t glance at the camera. She crossed the line first and lifted her visor only after the engine sputtered to a stop. Sweat clung to her temples. Her breathing was shallow, but her eyes were clear. Frida Montoya was alive.
He walked toward her slowly, the rest of the world fading behind him—Lando’s laughter, the fans cheering, the producers scrambling to capture soundbites. None of it mattered.
She sat in the kart like it had never left her.
“I forgot what it felt like,” she said softly, not looking at him. “To be here. To be myself.”
Carlos crouched beside her, his voice low, private. “You looked like you never left. You know, I always thought you were destined for F1. I thought you'd be the first woman to sit in a car. I thought we'd have a chance to extend the rivalry.”
Frida blinked once, the sun catching the sheen in her eyes, but she didn’t cry. She wouldn’t let herself. Not here. Not yet.
“I thought I buried this part of me. I stopped thinking about sitting in an F1 car ad started thinking how could I build oe instead,” she murmured.
He reached for her glove and pressed his fingers to the back of her hand.
“You didn’t bury it,” he said. “You protected yourself.”
She pulled off her helmet to the sound of collective gasps. This was the crowd that hadn't really seen her before she put her helmet on.
There had been murmurs before the race. Some fans had suspected. A few recognized her stance, the precise way she approached corners. But most didn’t dare believe it until they saw her eyes, steady and familiar, framed by loose wisps of hair that had slipped from her braid.
Frida Montoya.
The name rippled through the crowd like wind over water. Some clapped. Others just stood there, stunned. A few had tears in their eyes—fans who remembered her from the early 2010s, the girl who had been destined for greatness before she vanished from the sport. The girl who had gone silent after the crash in Lonato. After the obituary that named her mother.
Now she was standing in front of them, flushed from adrenaline, her karting suit half unzipped at the collar, and a tired, almost shy smile on her face.
“Surprise,” Lando grinned, clapping his hands. “Our mystery driver is kind of a legend.”
Carlos didn’t say anything right away. He stood behind her, watching as the fans approached, some for photos, others just to say thank you. A little girl no older than ten hugged her without asking, then whispered, “You’re my favorite. I saw your videos.”
Frida crouched down to the girl’s level. “You race?”
The girl nodded.
“Then you’re going to be faster than me someday.”
The smile she gave that girl reached deeper than anything Carlos could have captured on film.
Eventually, the karting event wrapped up. The cameras powered down. The fans left with stories they’d carry for a lifetime. But Carlos lingered, standing by the fence long after the tents were packed and the crew had gone.
Later
Carlos sat in the small editing suite beside the media team, hoodie pulled over his head, a pair of headphones slung around his neck. They were reviewing the raw footage from the day, sorting through clips for the third episode of DONTBLINK.
He hadn’t meant to stay for the whole thing. Usually, he popped in, gave a few notes, and left. But this time, he couldn’t look away.
On the screen, Frida slid past the inside line, tires just brushing the white paint as she overtook a fan with effortless grace. She wasn’t smiling. She wasn’t performing. She was just...present.
“You want us to cut this down?” the editor asked. “Or leave the full sequence?”
Carlos didn’t answer at first.
He leaned back in his chair, eyes locked on the footage. Frame by frame, it played like memory. It wasn't just memories of the race or maybe the last time he raced against her. Memories of her came back more vivid than ever. The girl who used to chase him down in the rain, back when they were kids in oversized helmets and borrowed fireproofs. Frida, who disappeared, who had every reason to walk away and never come back.
But she did come back.
And he had seen the moment it happened: when the kart rolled off the grid, when she settled into the rhythm of the turns, when the past and present finally met.
“Keep it all,” he said finally, his voice quiet. “Show them everything.”
The editor looked at him, eyebrow raised wuth suspicions of Carlos's feelings bubbling under the surface. “Even the part where you stop talking and just...stare at her?”
Carlos smiled to himself.
“Especially that part.”
The lights in the editing suite buzzed softly overhead. Outside, the factory had gone still. But Carlos remained, headphones back over his ears, eyes tracing her movements on the screen. This wasn't just content or footage. This was something sacred. A promise kept. A piece of her returned back to him.
He didn’t know what this meant yet, not for them, not for her. But he knew one thing as he watched her cross the finish line again and again.
She was still a racer. And somehow, that mattered more than anything else.
Carlos Sainz x Engineer!Verstappen!Best Friend OC, Max Verstappen x Engineer!Best Friend OC
Synopsis: Frida Montoya was never meant to stay behind the pit wall forever. From her karting days with Max Verstappen to her rise as Red Bull’s lead race strategist, she’s played the game flawlessly, until Carlos Sainz begins seeing her as more than just Max’s engineer.
Frida is caught between legacy and loyalty, victory and vulnerability. Frida has to decide whether she will always belong to someone else's race, or is she finally ready to lead her own?
A/N: Hello hello! I'm back and so is Frida! After that short stint of bad health, I'm hoping that everything's okay now. I feel a lot better and have been crafting this chapter. I will say, it took me a while to finally finish this, as I was trying to recover from things, so I apologize if it seems a little bland!
Series Masterlist
Imola: Round 7 of the 2024 Season
Frida didn’t need to prove herself, but she did it anyway.
It wasn't because the paddock doubted her anymore; those whispers had quieted by the second race of the season, but there was a new rhythm to her return. The first few rounds had been about finding her footing again, relearning the beat of the race from inside the storm. Now, in Imola, she was leading that storm.
By Friday, the Red Bull garage pulsed with a quiet intensity. Max was pushing harder in FP2 than expected, testing the limits of a new aero package. Frida had overridden the wind tunnel model again, this time suggesting a more aggressive undercut that leaned into the car’s updated suspension behavior. There were always going to be murmurs and questions. She heard them all and ignored everyone and everything.
In the Friday strategy meeting, she laid it out: sector times, degradation curves, optimal pit windows with margin for traffic.
Max crossed his arms. “Bit aggressive, don’t you think?”
Frida looked at him, tone cool but familiar. “Only if you drive like you’re scared.”
That earned a snort from Checo. Christian smirked from the corner. No one argued with what she was laying out after that.
And later that day, it worked. Of course it did.
Max started P2 during FP1, but the call came early, when the front-runners began to hesitate. She didn’t blink.
“Box now. Clear air behind Tsunoda. We’ll force Ferrari's hand.”
“Are you sure?” Max asked.
Frida didn’t raise her voice. “No traffic. No risk. You'll get optimal lap time, trust me.”
He did.
And Red Bull vaulted ahead. The undercut landed like a guillotine. The home crowd groaned for Ferrari, but by then, the outcome was forming.
The team moved like clockwork under her direction. Her headset command was sharp. Confident. She didn’t flinch when Ferrari blinked too late. Didn’t falter when Carlos attempted a flying lap that faded by the last 5 minutes of the session. The data had shown her everything she needed to see. And the car delivered on her word.
Later, as the garage buzzed with low celebration, another pole position without surprise, Max found her in the back corner, leaning over the telemetry console.
“Pole in Bahrain. Pole in Imola. What’s next?” he asked, voice light but proud.
Frida looked up, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I was thinking you win on Sunday, maybe in Monaco. Full chaos. Just to keep things interesting.”
Max chuckled. “You’ve still got it.”
“I never lost it.”
He nodded, more serious now. “I know I've already said it, but it’s good to have you back.”
Frida didn’t smile, but her voice softened. “It’s good to be back.”
She knew she was rewriting the narrative. Reclaiming her voice in a world that had almost counted her out after another tragic passing in her family.
And Carlos, watching footage from today's practice, from the other side of the paddock, helmet in hand, heart quietly tethered to her, knew it too.
Because this wasn’t just another win. This was the beginning of something far more dangerous.
Frida was sharp as ever, and she was only just getting started.
Saturday: Autodromo Enzo e Dino Ferrari; Imola, Italy
The air inside the Red Bull garage carried the weight of expectation, humming with low tension as the sun dipped behind the soft hills of Emilia-Romagna. The team had rolled out a revised aero package for the weekend: sleek in design, lightened for acceleration out of slower corners, but notoriously sensitive through the curving topography of Imola.
Max Verstappen, ever the benchmark, had pushed the car beyond its theoretical threshold in Free Practice 2, dancing on the edge of adhesion through Piratella, threading the needle between grip and catastrophe as if daring the car to answer him.
Frida Montoya watched from the telemetry station, headset secure against the noise, her fingers moving in rhythm with the readouts streaming across the console. The numbers didn’t lie. They rarely did. But neither did her instinct.
She had overridden the simulation team’s recommended model the night before, dismissing the wind tunnel’s conservative forecasts in favor of a more aggressive race strategy. The updated suspension’s response under braking allowed for a deeper entry into Variante Alta, and she believed the new balance could be exploited through a tailored undercut window. Some of the engineers had raised questions, civil, but laced with hesitation. A few glanced sideways when she voiced her override. The whispers followed, the usual cautions disguised as data fidelity. She didn’t respond. She didn’t need to.
It wasn’t about the noise, it was about the music underneath all the chaos.
By the time the Saturday strategy meeting began, the tone had shifted. The conference room inside the motorhome was quieter than usual. The banter was gone. What remained was the low hum of tire compound data flickering across the central screen and the occasional rustle of notes. Frida stood at the head of the table, poised and unfaltering, as if the entire room revolved on her axis.
She presented her plan in full: projected tire drop-off curves plotted against fuel load simulations, overlays of sector-specific degradation, and pit windows optimized for a race pace delta rather than qualifying position. She had even included alternate versions coded herself, with margins tightened by predicted traffic clusters through the Tosa to Acque Minerali sequence.
Max leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, eyes sharp with interest rather than challenge. When he spoke, his tone was light, but the question wasn’t.
“Bit aggressive, don’t you think?”
Frida didn’t blink. Her answer came calmly, but with the steel of someone who had already played the race through in her mind a dozen times.
“Only if you brake too early into Turn 7.”
Checo snorted from across the table, the kind of laughter that recognized her genius at work and recognized the humor underneathe. Christian, watching from his spot near the back, raised an eyebrow and gave the faintest nod.
No one argued after that. If Christian was giving her liberties to override the origial data, then she knew what she was talking about.
Outside, the skies threatened rain for Sunday, but inside, the tone was clear. Frida had taken control of the race before it had even begun. Max would have control over the car and his preformance, but Frida was the puppetmster behind the strategy.
Later that evening, as the paddock lights warmed the soft cobblestone walkways and the sounds of espresso machines echoed from the hospitality suites, Carlos found her outside the garage. She was leaned against the pit wall railing, a tablet in one hand, reviewing data with her thumb absently swiping across the screen.
“You should be resting,” he said, his voice soft behind her.
“I will,” she replied, not looking up yet. “I just need to run through the outlap sequence again. Max was pushing the tires harder than we expected in Sector 3.”
Carlos didn’t interrupt her rhythm. He stood close, shoulders brushing as he peered at the tablet with her. Despite being from a conpeting team, Carlos knew she shared information as her way of thinking. SOnetimes he would pitch in, not too much though. He was still racing against RedBull. There was a quiet understanding between them. It was familiar and warm, forged in the off-season months spent in smaller spaces, away from race suits and cameras.
“You know, you're always four moves ahead of everyone,” he said quietly, leaning into Frida. Their shoulders touched as they soaked in the quiet.
Frida finally looked at him, something softer in her eyes now that the weight of the meeting had passed.
“That’s the only way to survive,” she replied. “Especially here. And I need to survive.”
Carlos reached for her free hand and laced their fingers together, grounding her without words. She allowed it. Just for a moment.
