FormulaFantassies @formulafantassies - Tumblr Blog

Jun 14

Proof of us - MV3

Summary: You grew up around motorsport, George’s family adopted you into the world of karting, travelling around the world following your brother and his friends. There was no written rule that you couldn’t date his fellow drivers, but there was one very clear rival to stay away from – Max Verstappen. So what happens when you fall in love with the one man your brother hates more than anyone.

Warnings: Not a happy ending, soft Max, 18+, smut, heartbreak, praise kink, writer!reader, Kelly mentioned, no condom mentioned.

Word Count: 5526

A/N: This is my first story back for a while! Please be kind because this took me way longer than usual to write a one-shot. Remember to comment and share too. Thank you!

Song inspo: Ethel Cain: Crying during sex, Lana Del Rey: Young and beautiful, Cigarettes After Sex: Apocalypse, Ethel Cain: Crush, Taylor Swift: The smallest man who ever lived, Lil Peep: your favourite dress, Charlie XCX: Everything is Romantic, Band of Horses: The Funeral, Olivia Rodrigo: Traitor.

There will not be a part 2 to this story.

Monte Carlo. When people tell you that Monaco is a place separate from the rest of the world, they’re right.

Even after all these years, even after countless race weekends spent alongside George, you still found yourself breathless every time race weekend arrived. The Mediterranean sea glittered beyond the harbour, yachts bobbing beneath the afternoon sun. This place looked like a painting on the front of a postcard or a framed piece of artwork you’d see in your Grandmother’s lounge.

You stepped outside of the Mercedes hospitality suite and watched the hustle and bustle of a busy and iconic race weekend. Only Monaco would smell like expensive perfume and fuel, all at once.

“Please don’t disappear again,” George wrapped his arm over your shoulder, appearing from somewhere behind you.

You raised an eyebrow. “I’m old enough to explore on my own, in a place I’ve lived in for four years.”

George snorted at your reply. “Yeah, and last year you didn’t get lost and ended up panicking into Charles’ shoulder, no?”

Your gaze dropped to the floor as you remembered your awkward encounter with the Ferrari garage. But before you could answer, George’s phone buzzed.

“Shit, I’m late,” he placed a gentle kiss into your hair before running back into the suite and up the stairs.

You laughed as he rushed away, already slipping back into ‘racing driver George’ and out of ‘big brother George.’ But to you, he was simply, George. He was the one who helped you through heartbreaks, who celebrated birthdays and once drove over six hours to your university after you got a B on a test. Truth was, regardless of being adopted, George never treated you anything but blood.

Before you could even take in the anticipation of the race weekend starting again, a laugh drifted across the paddock. You didn’t need to look to know that sound. He was standing outside the Red Bull suite, can in hand, skinny jeans sprayed to his legs and his cap pulled low over his blonde hair, but you could recognise his blue eyes anywhere. He was talking, laughing, animated in the way only Max Verstappen could when he was describing something he loved. So probably sim racing.

You’d met him before, of course. It was pretty unavoidable. And you knew enough about him – he liked racing, he hated losing, and he hated your brother.

He and George could barely survive sitting in a media room together without creating enough tension to make everyone incredibly uncomfortable in the vicinity.

Max had always existed in the edge of your life, rather than in it. You grew up alongside Lando and Alex, you lived in the same building as Charles – you were even close with Oscar. But Max, he was like forbidden fruit.

But as though sensing you looking, Max glanced across the paddock. You could feel how your eyes widened and your throat bob. For a brief second, neither of you looked away, and just slightly, his mouth twitched. Not exactly a smile, it was more of acknowledgement. You returned it politely before yielding and looking away first. The interaction wasn’t more than three seconds but by the time you looked back, he had already resumed his conversation.

You could’ve sworn you imagined it, a symptom of the Monaco heat. But the fate of Monte Carlo always has other plans.

By the time the sun had started to set over the harbour, golden and unhurried, you were overlooking the track from above on a balcony, looking down at the mechanics buzzing around like ants.

You sipped on a cold bottle of water, the icy liquid sliding down your throat as you heard him again. Not a laugh this time, it was his voice. Low and husky as he switched between Dutch and English. You didn’t mean to watch him but your eyes couldn’t pull themselves away from the tall blonde as he effortlessly strided through the paddock.

And like the moon pulls the tide to the shore, his eyes reach yours.

