Multi part series: The Girl From Karting
Part 3- Get Out Of My Way
Previous Chapters: Part 1, Part 2
Warnings: none, slow burn, cliffhanger
Race weekend brings pressure, expectations, and one very determined Y/N ready to prove she belongs on the pit wall. As Oscar fights for his first podium of the season, Y/N makes a call that could change everything. But while the paddock watches her success, not everyone is ready to give her the credit she deserves. And Max Verstappen notices more than she wants him to.
After that moment with Max in free practice, it takes me a while to get back into my flow.
Again, I tell myself the same thing I always do.
Do not let it bother you.
Oscar tries asking again and again, clearly not believing me when I say I am fine, but somehow I manage to deflect it every time.
Eventually, we fall back into our usual driver and engineer rhythm.
There is enough to focus on.
But coming back to the track proves to be a challenge.
Mainly because I know he is here.
And just like before, that penetrating stare follows me everywhere I go.
Max Verstappen looks at me like he is trying to pull apart every piece of my past and put it back together himself.
Especially because a small part of me wants to let him.
When I arrive at my office, Oscar is already there.
Oscar Piastri is sitting in my office with coffee.
“Can I help you?” I ask, raising an eyebrow while still taking the coffee from him.
He smirks like he knew I would.
“No reason,” he says. “Just making sure you’re okay.”
I sigh, setting my bag down.
His eyebrows lift slightly.
I take a sip of the coffee.
Oscar watches me for a second.
But not fully letting it go either.
“It’s just been a rough day,” I continue, already opening my laptop. “And we need to focus on your race and getting this car where it needs to be.”
“That usually means I get to stay.”
“No, that means thank you for the coffee. Now go.”
He stands slowly, shaking his head.
He immediately turns back.
“Never say that to me again.”
For the first time all morning, I laugh.
Oscar smiles slightly, like that was the whole point.
“I’ll see you on track,” he says.
And just like that, I force myself back into work.
The sheets in front of me become my entire world.
The car can perform better.
There are things we need to fix before the race. Small details that matter more than people realize.
A little more stability through the slower corners.
Enough to make a difference.
Because this race needs to be good.
I need to prove that I belong here.
That this seat was not some lucky opportunity.
Later, walking out of my office, I say hi to a few McLaren workers as I make my way toward Zak.
I barely make it halfway before I feel it again.
I know it is him before I even turn around.
This time, instead of ignoring it, I stop.
Max is standing a few steps away.
“What?” I ask, raising my eyebrows.
Clearly not expecting me to say anything.
“You need to stop staring at me like that.”
“That is not very specific.”
“People will notice and start making up nonsense, and I do not have time for it.”
For a moment, Max says nothing.
Then he says, “You noticed.”
I hate that my stomach flips a little.
“That was not the point.”
“It sounded like the point.”
“Good luck in the race, Max.”
Before he can answer, I turn and keep walking toward the McLaren wall where the other engineers are already working.
Race day feels heavier than practice.
The air in the garage is different.
Everyone moves with purpose.
Oscar is calm, like always, sitting there like he is not about to throw himself into one of the most intense races of the season.
I stand near him, headset around my neck, tablet in hand.
He studies me for half a second.
“Bring the car back in one piece.”
Oscar holds position, settling into the rhythm early while I keep my eyes locked on the data.
“Tyres are looking okay,” I say into comms. “Keep managing rear left. We are still in this.”
Oscar’s voice comes through calm.
For a while, it is all control.
Then the opportunity appears.
One that could either work beautifully or fall apart completely.
I look at the numbers again.
This is the kind of decision people judge you for.
The kind of moment where, if it works, people call it genius.
If it fails, they say you were never ready.
I hear my father’s voice in the back of my mind.
You should have seen it sooner.
I force myself to breathe.
I press the radio button.
There is half a second of silence.
The garage moves immediately.
I barely breathe until he comes back out.
For a moment, it looks close.
Then the timing tower updates.
Then another after the cycle completes.
I hear someone behind me let out a breath.
Lap after lap, Oscar holds.
The pressure builds behind him, but he does not crack.
“Keep it clean,” I tell him. “You’re doing good. Just bring it home.”
Even through the radio, I can hear the smallest laugh in his voice.
When Oscar crosses the line in P3, the McLaren garage erupts.
For a second, I just stare at the screen.
First podium of the season.
Oscar’s first podium with me as his engineer.
Someone shouting my name.
Oscar’s voice comes through the radio.
I laugh, pressing the button.
I shake my head, smiling so hard my face hurts.
The words hit harder than expected.
I look down for a second.
Not everyone sees it that way.
I hear the comments before I even leave the garage.
“Oscar drove around the problem.”
“Let’s see if she can do it again.”
Like none of it touches me.
Like I have not heard worse.
Like I have not spent my whole life proving people wrong just for them to move the goalpost again.
Enough to remind me why I cannot afford distractions.
Max finishes his own race and ends up in the media pen not long after.
I do not see the interview live.
But everyone does eventually.
Because the clip spreads fast.
The reporter smiles in that way people do when they think they are about to say something clever.
“Max, Oscar Piastri got his first podium of the season today with a new race engineer on the pit wall. A lot of people are saying it may have been beginner’s luck. What do you think about that?”
Max’s expression changes instantly.
His jaw tightens slightly.
“Do you think someone with less experience can consistently make those calls under pressure?”
“I think that is a stupid question.”
The people around them go quiet.
“Oscar drove a good race. McLaren made the right calls. She made the right call at the right moment. That is not luck.”
The reporter tries to recover.
Max does not raise his voice.
Then he adds, calm as ever:
“When someone does a bad job, you say they are not ready. When someone does a good job, you call it luck. Maybe just say she did a good job, no?”
The interviewer looks completely stunned.
By the time I see Oscar after the podium ceremony, he is still smiling.
Oscar never smiles too much.
But enough that I know he is happy.
“Look at you,” I say, crossing my arms. “Podium sitter.”
“Please never say that again.”
Then he says, “P3 looks good on you too.”
I look away, pretending to check something on my tablet.
“Don’t get emotional. It’s weird.”
“I know. That’s what made it weird.”
For a few seconds, everything feels light.
His expression shifts slightly.
At the same time Max says, “If you want.”
Max looks completely unbothered.
Oscar presses his lips together like he is trying very hard not to laugh.
“I’m going to get water.”
Max steps closer, but not too close.
“You did a good job today,” he says.
For some reason, that makes it harder to answer.
“You don’t sound happy about it.”
The same boy from karting.
The same ability to see too much.
“I worked hard for today,” I say finally.
His face stills slightly.
“I am not going to let people turn me into a story. Not because I am a woman. Not because I am new. Not because of Oscar. Not because of you.”
I continue before I can stop myself.
“I cannot afford distractions.”
Something flickers across his face.
“And I am a distraction?”
I do not answer right away.
The way he looks at me is.
The way he defended me without being asked is.
“You could be,” I say quietly.
Max tilts his head slightly.
“And if I don’t want to be?”
Because of course he would say that.
Of course Max Verstappen would walk into the middle of my carefully built walls and act like he had no intention of knocking them down.
“Then get out of my way.”
The words come out sharper than I mean them to.
For a second, I think he might argue.
Instead, he simply nods once.
Just enough for me to pass.
As I walk past him, I hear his voice again.
Not enough to turn around.
Enough for the nickname to land somewhere deep in my chest.
A nickname no one had called me in years.
A nickname I had almost forgotten belonged to me.
For half a second, I forget where I am.
Then I force myself to keep walking.
And Max Verstappen is not going to be the thing that makes me forget that.
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