A shadow crossed from the side. Max approached, sweat still in his hair from cooldown laps, half a banana in hand, already smirking.
“Tell me you’re not rewriting strategy on a Saturday night,” he said, eyes flitting from the tablet to their joined hands and back again with brotherly amusement.
Frida rolled her eyes but didn’t let go of Carlos. “Tell me you’re not eating potassium in front of the woman who manages your race stints.”
Max grinned wider. “Just fueling the genius.” He leaned over and dropped the banana peel right onto her tablet with theatrical flair.
Carlos groaned. Frida looked unamused.
“I’m going to strangle you with a torque wrench,” she said flatly.
“I’d be honored,” Max replied.
The three of them stood there, framed by the ghost light of pit lane and the weight of what Sunday would demand. There was tension, yes, but not fear. Not anymore.
Frida had made her calls.
Carlos and Max stood next to her like the old friends they were.
Though they had decided this a back int heir karting days, this moment reaffirmed what both men believed: they would trust her to carry them through the storm.
Race Day: Imola, Italy – Round 6
The clouds had loomed over Imola since sunrise, thick and bruised with unspent rain. There was a weight to the sky, the kind that settled over the hills like a held breath, uncertain whether to break open or remain suspended in tension. The air along the pit wall smelled of brake dust and laurel leaves, a strange blend of a dynasty and combustion that only Imola could carry.
The Red Bull garage was quiet in the moments before everything tilted. Not quite silence, but they were tuned in—every engineer, every strategist, every mechanic waiting for the right frequency to strike. The front runners had begun to flinch. Mercedes had pulled the trigger first, calling in Hamilton to attempt the undercut. Ferrari responded just one lap later, bringing Carlos in to cover and pressure Red Bull into a mistake. The paddock expected Max to follow suit. That was the rule. When your rivals blink, you follow. You cover your end and you protect what you have.
But Frida Montoya had never played by that rulebook. SHe was rewriting it as the race went on.
She sat perched at the edge of the Red Bull pit wall, her headset snug over her ears, fingertips flying across her touchscreen as telemetry streamed in faster than the cars themselves. Her eyes tracked dozens of variables: sector differentials, tire drop-off rates, fuel consumption patterns. The model she had rewritten the night before pulsed beside her, color-coded intervals adjusting in real time as traffic patterns emerged across the second sector.
Christian leaned in close, one hand already reaching for his comms. “We should box. Hamilton’s gaining.” His tone was cautious but measured.
Frida’s eyes didn’t waver. Her voice came through crisp, the kind that cut cleanly through engine roar and adrenaline.
“Not yet,” she said. “Max, stay out. Norris and Russell are about to choke each other through Tosa and Piratella. If we wait one lap, maybe two, we clear them both. No turbulence. No dirty air.”
Christian hesitated, then nodded to her.
Max’s voice came through the comms a moment later, calm but skeptical. “You sure? You were rewriting strategy last night.”
Frida exhaled slowly. She didn’t need to double-check the data. She already knew. Her voice softened just slightly, a thread of dry amusement woven into her certainty.
“Have I ever led you astray?”
There was a pause, and then Max laughed. Not out of doubt, but relief. The kind of laugh you give when someone lifts the weight from your chest before you even noticed it was there.
“Not once and that's just simply lovey.”
And that was enough for the team.
One lap later, it unfolded exactly as she had seen it. Norris overshot his line into Piratella, locking up just enough to compromise Russell behind him. A very predictable move from Lando, in her time of knowing him. Max took both in a single, fluid motion before Variante Alta, a double overtake executed with the kind of clean precision that looked like destiny when it worked and madness when it didn’t. It may have even been worth overtake of the month, in Frida's opinion.
By the time Hamilton rejoined the track, Max had carved out a five-second buffer. The undercut attempt had collapsed. The trap had been baited and disarmed before they even saw it coming.
Inside the garage, a muted cheer rose among the engineers. Celebration laced with awe. Frida remained at her post, her expression unreadable, eyes scanning the tire wear projections for the next stint. She adjusted one metric by two-tenths of a second and said nothing.
Christian turned toward her, his face a mix of curiosity and grudging admiration. “That was very bold, Miss Montoya,” he said, still holding his headset loosely in one hand.
Frida finally glanced up, her tone cool but certain. “That was very calculated, actually.”
Max’s voice buzzed back in a few laps later, this time lighter, the adrenaline breaking through into something close to joy.
“Fridita, you're terrifying sometimes,” he said, almost laughing, his voice distorted slightly by the G-forces in his braking zone. “In a good way.”
For the first time that day, Frida allowed herself to smile.
But the victory came with a shadow. On the other side of the track, in the red of Ferrari, Carlos was trapped behind traffic. A lapped Haas car had ignored blue flags through Rivazza, costing him precious seconds on an alternate strategy that had once looked promising. Over the radio, his voice came through laced with frustration, not at her, never at her, but at the cruel timing of motorsport.
Frida heard it a snippet. She always heard it.
It stirred something quiet and heavy inside her. It wasn't guilt, not exactly, but it was a deep awareness of the cost. She had played this game long enough to know that every win came with consequence. Every decision that lifted one driver forward often meant pulling another into the slipstream of defeat.
And sometimes, that driver wore red.
But Carlos understood. He always had. He knew the margins she operated within, the brutal clarity it required. They had never built their relationship on illusions, and they wouldn't start now.
Later, when the crowds would thin and the podium champagne had long since dried against Max’s fireproofs, they would find each other. In the quiet hallways behind the motorhomes, away from journalists and timing screens, they would meet as no one else but Frida and Carlos.
And there, in the soft silence after war that was every race, they would say nothing about the race. They wouldn’t have to.
Carlos knew what she had done. Frida knew what it had cost. But more than anything, they both knew that what mattered most wasn’t the overtakes or the tire calls or the sector splits. It was the fact that after everything, after the silence of her winter, the noise of her return, and the relentless storm that was this season, she was still here. Still standing.
And still sharper than ever.
But they still had a podium to get through and journalists to fight of.
Post-Race
The air above Imola shimmered with the heady mix of early summer warmth, now with the rain gone, engine heat, and champagne mist still clinging to the breeze like confetti. Beneath the banners fluttering across pit lane and the rattle of collapsing barriers, Red Bull’s garage pulsed with the quiet aftershock of dominance. Max Verstappen had taken the win again, with surgical, ice-veined precision. It had been a drive that left commentators scrambling for new vocabulary, the kind of victory that looked inevitable only after it was already sealed.
Checo had clawed his way back from a compromised qualifying, finishing fourth with grit and experience, keeping the constructors’ title march on track. But while both Red Bull drivers had done their part on the asphalt, the paddock’s center of gravity was shifting elsewhere.
Because the headlines, the camera lenses, the murmurs traveling like static between pit walls, none of them followed Max or Checo. They followed her.
Frida Montoya stood just behind the garage canopy, the corner of her headset still resting around her neck, the other looped loose in her hand like a holstered weapon. Her face was flushed, not from heat but from the sheer concentration of fifty laps lived in silence, decision by decision. She wasn’t celebrating. She didn’t need to.
The calm she wore was quieter than victory and more powerful than celebration. It was the composure of someone who had walked into the fire, stared down every doubt, and returned not just unscathed, but sharpened. Journalists moved quickly once Max stepped off the podium, descending like flies drawn to something new, something electric. The sound of their footsteps echoed behind the cameras, and soon, the flashbulbs began popping again, staccato bursts of recognition, chasing the strategist in the RedBullteam kit instead of drivers in overalls.
“Frida!” one called, pushing through the crowd. “You’ve been back only a few races. Have you been studying in secret this whole time, or did winter sharpen your mindset?”
She didn’t flinch. Her voice was even, cool as the shadows falling across the pit wall.
“It's been a mix of both” she said. “Suriving, as it turns out, sharpens your instincts more than numbers ever could.”
There was a beat of silence. Then scattered laughter. Nods of appreciation. A few leaned in closer, recognizing the gravity of her words, sensing the steel behind them.
But Frida wasn’t speaking for their applause.
She turned her gaze sideways, away from the crowd and the microphones, past the sponsor walls and the glint of champagne still drying on the concrete. Her eyes landed on the scarlet figure across the paddock: Carlos. He was still in his fireproofs, shoulders slack with exhaustion, jaw tight with the weight of another near-miss.
He hadn’t spoken to her yet. He didn’t need to. There was no room for apologies between them, no need for words dressed in comfort. Their language was glances, breathless silences, the invisible line they’d drawn and redrawn over the years between love and war.
She gave the smallest of nods. Not one the cameras would catch, not one anyone else would notice. But Carlos did. His eyes softened, barely, and he returned the gesture, just a flicker, just enough to let her know he had seen her, and more importantly, understood. This was never personal. But it was never easy.
Somewhere off to the side, Max was still giving interviews, his tone half amused, half reverent. But when his eyes found Frida through the parting crowd, he winked, not the smug, boyish kind he gave reporters, but the kind reserved for her. For the one person who had been there when he was still figuring out how to fight. For the one who had always known when to push, when to protect, and when to let him fly.
She had led him home again.
She always did.
He would never say it in public. He didn’t need to. But she felt it in the unspoken thread that ran between them, something deeper than team allegiance or championship points. This kind of loyalty had been forged when childhood gave way to something harder, when survival demanded more than speed.
And watching all of it unfold from beneath the Red Bull hospitality suite, half-shielded by a sponsor banner, stood Helmut Marko.
His arms were crossed, but his eyes followed her the way they once followed champions in the making. It wasn't only out of pride or admiration, but with a quiet certainty born of having seen thousands pass through this world and knowing instinctively when one of them was built to stay.
She was no longer the quiet intern who shadowed engineers in McLaren gear or the upstart analyst who sat next to his ear in pit strategy briefings. Frida had become something else entirely. She wasn't just the architect behind Red Bull’s most decisive races. She wasn't just a strategist.
Friday Montoya had become a force to be reckoned with.
She was a woman who had walked through injury, through silence, through whispers that clung to her like static. She was a woman who returned with nothing to prove and yet proved it anyway with every race and with every call.
Helmut said nothing. There was no need. He was already mapping out the next steps. Steps that involved Frida and the future she was leading RedBull to.
Hello hello! Thanks to the wonderful help of modern medicine and rest, I'm thankfully feeling much better. I'm currently working on the next part of Frida and Carlos's story, which I hope to have posted before this race weekend! I'll also be posting my first requested one-shot! Thank you to @mhh-1 for the idea! I'm honestly so excited to be back! Thank you to everyone for your patience while I was getting back on my feet ❤️🏎️
Hi everyone! As you've maybe noticed, I haven't been posting lately. I'm going to be taking a short break. I've been experiencing some health problems on top of keeping up with school and work, and helping my dad with his own health issues. I will be back as soon as things ease up. I'm hoping things clear up in a couple of weeks!
I just want to give a big thank you to everyone who's been super supportive of the story in progress. Even if Frida and Carlos's story is almost at its end, I hope to keep writing for them in the form of blurbs.
Again, hopefully I'll be back in a couple of weeks and give y'all the chapters you deserve 🥹
Carlos Sainz x Engineer!Verstappen!Best Friend OC, Max Verstappen x Engineer!Best Friend OC
Synopsis: Frida Montoya was never meant to stay behind the pit wall forever. From her karting days with Max Verstappen to her rise as Red Bull’s lead race strategist, she’s played the game flawlessly, until Carlos Sainz begins seeing her as more than just Max’s engineer.
Frida is caught between legacy and loyalty, victory and vulnerability. Frida has to decide whether she will always belong to someone else's race, or is she finally ready to lead her own?