You could feel your body react, your legs weak, your hands trembling, head swimming.

“Media all done!” George exclaimed, snapping you from your trance.

You quickly turned on your heels, your brother walking towards you with his arms out stretched. Instinctively, you fall into step with him, turning as you walk away, Max’s eyes still firmly gazed upon you.

–

You could already hear the party as you ascended in the lift. Music was reverberating off of the walls, laughter rising like waves and the unmissable sound of a champagne cork popping. It was the true birthday party of the rich and famous. Charles had a gift for the best parties.

“Happy birthday!” you said when you finally found him amongst the crowd. Pressing a kiss to his cheek and handing over the bottle you had brought with you.

Charles' eyes lit up immediately. “You came alone, cheri?”

“Yeah, well George is–” you searched for the right word and not the version he used earlier. “Decompressing after the race.”

Charles laughed, the kind that came from his chest and the type that only comes from knowing George too well. “Yeah, he wasn’t too happy about the DNF.”

“Ohh–I’m aware.” You laughed.

He shook his head, already being pulled away by someone else, his hand briefly squeezing yours before he disappeared into the crowd. You watched him go with an easy smile and let yourself settle into the back of the room. You knew most of these faces. Lando was already in the corner doing what Lando has always done at parties – performing for a small audience who were in awe of him. Alex caught your eye from across the room and raised his glass in greeting.

For a short while, it was easy. A passing waiter handed you something sparkling and you stationed yourself near the window where the harbour was glittering navy — you let the conversations come to you, rather than chasing them. Monaco was different once the sun had set, it became softer somehow. More honest.

You were deep in conversation with Pierre about nothing and everything when the air in the room became thicker.

It was almost like you felt it before you saw it — it was like the entire room shifted. A few heads turned, the music didn’t pause, the record didn’t scratch but it might as well have.

He had a specific quality of not seeming to try, and yet being impossible to ever miss.

He came in unhurried, pausing briefly to greet Charles with a handshake that pulled into something warmer; old friends who have been with each other since the start. Charles and Max had a history that predated all of this, karting circuits from when they were barely teenagers and the whole world was still ahead of them.

You desperately tried to concentrate on what Pierre was saying. Nodding along at the right times, but your eyes kept wandering back to the tall blonde by the door. Max moved through the room with an ease. You somehow ended up outside, the cool evening hair prickling your skin as the waves crashed into the shore. Your body leaned against the pillars, hair sweeping behind as the wind picked up.

“You’re George’s sister,”

His accent wrapped around the words. It wasn’t a question – he knew who you were.

“I am,” you replied, carefully sipping on your drink.

“I’ve seen you at race weekends,” his head titled slightly. “You cling to George, huh.”

“I don’t cling to–”

His smirk stopped you from finishing your sentence. “You like watching from balconies. Specifically above pit lanes.”

Your stomach did something inconvenient — swirling around like a washing machine on a spin cycle.

“I like the view from up there.”

“Mhm.” He hummed. “It’s better from the pit wall.”

There was nothing in his voice to suggest he meant anything from it, but your heart didn’t know the difference. “I don’t like to get in the way.”

He didn’t say anything, he just smiled as he took another sip of his beer.

Your brain hadn’t registered the next words that uttered from your mouth, having no time to take them back before he had heard them. “You’ve been watching me, watch you.”

Max’s mouth pulled at the corner. “You were watching me first.”

You opened your mouth but closed it.

Lando had materialised beside you, with the same supernatural timing only Lando could perfect. “Finally, I’ve been trying to find you!” He looked briefly between you and Max before his eyes narrowed. “We’re bringing out the cake.”

You giggled at the excitement of a 20-something-man still being excited about cake. “Okay, okay, I’m coming.”

Lando’s hand carefully placed in yours.

Max’s eyes caught yours before you were led back into the room. He didn’t speak, just a small wink with his signature smirk before he turned back to face the view of Monaco.

“You know you’re playing with fire, right?” Lando muttered.

“What are you talking about?” You shrugged, pretending that there was absolutely zero chemistry between you and your brother’s sworn enemy.

“Just be careful. There’s only so much saving I can do.” He placed a gentle, friendly kiss on your cheek before heading straight to the table where the cake was carefully being sliced.

—

It was three weeks later before you saw Max again.

Silverstone was always the same, in a blink of an eye the sunshine would turn into a storm.