A/N: Sorry I've been gone for so long! I started school last month and I've been busy with homework and working too! I hope this chapter can be my apology for the long wait ❤️ On an unrelated note, did anyone watch Demon Slayer: Infinity Castle? I watched it yesterday, and I thought it was pretty good
Series Masterlist
March: Bahrain International Circuit; Round 1 of the 2024 Season
By the time the paddock landed in Sakhir, few people still spoke her name aloud.
The news cycle had turned. Headlines had moved on. The world of motorsport didn't wait long; not for grief, not for greatness. Whispers that once circled like vultures had quieted, replaced by new rumors, fresh rivalries, and championship predictions that made no mention of her.
Frida Montoya had vanished after Abu Dhabi. There were no press conferences, no cryptic Instagram posts, no confirmed plans. Even when Red Bull’s social media team left her out of the team photo carousel, the silence felt deliberate rather than forgetful.
But at 8:02 on Thursday morning, she walked into the Red Bull garage like she had never left.
She wore a new team jacket zipped halfway up, her badge clipped cleanly to the collar, a tablet tucked beneath one arm. The early desert sun lit up the tarmac outside the paddock tunnels, but the garage itself was still cool, humming with pre-weekend focus. Conversations stopped. Tools clinked to a halt.
A few mechanics glanced up, confused for a heartbeat. Checo caught her silhouette from across the garage and blinked, then smiled with something close to relief. Christian paused midsentence, tilted his head, and offered a subtle, knowing nod, as if the final piece of the puzzle had returned.
But Max?
Max Verstappen didn’t bother turning around. He stood exactly where he always stood on setup days: his arms braced on the counter, eyes fixed on a screen full of live telemetry. And yet, his smirk betrayed him before his voice did.
“Took you long enough,” he said casually, as if they’d only spoken yesterday, which they had.
Frida stepped beside him and slid her tablet next to his screen. “Your fuel map is still too aggressive for the second stint,” she said. “You’re pushing wear into the softs before Lap 19.”
Max turned just enough to glance at her, his grin widening. “I missed your nagging.”
“And I missed your stubbornness,” she replied, eyes already on the numbers.
The moment didn’t break. This was just how they worked. Two halves of a rhythm honed by seasons of chaos, precision, and something deeper than trust. The garage, once frozen in surprise, eased back into motion. Engines growled, radios crackled, and everyone finally exhaled.
Frida was back.
And they were back.
Later that evening, when the floodlights burned into the Sakhir sky and most of the press had filed their early stories, Frida stepped away from the main paddock path. She walked past the Red Bull hospitality unit and down toward the back lot, where the paddock faded into quiet.
Carlos was already there, waiting beneath a low-hanging lamp near one of the private Ferrari team entrances. He leaned casually against the side of the building, dressed in red, arms crossed but relaxed. He wasn’t surprised to see her; he had known for weeks. They had planned this return together, quietly and intimately, with no promises to the press or the paddock.
“You made them forget,” he said as she approached.
Frida tilted her head, puzzled. “Who?”
“Everyone. You made them forget how sharp you are when you want to be,” he said. “And now they’re going to remember.”
She gave him a small, crooked smile. “I didn’t come back to prove anything.”
Carlos reached for her hand. “I know. That’s why it matters.”
She stepped into him, letting the day fall away. His arms came around her like they always had. They were secure, grounded, warm.
“I kept the calendar clear after Melbourne,” he murmured. “Just in case you want to disappear to Mexico again for a few days.”
“Only if we bring a bottle of mezcal and pretend the world doesn't exist.”
Carlos smiled. “That’s already the plan.”
A few feet away, Max walked past with a Red Bull towel slung over his shoulder. He caught sight of the two of them and raised a brow. “If you’re done cuddling, some of us still need to win qualifying tomorrow.”
Frida didn’t miss a beat. “Then stop overdriving Sector 2.”
Carlos grinned. “She’s back, all right.”
Max laughed under his breath and kept walking.
Frida leaned into Carlos once more and whispered, “Let’s start the season right.”
“You already have,” he said.
And as the night rolled over the Bahraini sky, the 2024 season opened with drama or grand declarations (silly season was just beginning), and with quiet power that was anchored in love, shaped by Frida's absence over winter, and sharpened by her return.
Frida hadn’t just come back to the world of F1, she had come home.
Later
The Red Bull garage had emptied into its usual hush. The tools had been tucked away, tire blankets powered down, and telemetry screens dimmed to standby. Only the hum of generators remained, steady as a heartbeat.
Frida sat on the folding stool near the rear monitors, her elbows resting on her knees, headset in hand. The once-pristine device had traveled the world with her. Through championship runs. Through heartbreak. Through silence. She adjusted the settings with muscle memory, tweaking audio levels, cycling through radio frequencies, calibrating every button to her exact preferences. Her fingers moved with quiet precision, but her mind wandered.
She could still hear the way her mother used to say confía en ti, mija when nerves crept in. She could still see the way her grandfather smiled at her the first time she led a race strategy on her own. And she could feel Carlos—always Carlos—in the background of it all, never asking her to choose between love and ambition, only promising to stand with her no matter where she landed.
Footsteps broke the stillness.
Christian didn’t speak right away. He approached carefully, stopping a few feet away. His arms were crossed loosely, and his eyes were softer than usual, less team principal, more father of two who understood the weight of returning.
“You sure you’re ready?” he asked, voice low.
Frida didn’t look up. Her thumb hovered over the comms switch as she finished the last adjustment.
“No,” she said, honest and unguarded.
Christian stayed silent, waiting for what he knew was coming.
Frida finally placed the headset on the table in front of her and met his gaze. Her voice didn’t waver.
“But I know how to win. Even if and when it hurts.”
There was no bravado in her words. No fire-for-effect. Just quiet certainty, grounded in grief, sharpened in solitude, and wrapped now in something steadier than just fury and anger: love.
Christian gave a single nod. He didn’t offer encouragement or platitudes. He simply stepped forward and extended his hand.
“Then let’s win,” he said. Frida reached out and shook it, firm and clear.
Behind her, the door to the garage clicked open once more. Max leaned inside, still in his fire suit from the media rounds, hair tousled and a protein shake in hand. He didn’t say anything at first, just looked between the two of them. Then his smirk appeared.
“Am I interrupting a heartfelt Top Gun reboot?” he asked, eyes twinkling.
Christian rolled his eyes. “Go rest. You’ve got laps to lead tomorrow.”
Max grinned but turned his attention to Frida as Christian walked away.
“I knew you’d come back,” he said simply.
Frida tilted her head. “You sounded less confident when I told you I was staying in Mexico for all of winter break.”
Max shrugged. “I said I knew. Not that I didn’t have doubts.” He hesitated, then added, “It’s good to have you here. I mean it.”
Frida’s expression softened. “You’ve always had me. Just…not always here.”
Max gave a quiet nod and offered his fist for a bump. She tapped it gently, and he left her alone again.
She turned back to the headset on the table, letting her fingers linger over the padding. The numbers would come tomorrow: lap times, split deltas, tyre degradation graphs. But for now, the silence was its own data. And she was ready to listen.
From just outside the garage entrance, she heard her name.
Carlos waited there, leaning against the frame with his arms folded. His Ferrari fireproofs gone, and replaced with a team kit, collar open to the warm desert night. He didn’t call out again. He didn’t need to.
She walked to him, her stride slower now, more grounded.
“You looked good in there,” he said quietly.
“You always say that,” she murmured.
Carlos smiled. “Because it’s always true.”
They stood in silence, the hum of the paddock distant behind them.
“I’m going to make this season count,” Frida said finally.
Carlos nodded. “I know you will.”
“And when it’s done…”
He looked at her, something steady and solemn in his gaze.
“When it’s done,” he said, “we start the next lap. Together. Maybe you'll stay with Redbull, and I'll be in different team colors.”
Frida’s heart caught in her throat, knowing Carlos would follow her until the end of the universe if she asked.
She nodded.
In the quiet of the Bahrain night, there wasn't any need for declarations or promises. The work was ahead of them, and the future was to be written.
But this time, they would write it on their own terms.
Friday Night
The wind swept softly through the Bahrain paddock, warm and dry even after the sun had disappeared behind the desert horizon. The floodlights buzzed overhead, casting silver glows onto the quiet asphalt. The first media day of the season was done, practices ended for the day, the sim sessions were over, and the world was holding its breath for the lights to go out on Sunday.
Frida stepped out of the Red Bull garage for some air and spotted him immediately.
Max sat alone on the edge of the pit wall, elbows resting on his knees, race boots planted firmly beneath him. He didn’t look like the reigning World Champion in that moment. He was just her best friend, taking a breath before the storm.
Frida crossed the tarmac and sat beside him without a word, her jacket still zipped up, headset now slung over her shoulder. She exhaled slowly as she settled next to him, their shoulders nearly touching.
Max didn’t glance at her, but his voice broke the silence.
“I kept your chair at the strategy table clear,” he said. “Just in case you changed your mind after skipping testing.”
Frida smiled faintly. “I didn’t change my mind. I just needed time. After my abuelo died, it was a hard adjustment.”
“I know,” he replied, finally looking at her. “But it felt weird. You’ve never missed the start of a season.”
“I didn’t miss the season,” she said. “Just the noise before it began.”
Max gave a small nod, the kind of gesture only she would catch. “Carlos told me you’d be here the whole time. Still feels good to see it.”
Frida rested her arms on her knees, watching the last of the engineers walk past in hushed conversation. “I had to be here. This is still mine. The work, the team…the fight. Even when it hurts.”
Max glanced at her from the corner of his eye. “Still hurts?”
She didn’t lie. “A little. I think it always will. The memories I have of my abuelo will always be with me, but I also thought about my mom a lot, too.”
He was quiet again, letting the honesty hang in the air without trying to soften it.
Frida shifted slightly. “But I’m not here out of guilt. Or fear. I’m here because I love it. I still want this life. This is still home for me.”
Max leaned back on his hands, gaze fixed on the stars just barely visible above the lights. “Good. Because we’re going to need you.”
Frida turned to look at him. “We? I thought you had everything figured out without me.”
Max smirked. “I’ve had three world titles with you. I’d rather not risk going for a fourth title without you in my ear.”
She laughed softly, warmth cutting through the desert chill. “Careful, Max. That almost sounded sentimental.”
He nudged her shoulder lightly. “Shut up and help win me another race.”
They sat like that a moment longer, two veterans of a war only a few people truly understood. The last few seasons had tested them both. Grief, triumph, fractures, and healing. But this? This was new ground. A season not about proving themselves, but living in the moment they had helped build.
Frida tilted her head toward him. “Let’s make this year count.”
Max nodded. “We always do.”
And as the night deepened over Bahrain, neither of them moved.
carlos no.1 hater moment abt lawson: "frustration number two is racing a guy that is not the first time that we see him exposing himself to having an incident with another driver, just to make sure there is not even a side by side action or a side by side movement. i've raced multiple MULTIPLE guys around this track in turn one, and multiple quality guys that allow for a side by side movement like that in a beautiful corner like zandvoort turn 1. today i chose to have that side by side line with someone that prefers not to have it and prefers to risk an incident and risk losing so many points when the other car is on the podium."
Carlos Sainz x Engineer!Verstappen!Best Friend OC, Platonic!Max Verstappen x Engineer!Best Friend OC
Synopsis: Frida Montoya was never meant to stay behind the pit wall forever. From her karting days with Max Verstappen to her rise as Red Bull’s lead race strategist, she’s played the game flawlessly, until Carlos Sainz begins seeing her as more than just Max’s engineer.
A/N: Another update for Labor Day! I feel so soft when writing for Frida and Carlos. Especially since today is Carlos's birthday 💙
Series Masterlist
Tlaquepaque, Jalisco
The Week Before Departure
The house was quiet again, filled with the kind of stillness that came after days of mourning and remembrance. The scent of marigolds lingered in the corners, tucked into altars and woven into memories. Outside, the wind rustled the citrus trees with soft insistence, the branches swaying like they, too, knew what had been lost.
Frida moved through the house barefoot, the hem of her cotton dress brushing against old tile. Her hair was pulled into a loose braid, and the gold ring her grandfather had given her mother glinted faintly against her chest. She carried two mugs of café de olla, the cinnamon rising in slow curls of steam.
Carlos was outside in the courtyard, seated beneath the heavy shadow of the jacaranda tree where her abuelo used to sit every morning. His elbows rested on his knees, fingers knotted together, a quiet figure surrounded by cracked flowerpots and candle wax.
She handed him the mug, then sat beside him, knees tucked to her chest, her shoulder resting lightly against his.
For a while, they said nothing.
The night didn’t ask them to.
He took a sip. Then another. His fingers brushed hers. “Do you remember the first time I came here?” he asked, voice low.
Frida nodded. “My abuelo asked if you were the one who made me smile like my mother used to.”
Carlos huffed a soft laugh. “I didn’t know what to say.”
“You didn’t have to. He saw it.”
The silence stretched again, this time wrapped in the weight of absence. Of the chair that sat empty now. Of the photos that would never be updated. Of the goodbye that had come too soon, even though they’d known it was coming.
Frida swallowed thickly. “He waited for me. I think he knew I had to come back one more time before he could let go.”
Carlos didn’t speak. He only reached for her hand, and she let him, threading their fingers together like it was the most natural thing in the world. Because it was. Because they had fought too hard to pretend it wasn’t.
“You don’t have to leave next week,” he said gently. “Red Bull will understand.”
“I know,” she said. “But I need to. For me, not for them. I need to step back into that world on my own terms.”
He nodded. “Then I’ll be with you.”
Her eyes flicked to him, surprised. “Carlos…”
“I won’t get in the way. I won’t follow you into meetings or stand behind the pit wall. I just...I want to be there for you.”
Frida looked at him for a long moment, something warm blooming beneath her ribs. “You’ve already given me more than I thought I could ever have in this life.”
Carlos leaned in, pressing a kiss to her temple. “And I’ll keep giving it. Every day. As long as you’ll let me.”
Her voice was a whisper. “Even if I say yes?”
Carlos pulled back just enough to meet her eyes. “Yes to what?”
“To all of it,” she said. “To you. To this life. Maybe not tomorrow. Maybe not until after I’ve walked back into that paddock and reclaimed my place. But after that. When the dust settles. When I know what I want the next chapter to be. If I ask you to build it with me?”
“You won’t have to ask,” he said, voice raw. “I’ll already be there.”
Frida let out a soft, shaky breath. Then she smiled, something delicate and sure. “You always did drive with your heart first.”
Carlos chuckled. “And you? You make me want to stay in one place long enough to call it home.”
He kissed her then, slow and unhurried, the kind of kiss that made time irrelevant. Around them, the night deepened, crickets singing softly in the trees, the scent of earth and spice rising into the stillness.
And for a moment, there was no Formula 1. No strategy calls or pressure or legacy.
Just two people who had fought their way toward each other, over miles and heartbreak, through podiums and press conferences, in the middle of a world that never stopped spinning.
And now, finally, they had something more permanent than victory.
They had each other.
3 Days Before Departure
The sun was beginning to sink behind the terracotta rooftops, bathing the courtyard in gold. Light spilled across the old stone tiles and danced through the leaves of the lime trees, casting shadows that swayed like memory.
Frida stood in front of her grandfather’s altar with a quiet reverence. Marigolds, dulces, and a small photo rested among flickering candles. The sugar skull Carlos had painted with her niece sat near the front, the detail delicate and a little crooked, charming in the way only something made with love could be.
Behind her, the house hummed with life. Her cousins shuffled back and forth between the kitchen and garden, carrying pots of pozole and trays of pan dulce. Laughter spilled from the back door. Her tía was singing along to Luis Miguel on the radio. And her father, quieter than usual these past few days, was setting out chairs in the courtyard without being asked.
This was how you said goodbye here. With food and music. With the people who remembered your name before the world did.
Frida touched the edge of the photo frame, her fingers still for a long moment. Then she turned toward the house. She found Carlos seated on the steps, her younger cousin sprawled across his lap mid-story, animatedly explaining the difference between racing cars and the lucha libre wrestlers on TV. Carlos nodded seriously, humoring him, before lifting his gaze to her.
The look they shared was quiet. Certain. Nothing left unsaid.
He mouthed, "Are you okay?"
She nodded. "I will be."
Then her phone buzzed in her dress pocket. She stepped away, slipping into the shade of the jacaranda tree before answering.
“Hi, Max,” she said softly.
His voice was familiar, a little gruff from a day at the sim, but teasing in the way that meant he was still trying to keep things light. “Thought I’d get to you before Red Bull tried to send a private jet.”
“They haven’t, have they?” she asked, only half joking.
“No, but Helmut is circling like a shark. Said something about having you shadow him.”
Frida smiled faintly, the warmth in her chest tinged with something bittersweet. “Tell him to wait three more days. I promised my family I wouldn’t leave before the rosario.”
Max didn’t answer right away. Then, “How are you really?”
She looked up at the soft orange sky, at the gentle chaos of her home behind her. “I’m okay,” she said, and for the first time in weeks, she meant it.
“Good,” he said. “I wasn’t sure if I should call. I didn’t want to make this about racing.”
“It’s not,” she said. “It’s just you and me.”
He chuckled quietly. “You always know how to say things that make people shut up and feel everything at once.”
There was a long pause.
“Frida,” Max said, voice lower now. “I miss you. The garage misses you. But more than that, I’m proud of you. For choosing yourself.”
She blinked hard. “Thank you. I needed winter break to be a break from everything.”
“And for what it’s worth,” he added, “Carlos has always been good for you. Even when I didn’t want to see it.”
Frida smiled, soft and sincere. “He’s my peace, Max. You were my fire. I needed both to become who I am.”
He didn’t respond with words. Just a breath, full of weight and memory.
“Will I see you in Bahrain?” he asked eventually.
“Yeah,” she said.
“I was hoping that you'd say that,” he said. “Just know, whatever role you come back in, you’ll still be the smartest person in the paddock.”
She laughed. “Even smarter than you?”
“Only by half a tenth.”
She shook her head. “Go rest, Verstappen. I’ll see you soon.”
“See you soon, Montoya.”
The call ended.
She slipped the phone back into her pocket and returned to the courtyard just as her father called her name.
They were gathered now, her father, her cousins, her tíos and tías, and even the neighbors who had known her since she was a toddler, throwing pebbles at her brother. Her family didn’t need speeches. Their love was in gestures. In the way her father handed her her mother’s scarf without a word. In the way her tía whispered a prayer beneath her breath as she kissed Frida’s forehead.
In the way Carlos stood beside her, his hand pressed at the small of her back, steady and patient and unwavering.
This wasn’t goodbye forever.
But it was goodbye to the life she had lived before.
And when she stepped into the warm embrace of her family, when they cheered for her not as an engineer, not as the strategist who had helped win two world titles, but simply as Frida, their daughter, their niece, their daughter, she felt something shift.
She wasn’t running anymore.
She was returning.
The Night Before Departure
The lights of the town blinked below like tiny candles. From the rooftop of her grandfather’s house, Frida could see the tops of the old churches, the dome of the cathedral glowing softly against the navy sky. Somewhere down the street, a neighbor’s radio played a slow bolero, and the sound of a distant train bled through the wind.
Carlos sat beside her, his knees drawn up, a blanket draped over their shoulders. Her head rested against his chest, rising and falling with the rhythm of his breath.
Neither of them had spoken for a while. The news had reached the world not long ago. Lewis Hamilton to Ferrari. They shared in the kind of silence that only comes from knowing someone deeply, fully, without needing to fill the gaps.
Then, quietly, he said, “They told me in January.”
Frida blinked, lifting her head slightly to glance at him. His eyes were fixed on the horizon.
“Ferrari,” he clarified. “That Lewis was taking my seat.”
She shifted to sit up, the blanket slipping slightly down her back. “And you didn’t tell me?”
He met her eyes, regret written in every line of his face. “I didn’t want to ruin the time you had here. With your family. With your grandfather.” He paused. “I wasn’t ready to say it out loud.”
Frida didn’t respond right away. Her hand found his under the blanket, fingers curling around his.
“Carlos…” Her voice was soft. “You deserved better than that.”
“I know,” he said. “But I also knew…I wasn’t angry. Not really. I was just...empty. For a long time, I thought that seat was the only thing keeping me grounded. But now...”
He turned toward her, brushing a stray curl behind her ear.
“Now I know it's you.”
The words fell between them like a confession, raw and unarmored.
Frida leaned into him, forehead resting against his. “What are you going to do?”
Carlos gave a small, rueful smile. “I don’t know. Audi and Cadillac are options. I've also been in contact with James Vowels.” He hesitated. “Or maybe I just follow you wherever you go next.”
She pulled back slightly, eyes narrowing. “You’d really do that?”
He nodded without hesitation. “I would. Because I’m not chasing titles anymore, Frida. I’m chasing you.”
It disarmed her completely. She reached for his hand again, holding it tighter now. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “What if we did it?”
“Did what?”
“Got married.”
Carlos froze, but it wasn’t fear that flickered in his expression; it was awe. Reverence. Like she’d spoken a truth he’d been afraid to dream too loudly.
“You mean that?” he asked.
Frida smiled. “You know how I feel about contracts. But if I had to sign one, it’d be yours.”
His laugh was low and warm, tugging her closer. “I want that too. Maybe not tomorrow, but someday. I want to come home to you. Not just here in Mexico. Wherever we land, wherever we go.”
She nodded, eyes glassy, heart wide open. “Someday,” she echoed.
Carlos pressed a kiss to her temple, then another to her shoulder.
“I’ve already picked out the ring in my head,” he murmured against her skin. “Has a little red in it. To remind me how far we’ve come.”
Frida laughed, soft and shaking. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m in love,” he said. “What do you expect?”
The church bell tolled once in the distance.
And for a moment, there was no paddock, no calendar, no news cycle, no pressure.
Just a girl and a boy on a rooftop in Jalisco, dreaming of something that didn’t require a podium to matter.
Carlos Sainz x Engineer!Verstappen!Best Friend OC, Platonic!Max Verstappen x Engineer!Best Friend OC
Synopsis: Frida Montoya was never meant to stay behind the pit wall forever. From her karting days with Max Verstappen to her rise as Red Bull’s lead race strategist, she’s played the game flawlessly, until Carlos Sainz begins seeing her as more than just Max’s engineer.
A/N: I'm back! That cold was never going to keep me down forever. But in the time that I was down, I was feeling a little nostalgic, and I think it reflected a lot on what I managed to write. I apologize for being out for so long! Homefully with the long weeken, I'll be able to do a doube update or put out at least another part. Unfortunately, the story is reaching its end and this has been a labor of love from me to you ❤️
Series Masterlist
Abu Dhabi Grand Prix
It was supposed to feel louder. More electric. More final.
The last race of the season. The culmination of months spent stitching strategy into dominance, of flying across continents and time zones, of losing pieces of herself to every paddock and pit lane. And yet, as the lights of Yas Marina shimmered off the water and the crowd’s roar pulsed like a heartbeat through the grandstands, Frida stood at the Red Bull pit wall and felt only stillness.