You hid under an awning next to the Red Bull garage when the heavens decided to open. Your poor choice of outfit for the Great British weather had found you hiding away from the downpour as you watched it beat off the tarmac.

“Who decides to wear sandals to the British Grand Prix?”

“Someone who’s lived in Monaco too long.” You laugh.

There was a brief moment where you both just smiled, the only noise was the rain hitting the floor, before either of you spoke again.

“Will you get in trouble again for speaking to me?”

Your brows furrowed together, unsure of what he meant by it. “I didn’t–I wasn’t–”

“I heard what Lando said to you at Charles’ party.” Max fiddled with his fingers as he spoke to you. Was the great Max Versappen…nervous?

“They’re just…protective,” you muttered softly.

“I would never…I wouldn’t hurt you?” His voice cracked, as if he was upset at the thought of others thinking he would break my heart.

You reach your hand out to place on his shoulder, the gentlest of touches sending sparks through your nervous system.

“Let me take you on a date.” It was less of a question and more of a statement. “Let me take you on a date and prove that I wouldn’t hurt you.” His words tumbled out of his mouth at the same speed he drives his car.

“Max–” you wanted to say yes. Whatever had taken control of your body had won.

“You don’t want to?”

“I do–it’s just–my brother wouldn’t like it.”

He opened his mouth to attempt to defend but with perfect timing, you could hear your name being called. “I’m sorry Max.”

The entire race weekend, it rained. You hoped it would wash away whatever these feelings were for Max. Instead it just brought them to the surface. It was like the universe was dangling a very beautiful carrot in your face. Everywhere you would turn, he would be there.

You spotted him outside of the Red Bull garage on Saturday morning, his race suit tied around his waist as he laughed at something one of the engineers had said. You saw him again during the drivers' parade, rain dripping from the brim of his cap as he stood talking to Oscar and Lando. Then again after qualifying, when George had been midway through a conversation and Max had appeared on the television screen mounted above the hospitality suite. He rolled his eyes and huffed out of the room. Each sighting felt ridiculous.

You weren't sixteen. You weren't developing some embarrassing schoolgirl crush.

You were a grown woman who knew perfectly well that pursuing anything with Max Verstappen would be complicated at best and catastrophic at worst.

Yet every time your eyes found him, your stomach betrayed you.

By Sunday evening, after the race had ended and the paddock had begun its usual process of packing itself away, you were exhausted.

Not physically. But emotionally.

By the time you finally reached your hotel room, all you wanted was sleep. Unfortunately, sleep seemed to want nothing to do with you.

It was pathetic. Every time you commanded your body to sleep, it ignored you. You groaned and buried your head in your pillow.

Your phone buzzed from the nightstand. You ignored it first, thinking it would be an email or a notification you could deal with in the later hours of the morning.

A few seconds later, it buzzed again. You rolled over, reaching for your phone. The bright light stinging your retinas as you adjusted them to read the message.

Unknown: One date. It can be our secret. Unknown: Well and Charles’ because he reluctantly gave me your number.

You smiled at the thought of Max begging Charles for your number. Adjusting the pillows behind your back, you rested against the headboard and typed back.

You: Where would this date be?

Three dots appeared quickly.

Max: I have a spot. Max: Is that a yes?

You pondered it for a moment. It was just a date. It wasn’t a declaration of love. George would never have to know.

You: It’s a yes.

You placed your phone back on the nightstand, gently sliding yourself back under the covers and onto the cool pillowcase. Even with the butterflies flapping their wings inside your stomach, your eyelids became heavy and finally drifted to sleep.

—

He had sent you the location two days before your date. You chose a specific day when you knew George was preoccupied with a Petronas sponsor dinner and he would be far away from Monaco for at least two days.

Max gave you a deliberately vague location and two very clear messages.

Max: Wear something warm. Max: And no sandals.

You laughed, a small, understated laugh that made the butterflies appear in your stomach again.

The taxi driver dropped you at the bottom of a winding path that climbed steeply behind the city, the kind of route that tourists never found and locals kept to themselves. Monaco from below was one thing. Monaco from above, you were quickly realising, was something else entirely. Even after four years of living in this beautiful city, there were still hidden gems to be found – like this one.

You climbed the winding path, the Monaco skyline rising behind you. He was already there when you finally reached the top.

Max was sitting nervously across a checkered blanket, a small picnic basket laying next to him. You’d been only plenty of dates in your time, but never quite as thoughtful as this.