Max Verstappen led by nearly seven seconds.
Checo Pérez held second.
Carlos Sainz, her partner, her home, the love of her life, was holding third. He was pushing. Hard. His Ferrari danced along the edge of its grip, hunting for more in a car that had already given him everything it could. But Max had the edge. As he always did.
The strategy had been airtight. Seamless. Frida's.
On her screen, the live deltas flickered. Max was entering the final sector of Lap 55. His tires were still holding. The traffic had cleared. This was it.
She pressed her headset closer against her ears, voice clear and even. “Bring it home, Max.”
The reply came almost instantly, breathless and triumphant.
“We did it again, Frida!”
Around her, the garage erupted. Laughter, champagne, shouts of relief and victory. Hands clapped her back, arms pulled her into celebrations. The Red Bull mechanics cheered, engines idled, sparks flew. Another title. Another masterclass.
But Frida stood still. She waited until she knew he'd be out of the car.
A soft smile touched her lips as she whispered, barely audible beneath the roar, “Yes. We did.”
Then she reached up and removed her headset. Carefully. Deliberately. She didn’t put it back on.
She stepped down from the wall, unnoticed by the cameras still fixated on Max’s cooldown lap. She walked the length of the garage, through the curtain of blue and silver confetti that had already started to fall.
And just past the Red Bull hospitality unit, in a quiet corner that faced the outer paddock, Carlos was waiting. His race suit was unzipped to the waist, fireproofs damp with sweat, curls plastered to his forehead.
He didn’t speak. Just held out his hand.
Frida took it without hesitation.
Their fingers threaded together like they had always belonged that way, as if all the circuits and strategy calls and moments spent on opposite sides of a battle had been leading here. To a space where there were no radio commands, no lap charts. Just breath and skin, and understanding.
“P3,” she said softly.
“I know,” Carlos replied.
“And I didn’t help you.”
His gaze didn’t flinch. “You did. Just not with numbers. Not today.”
Frida’s throat tightened. “I thought I’d feel guilt.”
“But you don’t.”
She shook her head. “I feel…at peace.”
Carlos nodded slowly, stepping closer. “Then that’s everything.”
Behind them, Max’s voice boomed through the speakers. “Three-time world champion, baby!” The crowd erupted.
Frida turned slightly, just enough to catch sight of Max standing on the nose of his RB19, fist raised in triumph. And then, his eyes found hers across the barrier. He grinned. Nodded once.
And that was all.
She leaned into Carlos’s chest, letting herself exhale into the warm scent of rubber and sun and him.
Max had always been her storm. Her structure. The reason she learned to sharpen her mind into a weapon.
But Carlos, he had been the firelight. The quiet after the chaos. The one who never asked her to choose between being brilliant and being whole.
Frida closed her eyes.
The engines were silent now.
The floodlights of Yas Marina bathed the circuit in a surreal, silver glow.
The season had ended.
But something else—something freer, something entirely hers—was just beginning.
And this time, she wasn’t walking into it alone.
Post-Race – Red Bull Garage Celebration
The garage was electric. Lights flashed, bottles popped, and the floor was slick with champagne and spilled adrenaline. Team members shouted in English, Dutch, and Spanish, joy spoken in every tongue. Camera shutters clicked like static. Max grinned beside the trophy, cheeks flushed with exertion and pride. Christian Horner raised his glass in her direction, his suit already stained with bubbly. Mechanics pulled her into photos, demanded one more shot, one more smile, one more toast.
Frida Montoya gave them what they wanted. She laughed when she was supposed to. Tilted her head for the cameras. Let her arm rest over Christian’s shoulder, posed with the strategy team, clinked flutes with Max and Checo in front of the RB19. She even managed a polished quote to the media about the season’s final strategy—a masterclass in strategy, they called it. Another year of dominance. Another record broken.
But inside, she was already somewhere else.
She was back on her family’s patio in Tlaquepaque. She was sitting next to her abuelo, his old age catching up to him. She was barefoot, hair damp from the shower, Carlos’s hoodie hanging off her frame. She could hear her father laughing from the kitchen, the clatter of her abuela’s molcajete, the sound of Carlos humming as he scrolled through photos of his podiums, tracing her name whenever it appeared in the captions.
She didn’t belong to the champagne. She belonged to something quieter.
And Max could tell.
He pulled her aside when the photographers finally moved on. Away from the lens flare and the engineers already sketching next year’s car in their heads. They stood at the edge of the garage, just beyond the glare of the overhead lights, where the paddock air was cooler, sharper.
Max was still in his race suit, the zipper low, his hair wild from the helmet. His smile had faded now, replaced by something gentler.
“You’re really going to do it?” he asked quietly, his voice just low enough to keep it between them.
Frida didn’t pretend not to know what he meant.
She nodded. “I need to.”
He studied her, the way he had on race day mornings, when he was weighing her confidence against the wind direction, the pressure in her voice against the probability of rain.
Max pulled her in then, arms wrapping around her in a hug that was firmer than usual. Not dramatic. Not showy. Just…full.
She held him back, longer than she expected to. And he felt it.
After a moment, he murmured near her ear, “Then go. Just come back when you’re ready.”
She leaned back and looked up at him. “I’m not promising anything.”
“I know.” His reply came without hesitation.
But then, to her surprise, he smiled. Not the smirk of a three-time world champion. Not the half-cocked grin of the boy who had grown up racing her through karting circuits and telemetry charts. This smile was clean. Free.
“You were never mine to keep,” he said. “And maybe I was never meant to be yours, either. Not in the way I had hoped when I was seventeen.”
Frida blinked, her throat tight.
Max exhaled. “But I’ll always be in your corner, Frida. Even if I’m not on your headset.”
She laughed softly, pressing her forehead to his. “That means more than you know.”
“Carlos waiting?” Max asked, pulling back, his tone light.
She glanced over her shoulder.
Just beyond the crush of celebration, standing near the Red Bull motorhome with his suit sleeves rolled and his eyes only ever on her, was Carlos. His smile was quiet. Patient. His body language was all invitation.
Frida nodded.
Max let her go. “Well,” he said, “he better drive like hell next year.”
Frida grinned. “He will. He always does.”
She stepped away from the noise. Away from the cameras and champagne and all the years she spent earning a seat in this empire of speed and calculation.
Toward him.
Carlos opened his arms without question, and she walked right into them. No strategy. No scripts. Just love. And after a season built on fire and sacrifice, that was the only podium she needed.
January – Tlaquepaque, Jalisco
One Month After Abu Dhabi
The days moved slowly here. Not because time dragged, but because it had finally been given permission to breathe.
The sun warmed the terracotta tiles of the courtyard, turning them gold by midmorning. A breeze carried the scent of lime trees and eucalyptus, fluttering the embroidered curtains that framed the arched windows. The air held no tension. No mechanical whine. No countdown.
Just stillness.
Frida Montoya stepped barefoot across the cool stone, a threadbare blanket draped over one arm and a chipped ceramic mug of café de olla in the other. The coffee was strong, rich with cinnamon and piloncillo, and the warmth seeped into her palms like memory.
Her grandfather sat beneath the old jacaranda tree at the center of the courtyard, wrapped in layers despite the sun, his eyes closed, his chest rising and falling in shallow, careful rhythm. The purple blossoms had long since fallen, carpeting the earth like soft ash.
Frida knelt beside him, draping the blanket gently over his shoulders. He stirred but didn’t open his eyes. His hand found hers, rough and warm and familiar. A tether to the little girl who used to sit cross-legged at his feet, building circuits out of bottle caps and wiring diagrams he scribbled on napkins.
He had once called her his engineer of chaos. Now, he just called her mija.
The silence between them wasn’t empty. It held years of stories, tire smoke, medals, grief, and joy that had stretched across oceans and circuits. But here, in this courtyard where the walls bore generations of Montoyas and the vines had long outgrown the trellises, none of it needed saying.
She didn’t know how much longer he would be here. He was fading slowly, like the sun slipping behind the hills. Peaceful. Unafraid. And for the first time in her career, she had no flight to catch. No telemetry to review. No press briefing, simulator session, or back-to-back weekend.
There was only this. Only now. And it was enough.
From the kitchen, laughter rose, low and warm. Her father’s voice mixed with her aunt’s, the clatter of dishes a steady metronome to a morning that asked for nothing more than presence.
A door creaked behind her.
Carlos stepped out into the light, wearing a worn T-shirt that clung to him from sleep, curls messy, a newspaper tucked under his arm like he belonged to this place as much as she did. And maybe he did now.
He caught her eye and didn’t say a word—just walked over and pressed a soft kiss to her temple. She leaned into him.
“He’s okay?” Carlos asked quietly, nodding toward her grandfather.
Frida nodded. “Still here.”
Carlos slipped his fingers between hers. “And you?”
She paused. “Also still here.”
They stood like that for a while, hands laced, hearts quiet. The world beyond this courtyard felt like a different lifetime. A faster one. One where everything had to be earned and proven and defended. But not here.
Here, Frida wasn’t Red Bull’s strategist. She wasn’t Max Verstappen’s secret weapon or the woman who chose love over legacy and still found herself whole. She was a granddaughter. A daughter. A woman learning how to be still without fearing what it meant.
Carlos squeezed her hand. “Want to walk later?”
She nodded. “After lunch.”
“Beach or town?”
“Whichever has fewer cameras.”
He smiled. “So, neither.”
She chuckled softly. “Then just us. Somewhere quiet.”
Carlos leaned in again, his lips brushing her cheek. “Anywhere you are is quiet now.”
And Frida believed him.
Because for the first time since she was eighteen, there wasn’t a race in front of her.
Just life.
And she was finally learning how to live it.
The motorsport world was not known for its patience.
Rumors had started before the engines had even cooled in Abu Dhabi.
Was she signing with IndyCar? WEC? McLaren again, after all that had happened? Would Red Bull convince her to stay on in a different role, perhaps technical advisor, maybe even team principal one day?
Everyone wanted a headline. Everyone demanded a narrative.
Frida Montoya gave them none.
When asked for comment outside a café in Guadalajara, her eyes hidden behind oversized sunglasses, she only smiled and offered two words.
“No comment.”
It wasn’t defiance.
It was protection.
Because her real answer could not be typed in press releases or whispered between paddock walls.
Her real answer was this:
She was here.
Barefoot in the dirt of her grandfather’s backyard, the sleeves of her cotton blouse rolled to her elbows, her hands buried in the cool, dark earth as she replanted the citrus grove that had once grown wild when she was a child.
She was here.
In the sun.
In silence.
In a place where her voice belonged to no one but herself.
The only telemetry she studied for now was the shifting pattern of clouds.
The only strategy she crafted was whether to start with cilantro or onion in the molcajete.
And slowly, beautifully, the hum in her chest quieted.
Some nights, she texted Max.
He always replied within minutes.
A dry joke about the simulator. A blurry photo of the RB21’s rear wing. A sarcastic meme about Adrian Newey's obsession with marginal gains.
They rarely spoke about the championship. Never about the moment she took off her headset. Max never asked. He had already understood.
Instead, they sent each other updates the way only people who had once survived a war together could—without pretense.
He was still the best friend who had once shouted strategy codes across pit lanes. Still the boy who had trusted her numbers more than the engineers around him. But he had let her go.
Not out of anger.
Out of respect.
Because he knew, now more than ever, that Frida Montoya had never been his shadow.
Most nights, she called Carlos.
Sometimes he was in Madrid, caught between training sessions and sponsor events. Other times, he was in Italy, pacing the Ferrari factory floor like he could will next season into existence with sheer force of will.
But always, he picked up.
And when he wasn’t in Mexico, they talked long into the night.
Not about Red Bull.
Not about setups or weather windows or tire degradation curves.
They talked about her grandfather. About Carlos’s favorite bookstores in Florence. About the dog they might one day adopt.
Sometimes, they didn’t speak at all. She would lie beneath the courtyard tree, phone pressed to her ear, eyes closed as his voice filled the silence with warmth.
Once, when the call was nearly over and her voice was thick with sleep, he said,
“I miss you more than I expected to.”
And she smiled, her heart settling into something softer.
“I miss you exactly as much as I thought I would.”
Frida Montoya had nothing left to prove.
Not to the media.
Not to the paddock.
Not to herself.
She had walked through fire, through politics, through the heartbreak of what glory cost.
And she had won in ways the world would never count in points.
Because the engine inside her had finally cooled.
Because love no longer demanded sacrifice.
Because silence, for the first time, wasn’t a void.
It was peace.
And she had earned every second of it.
February
The orange tree in the courtyard had begun to bloom again.
Frida Montoya sat in the same iron chair she’d once dragged across the tiles as a child, her knees drawn up beneath the blanket draped across her lap. The house was quiet now—too quiet. The kind of silence that followed prayers whispered through cracked knuckles and candles that burned well into the night.
Her abuelo had passed three days ago.
Peacefully. In his sleep. The kind of passing every family hopes for but is never quite ready to hold.
They buried him in the same cemetery as her mother, beneath a canopy of jacaranda blossoms not yet in bloom. Frida hadn’t cried at the funeral. Not during the eulogies. Not when she scattered the soil. Not even when her tío folded the threadbare flannel jacket her grandfather had worn every morning for years.
But now, alone in the stillness of the courtyard, with the afternoon sun bleeding gold through the leaves, she finally let it come.
Slow. Shaking. Quiet.
The kind of grief that carved itself into the hollows of the chest without asking permission.
She didn’t hear the gate open.
Didn’t hear the footsteps on stone.
But she felt him.
Carlos Sainz crossed the courtyard in jeans and a soft gray shirt, his travel bag still slung over one shoulder. His eyes found her instantly, and he didn’t say anything—just walked straight to her and knelt in front of her chair.
Frida’s hands reached for him like they always did, instinctive and unthinking. He took them, held them against his chest.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t get here sooner,” he murmured, voice thick. “I tried to change the flight, but—”
She shook her head. “You’re here.”
Carlos looked up at her then, and whatever strength he’d gathered on the flight unraveled when he saw her face—red-rimmed eyes, cracked lips, her mouth trembling like she had one more breath left before she shattered.
He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her into him, blanket and all. She curled into his chest like the world might disappear if she let go.
And there, beneath the orange tree her abuelo had planted when she was born, Frida Montoya finally sobbed.
Carlos didn’t say anything. He just held her. One hand in her hair. The other against her spine. Not letting go. Not even when she went quiet again.
Not even when the light began to fade.
Later, when they moved inside, Carlos lit the candles she’d forgotten on the kitchen counter. He reheated leftover pozole without asking and made them both tea, his movements quiet but steady, as if he knew exactly what her house needed to breathe again.
Frida leaned against the doorway, watching him.
“You didn’t have to come all the way here,” she said softly.
Carlos glanced at her, then looked back at the bowl in his hands. “Yes, I did.”
She crossed the room slowly, curling her fingers around the fabric of his sleeve as he handed her a spoon.
He touched her cheek. “You were there for me when my grandfather passed. I couldn’t not be here now.”
Frida swallowed hard. “I didn’t even know if I wanted company.”
Carlos gave her a faint smile. “Then I’m not company. I’m just here.”
She kissed him, slow and aching, and when she pulled back, there was a quietness between them that didn’t need to be filled.
He didn’t ask about what came next.
Didn’t bring up Red Bull.
Didn’t bring up racing.
He only whispered, “Te extrañe,” like it was a prayer. I missed you.
And Frida, barefoot in her childhood kitchen, wrapped in the scent of lime and candle smoke, finally allowed herself to say it back.
This diva is no longer down! I'm hoping to post by Friday the next part of Frida's story! I'm working on the next part and working on homework for my sociology class, so bear with me until Friday ❤️
So sorry for not posting anything since the last chapter! Unfortunately, I caught a bug or virus or a cold, and have been living life like a bedridden Victorian child dying of Spanish flu (very much like Edward Cullen). I will be back to post the next part as soon as I feel better!
Carlos Sainz x Engineer!Verstappen!Best Friend OC, Platonic!Max Verstappen x Engineer!Best Friend OC
Synopsis: Frida Montoya was never meant to stay behind the pit wall forever. From her karting days with Max Verstappen to her rise as Red Bull’s lead race strategist, she’s played the game flawlessly, until Carlos Sainz begins seeing her as more than just Max’s engineer.
A/N: Hopefully, I can update again before next week! The series is now in the second half of the story, and I'm sad to see this series coming to an end. There are still quite a few chapters, but I'm excited to start expanding my masterlist and start writing for other drivers! If anyone would like to see any one-shots or stories for a particular driver, feel free to send me a message!
Series Masterlist
Autódromo Hermanos Rodríguez, Mexico City
October 2023
The sound was unlike anything Frida Montoya had heard all season.
Even through her headset, outfitted with the most advanced noise-canceling tech money could buy, the roar of the crowd shook something primal in her chest. It wasn’t just the decibels. It wasn’t even the nationalism. It was something older than both. The pulse of a country, of a people who finally saw someone like them commanding a race from the pit wall. Brown skin. Silver necklace. Spanish that didn’t come with subtitles. Frida wasn’t just part of the race. She was the race.
“¡Vamos, Carlos!”
“¡Max, Max, Max!”
“¿Dónde está Frida Montoya? ¡Esa mujer es la jefa!”
Voices carried from every tier of the grandstands. Flags whipped through the air. Someone had painted her initials on a cardboard sign the size of a small car. Another waved a banner that read, ‘La estratega más chingona del mundo’. The kind of message that made Frida bite the inside of her cheek just to stay grounded.
She sat stone-still behind the pit wall, fingers interlaced, headset firm over her curls. No smile. No frown. Just the controlled stillness of a woman whose job was to see five laps ahead while the rest of the world screamed for the present.
Twelve laps to go.
Max P1. Carlos P2.
Tire wear is nearly identical. Both on softs. Fuel loads are even. DRS intervals every lap. There was no trick left to play. No clever undercut. No weather shift. No pit gamble. Only instinct and steel.
The Ferrari was surging now. Carlos had found the rhythm, that perfect window where talent becomes timing, and timing becomes inevitability. He was under Max’s rear wing, hovering with the precision of a scalpel.
Frida could feel her chest tightening. Not with nerves, those had been trained out of her long ago, but with something more fragile. Something personal.
Because she knew how this would end.
If Max followed her instruction to the decimal, if he trusted the deltas and kept his compound alive, he would win.
If Carlos let the emotion of this race, her race, cloud his judgment, he would lose it all. And she couldn't call it for him.
Not here. Not now.
She pressed the radio. Voice clear, “Max. Maintain delta. Brake bias at plus three. Use DRS window and defend only in turn one.”
“Copy,” came his voice, sharp and assured. “I’ve got him.”
She trusted Max. She always had. He didn’t need more. Not from her. Not today.
But she couldn’t stop herself from glancing at the Ferrari pit wall.
Carlos wasn’t looking at her.
He was looking at the track. At Max.
At the future.
And still, Frida felt it.
The quiet pulse of faith that lived between them now. The way he’d kissed her in the stillness of Madrid. The way he’d told her he wasn’t afraid of what they were becoming. That he didn’t need her to change. That he would stand beside her, even if she couldn’t always stand beside him.
In choosing him, she hadn't betrayed the team. She'd only claimed the right to love someone in a world that punished vulnerability.
The Red Bull pit wall held its breath as Max and Carlos crossed the line again. Sector times identical. Brake temperatures holding. ERS deployed.
Frida didn’t move. She couldn’t. This wasn’t about tactics anymore. This was the final trial of a season shaped by silence, by strategy, by all the moments Frida had chosen duty over desire, and the one moment she finally hadn’t.
Carlos lunged. A late move into Turn Four. Too deep.
Max held the line. Calm. Disciplined. Perfect.
The Ferrari twitched, recovered, slotted back into second.
Frida exhaled.
Only then did she allow her fingers to tremble, maybe just once, before she stilled them again.
Lap 63
The sky over Mexico City had turned molten, streaks of dying sun caught between exhaust haze and stadium banners. Inside the cockpit, Max Verstappen’s breathing was steady, even as the entire nation seemed to scream for someone else to win.
“Max,” Frida said into the comm, her voice clear through the controlled storm of the pit wall. “Hold the inside through Turn One. He’s pushing wider than he should. Brake late, but clean.”
There was a pause. A beat.
Then Max’s voice came through, lower than usual, calm with something deeper than competitiveness, “Copy. I’ve got him.”
Frida’s hand hovered over the console. She hadn’t blinked in minutes. Sweat clung to the base of her neck, hidden under her headset. On her monitor, sector deltas flashed like nerves firing beneath skin.
Carlos was going for it. And she could feel it before the move even came.
Turn Four. The same place he’d tried at Suzuka.
Only this time, it wasn’t desperation. It was faith.
He lunged. The Ferrari darted down the inside line: late, late, too late. Max saw it. He covered the apex with surgical precision. The Red Bull held the racing line like a scalpel pressed to glass.
The Ferrari twitched.
Too hot.
Carlos had carried just a fraction too much speed — not reckless, but brave enough to toe the edge of disaster. The rear snapped. The tires groaned. And then, with an almost imperceptible correction, he caught it.
Backed off.
Recovered.
No spin. No contact.
But no pass, either.
Frida didn’t smile.
She never did when it was this close.
Her eyes flicked toward the Ferrari pit wall. She knew the hand that would be gripping the edge of Carlos’s steering wheel. Knew the silent curses under his breath. Knew the way his pulse would steady, not because of frustration, but because of who had bested him.
Because it was Max. And because Frida had called the line.
The same Frida who had sat with Carlos beneath the jacaranda trees in Tlaquepaque just days earlier. The same woman who had stood barefoot in his kitchen in Madrid, making café while his sisters bickered over the morning paper. The woman he loved.
The woman who had still chosen this: the headset, the calls, the team that had made her, and the driver she had helped shape since the first day he climbed into an F1 car.
Carlos had known what he was racing into.
And he had done it anyway.
Not to win.
But to try.
Frida inhaled, finally. Then:
“Nice hold, Max,” she said into the radio. “Three laps to go. Manage your fronts. You’re clear.”
Max didn’t respond right away.
Then, “That was a good one from him.”
Frida’s voice softened. “Yeah. It was.”
The data blurred into background noise. The roar of the crowd was deafening now. Mexican flags waved from every direction. She didn’t need a screen to know that Carlos had tucked back in behind Max, holding P2, battery recharging, tires cooling, but no longer attacking.
The battle was done.
Not surrendered. Just…settled.
And in that silence, Frida sat between the two men who had shaped her season. One who had been her greatest partner. The other, who had once been her compass and was now, finally, her equal.
Post-Race – Parc Fermé
The engines had shut off, but the air still vibrated with the echo of them.
Max Verstappen had crossed the line first, claiming victory in Mexico with the same clinical dominance that had defined his reign. Checo Pérez, carried by a late tire gamble and the roar of the home crowd, slipped past in the final laps to snatch second place. And Carlos Sainz, who had fought like hell through the stadium section and led for a time, stood third on the podium: jaw set, eyes unreadable behind the sheen of sweat and disappointment.
Frida stood just behind the pit wall, headset abandoned beside her telemetry screen, hands curled tightly inside the pockets of her Red Bull windbreaker. She hadn’t moved during the cooldown lap. Not even when the crowd erupted as Checo crossed the line. Not even when Christian turned and said, “Another perfect call.”
Because it hadn’t been. Not for her.
She walked slowly toward parc fermé. The paddock buzzed with celebration and calculation, but it all blurred around her. She didn’t notice the photographers. Didn’t hear the broadcasters calling Max’s name. Her pulse didn’t pick up when she saw the trophies being arranged.
Her eyes found them instantly.
Carlos. Max.
Two poles of the same storm.
Carlos leaned against the barrier, race suit unzipped to his waist, the red sleeves tied low on his hips. His eyes tracked her with the same intensity he brought to a flying lap. There was no accusation in them. No bitterness. Just a quiet kind of gravity. The understanding that came with loving someone who had to serve two masters.
Max stood beside the car, helmet still on, but he was already scanning the crowd. His hand reached up to pull the visor back. When he saw her, he didn’t smile. Just gave the smallest nod, the kind that said I know what it cost you.
She reached them in four steps, but it felt like crossing two worlds.
Carlos stepped forward first, his hand brushing the small of her back, grounding her in the moment. They didn’t speak. Didn’t have to.
Max glanced at Carlos, then back at Frida.
“I know that wasn’t easy,” he said, voice low, eyes searching hers.
She shook her head, just once. “You drove like you were supposed to win. That’s the job.”
Max exhaled, the tension in his shoulders easing. “You made the call,” he said. “And I trust you.”
Frida looked at him then—really looked—and for a moment she saw the boy from Hasselt again, the one who used to sleep in his karting gear and wake up asking about tire pressure. Her best friend. Her almost-brother.
“Gracias, Max,” she said softly, switching to the language that grounded them both. “Por entender.”
He nodded. And then he stepped aside.
It was that simple.
A gesture. A shift.
A recognition that some lines no longer needed to be drawn. That the story had changed, and Max had accepted his place in it, not as the center, but as someone who knew when to let go.
Carlos reached for her hand then, threading his fingers through hers. He didn’t squeeze. Just held her there, steady as ever. Even when Carlos let go and made his way to the podium.
They didn’t kiss.
They didn’t have to.
Because love, real love, didn’t always live in fireworks or declarations. Sometimes it lived in the way someone waited. In the way they stayed.
The Mexican crowd roared again as Checo climbed to the top step of the podium beside Max. But Frida didn’t turn to look. She already knew the result.
And for the first time in weeks, she allowed herself to exhale.
The Conversation with Carlos – Behind the Ferrari Garage
The noise from the paddock was still thunderous, but back here, behind the rows of tool carts and stacked crates, there was a quiet that felt almost sacred. The sun had slipped low over Mexico City, bleeding gold and orange across the rooftops of the garages. The air smelled like rubber and heat and someone’s forgotten celebratory cigar.
Frida found him just outside the back exit of the Ferrari garage. Carlos hadn’t changed yet, his fireproofs still half-zipped, curls damp with sweat, his gloves tucked into the waistband at his hip. He wasn’t pacing. He wasn’t brooding. He was just…waiting.
When she reached him, he didn’t speak right away. Just looked at her with those sharp, knowing eyes that always made her feel like there was no one else on earth.
“I knew the call was right,” he said finally. His voice was calm, but she could hear the gravel of fatigue beneath it. “Even before the overcut failed. I could feel it in the tires.”
Frida inhaled slowly. “I didn’t want it to be at your expense.”
“But it was,” he said, not unkindly. “And you still had to make it.”
She winced.
He shook his head before she could say anything more. “Don’t. Don’t apologize for doing your job. You gave Max what he needed. And if I’m being honest…” He took a step closer. “I was still trying to win it my way. Even when the numbers said I couldn’t.”
“I wanted you to,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
He nodded. “I know. And that means more than you think.”
She looked up at him then, her chest tight. “You still trust me?”
Carlos didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached for her hand, threading their fingers together. His touch was warm, grounding, real.
“I love you, Frida,” he said softly. “Even when the strategy doesn’t fall my way. Even when you can’t choose me over your job. I love you because of how seriously you take it.”
Her eyes stung.
He leaned in, resting his forehead gently against hers. “This is what we signed up for. Both of us. You guiding the storm from the wall. Me surviving it out on track. We’re still a team, even when we’re not in the same garage.”
A tear slipped down her cheek. She didn’t bother to wipe it away.
“I hate that I can’t give you more,” she admitted.
“You give me everything,” Carlos said. “You come home to me. That’s what matters.”
She kissed him then, slow and steady, not rushed like a farewell, but tender like a truth. He pulled her in tighter, his hands splayed across her lower back, like he could hold the world still just by keeping her close.
When they pulled apart, Carlos rested his chin on the top of her head and whispered, “You’re still my person. No matter what the result sheet says.”
Frida closed her eyes and let herself breathe.
They didn’t need to say more. Not here. Not now.
Because love, in this world, wasn’t always soft or simple. But it was theirs. And it was enough.
The Conversation with Max: Red Bull Motorhome, Upstairs Balcony
The party had thinned. Champagne turned flat, camera crews long gone. The lights of Mexico City pulsed faintly in the distance, warm and low like the hum of a heartbeat.
Max stood alone on the balcony, suit half-unzipped, shirt clinging to his back, curls a mess from the helmet. His drink was untouched.
Frida closed the sliding door behind her. She didn’t announce herself. She didn’t need to.
“I figured you’d be up here,” she said.
He didn’t turn right away. “Needed some air.”
She joined him at the railing, letting the city stretch out beneath them.
For a while, neither of them said anything. The silence wasn’t strained. Just…full. Weighted by everything they’d survived.
“You don’t owe me an explanation,” Max said finally. His voice was steady, but quieter than usual. “I know you love him.”
Frida’s breath caught slightly, though she’d known this conversation was coming. She didn’t deny it. “I do.”
Max nodded. Not with anger. Not even with sadness anymore. Just understanding.
“I knew before you did,” he added. “Not because of anything you said. Just…how you looked at him. Like you’d finally stopped holding your breath.”
Frida swallowed. “I never meant to hurt you.”
“You didn’t,” Max said. He looked at her now. “You never did. I think, deep down, I always knew we weren’t meant to hold each other like that. I was just afraid of what would happen when we let go.”
She reached for his hand, threading her fingers through his.
“But you never let go,” she said. “You stood by me through every call. Every podium. Every risk I was too afraid to take, but still took.”
“And I still will,” Max said. “Just…differently now.”
Frida’s throat tightened. “You’ve been my constant. My safe place.”
He smiled then—small, but real. “And you’ve been the best thing that ever happened to my career.”
A soft wind passed between them. Somewhere below, fans were still chanting names. But the motorhome was quiet now. The storm had passed.
“I’m staying, Max,” she said. “With the team. With you. At least for now.”
He nodded. “You don’t have to explain that either. But when you’re ready to leave…I’ll walk you out. I’ll carry your headset myself.”
Frida blinked away sudden tears. “You’ll always be home to me.”
“And you’ll always be family,” Max said. “Which means if Carlos ever breaks your heart—”
“He won’t,” she said gently. “Not this time.”
Max smirked. “Good. Because I’d hate to have to chase him down with a torque wrench.”
She laughed then, really laughed, shoulders shaking, tears breaking into something lighter.
When the laughter faded, they just stood together, side by side. Not partners in battle. Not competitors. Just two people who had built something extraordinary and were brave enough to let it evolve.
“Go,” Max said, nudging her gently toward the stairs. “He’s probably waiting for you to return.”
She hesitated only a moment, then kissed his cheek. “Thank you.”
He didn’t answer. Just watched her go, a flicker of pride in his eyes.
Carlos Sainz x Engineer!Verstappen!Best Friend OC, Platonic!Max Verstappen x Engineer!Best Friend OC
Synopsis: Frida Montoya was never meant to stay behind the pit wall forever. From her karting days with Max Verstappen to her rise as Red Bull’s lead race strategist, she’s played the game flawlessly, until Carlos Sainz begins seeing her as more than just Max’s engineer.
A/N: I'm back! Sorry for the hiatus! My work schedule has been hectic and I finished classes I was taking over the summer!
Series Masterlist
Tlaquepaque, Mexico
The air in Tlaquepaque carried the warmth of home in every breath. It smelled of roasted chiles from the corner taquería, of sun-warmed terracotta, of the faint bite of fresh cement from the neighbor’s half-finished patio. It was a scent that clung to memory, that followed Frida Montoya through every airport and paddock, the kind of scent that reminded her who she had been before Formula 1 made her a name instead of a person.
She walked the narrow stone streets with her sunglasses pushed up into her curls and her mother’s silver necklace resting against her collarbone. No Red Bull navy. No headset digging into her temples. No stopwatch in hand. Just a soft cotton sundress, worn leather sandals, and the slow rhythm of a place where time never seemed to sprint the way it did under the glare of floodlights and tire smoke.
Children played fútbol along the edges of the street, their shouts bright against the hum of the late afternoon. A neighbor’s radio played Vicente Fernández somewhere in the distance. Grandmothers swept stoops with wide, easy arcs of their brooms. Her tío’s laughter rose over the hiss of a grill in the courtyard, the smell of carne asada thick in the air. And in the kitchen, her abuela rolled masa with a precision born of decades, muttering that “los van a pedir antes de que termines de saludar,” because in this house, tamales appeared before greetings were even complete.
Frida paused at the doorway of the Montoya home and let her shoulder rest against the weathered frame. The walls were faded in the sun. The tiles in the courtyard were cracked in places from too many wet summers and heavy footsteps. And yet, nothing in Monaco, Madrid, or Milton Keynes could match the quiet anchor of this place. Here, she was not just a strategist or a headline. She was her mother’s daughter. Her abuela’s pride. A girl who once sat cross-legged in the courtyard, building Lego karts and dreaming of speed.
She heard footsteps behind her before she felt them, and then Carlos was there, moving with the easy comfort of someone who had already begun to fit himself into the rhythm of her world. He wore a soft white T-shirt and light jeans, his hair still damp from the shower he had taken after their morning walk through the mercado. He glanced around with that slight smile she had learned to recognize, the one that meant he was quietly absorbing everything rather than trying to own it.
“Tu casa…” he murmured, letting his hand rest lightly against the sun-worn wall, “…es más bonita de lo que imaginé.” You're house...it's prettier than I imagined.
Frida laughed softly. “You imagined it?”
“Claro que sí. I wanted to know where you come back to when you disappear on me.” Of course I did.
“I don’t disappear,” she said, though her voice softened as she glanced back into the courtyard, at the sight of her abuela scolding Carlos’s attempt to help with the masa earlier. “I just…come home.”
Carlos moved closer, his hand brushing hers, and she let their fingers intertwine. Here, away from the cameras and the din of engines, she didn’t have to think about how it looked. She could just feel the warmth of his hand and the quiet reassurance that he was here because she wanted him here. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her temple, and for a moment she let herself lean into his chest, the simple, steady thump of his heart grounding her more than any podium ever could.
The kitchen door creaked open, and her abuela stepped out, drying her hands on her apron. Her eyes, sharp as ever, softened at the sight of them.
“Fridita, dile a este muchacho que va a comer aunque diga que no tiene hambre,” she said, waving a hand toward Carlos. Fridita, tell that boy he's going to eat even if he says no.
Carlos laughed and answered in careful Spanish, “Sí tengo hambre, pero no quiero robarle la comida a la familia.” I'm hungry, but I don't want to take food away from your family.
Her abuela scoffed. “Eres familia si Frida te trajo aquí.” You're family if Frida brought you here.
Frida’s chest tightened, warm and certain. There was something grounding about hearing those words, about feeling the invisible threads tie tighter between her two worlds—the one she had fought for and the one that had always been hers.
Later, Max arrived, as promised, but quieter than usual. He leaned against the doorway with his usual folded arms, watching her family with a bemused expression. He didn’t need to say much; he didn’t even need her to translate. Max had been part of her life long enough to understand the unspoken language of homes and the comfort of belonging somewhere. He caught her gaze once, and there was no edge, no frustration anymore—just the faint smile of a brother watching his best friend finally let herself be happy.
When the sun slowly moved across the sky, the courtyard glowed with string lights and the smell of charred peppers and cinnamon from the café de olla. Carlos sat with his arm draped along the back of Frida’s chair, his thumb tracing slow, idle circles over her shoulder. She laughed easily in Spanish with her cousins, translated for Max when he asked about the stories they told, and felt the weight she had carried all season slide off piece by piece.
She didn’t have to choose between the life she had built and the love she had found.
Here, in the red and gold heart of Tlaquepaque, Frida could finally be all of herself.
And for the first time in a long time, she felt ready for whatever came next.
The walls were sun-faded, and the tile in the courtyard bore the hairline cracks of decades of summers and hurried footsteps. But none of that mattered. This was home. Hers. Always had been.
For once, there were no numbers flashing in her periphery, no endless loops of tire degradation models running through her mind. No screens. No cameras. No radio in her ear barking split times and strategy calls.
Just quiet.
Just home.
And him.
And Max, already seated on the low stone wall under the shade of the guava tree, had a cold glass of agua fresca sweating in his hand. He had arrived quietly as always, his long legs stretched in the sunlight. He fit strangely into the Montoya courtyard—this Dutch whirlwind who belonged to a different world—but he didn’t seem out of place. He had been here enough times to know how to stay in the background, letting the warmth of the family fold over him like a borrowed blanket.
Frida’s abuela shuffled out from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron, and the scent of tortillas followed her like a cloud. “¡Mijita!” she called, her voice warm and commanding all at once. “Ven, no te me quedes ahí nomás mirando.” Honey! Come here. Don't just stay there staring at me.
Frida smiled and went, hugging her grandmother tightly. She felt the familiar brush of her abuela’s rosary against her shoulder and the soft kiss pressed to her cheek.
“Estás flaquita,” her abuela said immediately. “¿No te dan de comer en esos garajes de carreras?” You're skinny. Don't they feed you in those garages?
“Sí me dan, abuela,” Frida said with a laugh. “Pero extraño tu comida.” They do feed me, Grandma. But I miss you cooking.
“Pues vas a comer hoy,” her abuela declared, already turning toward the kitchen like a general returning to the front line. You're going to eat today.
From his corner, Max smirked, and Carlos—standing near the door with a basket of limes—looked at Frida like she was the most natural thing in this sunlit world. His polo clung to his back in the heat, and his hair was pushed up messily from where her little cousins had been tugging on it earlier. He had spent the whole morning helping her tíos set up the courtyard for lunch, moving chairs and rinsing out the big clay cazuela without complaint.
It was a domestic rhythm that felt disarmingly normal.
Frida sank into one of the worn patio chairs, tilting her face to the light. Carlos wandered over and set the basket of limes on the table beside her. His hand brushed the top of her shoulder before he crouched to meet her gaze.
“¿Estás bien?” he asked softly, his voice pitched for her alone. You okay?
Frida nodded. “Más que bien. Aquí…todo se siente más fácil.” More than okay. Here...everything feels so much easier.
Carlos’s lips curved into that quiet smile that was just for her. “Me alegra.” I'm glad.
Max watched from the wall, catching her eye just long enough to give a small nod. He didn’t intrude, didn’t tease. The look said everything he needed to: I see you. I’m happy you’re happy.
The sounds of home wrapped around her. Her uncle’s laughter echoed from the kitchen window. The distant call of a street vendor selling pan dulce floated down the alley. The fountain in the courtyard burbled steadily, its sound mingling with the low hum of cicadas in the afternoon heat.
Carlos shifted to sit beside her, their hands brushing before settling together, fingers interlaced without thought. She let her head fall lightly against his shoulder, feeling the world outside the walls fade.
For once, there was no race to chase, no strategy to calculate, no pressure to perform.
Only this.
Only home.
Only them.
The sun dipped over Tlaquepaque the following evening, softening the courtyard into a wash of golden light. Lunch had stretched lazily into the afternoon. Frida’s abuela insisted on piling her plate with more than she could ever finish—tortillas, frijoles de la olla, roasted calabacitas dusted with queso fresco. The table was crowded with cousins and uncles, neighbors leaning over the low stone wall to wave, and Reyes Sainz laughing in her gentle, melodic way with Carlos’s younger sister, Ana.
Max had surprised everyone by asking for seconds of mole, his Dutch tongue tripping over a polite “gracias, señora” that earned him a kiss on the cheek from Frida’s abuela. He sat between two of her cousins, letting them explain the rules of a fútbol street game he would never play but listened to with the patience of someone who understood what this moment meant.
Frida watched the scene like a snapshot of two worlds colliding in the best possible way. Carlos sat close enough that his knee brushed hers under the table, his thumb absently stroking the back of her hand on the bench between them. He looked more relaxed than she had seen him in weeks. Gone was the clenched jaw of race days, the furrowed brow of someone who carried an entire team’s hopes. Here, he was just Carlos. Hers.
Reyes leaned closer from the other side of the table, her voice soft in Spanish meant only for Frida.
“Hace mucho que no te veía tan tranquila, mi niña.” It's been a long time since I'm seen you this calm, my girl.
Frida exhaled slowly. “Yo tambien.” Me too.
Her abuela, across the table, caught the tail end of the conversation and nodded knowingly. “Tu mamá estaría contenta de verte aquí, así de feliz.” Your mom would have been happy to see you here, to see you this happy.
The words hit with a weight and a warmth that Frida had learned to carry in equal measure. She blinked quickly, forcing the tears to stay where they belonged.
“Sí… la extraño todos los días,” she said quietly. “Pero aquí siento que todavía está… en todo.” I miss her every day. But here, I feel like she's still here, everywhere.
Reyes reached over and squeezed her hand. “Lo está. Siempre estará. A veces se necesita regresar a casa para sentirlo de nuevo.” She's here. Always. Sometimes you need to come back home to feel her again.
Carlos’s fingers tightened gently around hers beneath the table, and when she met his gaze, it was steady and unspoken. He understood. He didn’t need to say a word.
As the meal wound down, her uncle pulled out his battered guitar, filling the courtyard with the soft strum of old rancheras. The neighbors clapped along. Max even smiled when Frida sang a few quiet lines, her voice rough with disuse and memory. For a moment, she wasn’t an engineer, wasn’t a strategist, wasn’t the woman holding the weight of Red Bull’s title fight in her hands.
She was just Frida Montoya from East LA, her mother’s daughter, her abuela’s pride, and now, the woman leaning into Carlos Sainz’s shoulder as if he had always been part of this place, of this story.
By the time the sun began to slide behind the rooftops, painting the tiles in amber and rose, the courtyard was littered with empty plates and lazy laughter. Her abuela scolded Max in Spanish for not wearing a hat in the sun. Carlos’s sisters had joined the younger cousins in teaching him the steps to a simple folklórico dance, and Reyes looked on with that soft, knowing smile of hers.
Frida stayed seated, soaking it all in: the hum of family, the heat of belonging, and the quiet certainty that for the first time in a very long time, she wasn’t living between two worlds. She had chosen one.
And when Carlos leaned down to kiss her hair in front of everyone, she didn’t pull away.
Because this, she realized, was the part her mother had always wanted her to find. Not the podiums or the trophies, but the place where love and home met in the same breath.
The courtyard had emptied slowly with the fading light. Plates were stacked, the last of the cafecito sipped, and the cousins had vanished to chase a stray fútbol into the street. The sounds of Tlaquepaque at dusk drifted in: the call of a street vendor, the hum of a distant radio, the uneven echo of church bells marking the hour.
Frida leaned against Carlos on the balcony just above the courtyard, her head resting on his shoulder. The night air smelled of rain and grilled corn from the corner stand. Below, the fairy lights her uncle had strung along the stone wall flickered like tired fireflies.
She could feel Carlos’s chest rise and fall beneath her cheek, steady, grounding. He had one arm around her waist, the other holding a sweating glass of agua fresca, and for a few minutes, she thought she could live in this stillness forever.
The sliding door behind them opened with a soft scrape. Max stepped out, hoodie on, hair damp from a quick shower. He carried a soda instead of a beer and leaned against the railing on the opposite end of the balcony. For a while, he said nothing, letting the quiet wrap around the three of them.
Finally, he spoke. “It’s everywhere again.”
Frida lifted her head slightly. “What is?”
He didn’t look at her. “The talk. That you’re leaving.”
Carlos stiffened beneath her, his hand pausing against her waist. Frida felt the weight of both men’s attention now, the softness of home colliding with the cold hum of the paddock that never truly left her.
“They’ve been saying it all season,” she said evenly. “IndyCar. WEC. Every time I take a meeting or leave a garage five minutes early, they decide I’m walking away.”
“Christian called me earlier,” Max admitted. His voice was quiet, but the undercurrent was sharp. “He wanted to know if I thought it was true.”
Frida exhaled, long and slow, staring out at the street where the last light caught the wet cobblestones. “Do you?”
Max met her eyes now, and for a moment, she saw the boy from Zuera again, the one who hated losing, hated change even more, the one who needed her as the constant in the chaos.
“No,” he said finally. “I know you. But I also know F1. And I don’t like how it eats people alive.”
Frida swallowed hard. “I’m not leaving. Not now. Not like this. Not because of whispers.”
Carlos’s arm tightened around her, his warmth pulling her back into the moment. “And not because someone else thinks they can decide your story,” he said quietly, almost to himself.
Max’s jaw flexed, but he nodded. “Good. Because I don’t want to win without you.”
Frida felt the words settle deep in her chest. They weren’t romantic. They weren’t a claim. They were a reminder of the bond they had always shared—unshakable, unspoken, built on every lap and every call since they were kids chasing karting dreams.
“I’m not going anywhere,” she said, voice steady now. “But I am learning how to belong to myself first.”
Carlos pressed a kiss to her hair. Max looked away, giving them space he would never admit he was offering. Below them, the streetlamps flickered on, and the soft hum of the city wrapped them in a pocket of quiet, safe from the world that would start spinning again soon enough.
It's one of the last few things we can have as a society that's free. You can engage, for free. People give you things (art, stories, etc), for free.
Don't buy into the consummerism just because it's everywhere else.
You don't have to consume everything you interact with. You don't have to use things, just because they exist.
You're allowed (still, for now), to have things that are enjoyable for free.
Do you realise how insane the world is? We don't have many places where we can just be, for free anymore, but ao3 is. Did you notice we don't have ads in ao3? We don't have pop ups? Where ELSE do we not have that?
Where else can you just go and not have to wait for a commercial to be over or for ads to be on the sidelines?
I don't think the younger people understand, but the whole of internet used to be like this. YouTubers would do Youtube for free, just because. You couldn't monetise your internet presence before.
Ao3 is like a little preserved corner of the internet where the old internet used to be, and it's being attacked by people who do not understand that free things are allowed to exist without judgment.
Please don't ruin this for us.
Some of us need it.
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