He stood once he saw you emerge from the foliage that covered the path.

“You came.” There was almost relief in his voice.

“Didn’t you think I would?”

His eyes dropped to his shoes, which suddenly became very exciting to him. "I thought maybe you changed your mind."

"I nearly did," you admitted. "About twelve times."

That made him smile. His mouth did that thing, the corner pulling upward. "But you didn't."

"But I didn't,” you echoed.

You awkwardly settled next to each other on the blanket, focusing on your breathing as Max pulled out a crusty-loaf of bread, the kind from that little bakery facing the harbour, and a selection of cheeses and spreads – it was like he already knew what your favourite foods were.

“Apart from following George–” Max stopped, winking as he teased you, “what else do you do?”

You chewed on a piece of the bread, drowned in a mountain of salty butter. “You mean what do I do for a job?”

“Mhm,” Max nodded.

“I’m a writer,” you admit, like you were keeping it a secret. “It’s no F1 driver, but there’s something about writing that perfect article and seeing it printed, sitting on the stands as you walk to work, there’s nothing like it.”

“Would you write about me?” He asked, his teeth grazing his lip as he looked into your eyes.

You laughed, most likely from nerves of being this close to him. “I write about politics and business, Max, I’m not a sports journalist.”

“There’s always a first for everything right?” He joked.

For a moment, you simply sat together, comfortable in the silence. The world beyond the blanket seemed to fade away as he leant closer, his thumb brushing softly across your lip, wiping away the last trace of butter. Your breath caught. The space between you seemed to dwindle until it was almost nonexistent, your heart hammering against your ribs as his gaze flickered to your mouth. Then, finally, his lips met yours.

The kiss was soft at first, tentative in a way that surprised you.

For someone who has spent his life hurtling into corners at impossible speeds, Max kissed like he was afraid of startling you.

Your hand found his arm without thinking, fingers curling into the sleeve of his jacket as his thumb remained against your cheek. The world seemed to narrow to that single point of contact. The distant hum of Monaco below faded. The yachts, the traffic, the endless noise of the city disappeared until there was only him.

When he finally pulled back, neither of you moved very far — his forehead resting lightly against yours.

“I had it all planned out, but turns out the best things happen naturally,” he whispered.

“You had it planned out?” you repeat, smiling at the image of Max planning the ultimate romantic moment.

“Every guy does. The moment they plan to kiss the girl they like.”

You could feel your cheeks turn crimson. “You know,” you start. “You’re not what everyone says you are.”

“Mad Max?” His eyebrow raises.

For a second you just looked at him. The world around you completely melting away.

But the moment was ruined when the realisation hit you like cold water. The thought of your brother finding out. If he would ever forgive you, if he would ever speak to you again. If he would punch Max square in his extremely chiselled jaw.

“We don’t have to continue tonight,” his lips raised, but not in a smile.

The words should’ve relieved you. Except they didn’t, they hurt.

You looked away, down at the city stretching beneath the cliffside. Attempting to convince him that the lights sparkling below were far more interesting.

He didn’t press, he just linked his hand with yours. “Let me take you home.”

You nodded, excepting that the both of you knew this relationship would be nothing more than stolen moments.

Max’s car stopped idle outside your apartment building. The engine cut to a stop as he pulled the key from the ignition.

“Thank you for tonight, Max.” You could feel your cheeks burning as your eyes met again.

“For what it was worth, if this was the first and last date of ours–” his hand gently laid rest on your cheek. “I will remember it forever.”

–

Work became the perfect excuse. Deadlines piled up, meetings ran late, and attending race weekends with George became increasingly difficult. But that didn't stop Max. The messages continued, slipping into your day when you least expected them, and before long they turned into late-night FaceTime calls, stretching far longer than either of you intended.

At first, the calls were harmless. Well at least that’s what you told yourself.

He'd call from the hotel he happened to be in that week, still wearing his signature Red Bull polo, his hair damp from a shower after media duties. You'd answer from your apartment, curled beneath a blanket with a laptop balanced on your knees.

You tried to convince yourself that it was friendly. But your heart begged to differ.

The more you learned about him, the more impossible it became to reconcile the person the world saw with the man you spoke to every night.

He was funny and protective and undeniably loyal – to everyone around him.

You spoke about your childhoods, the pressure of your careers, dreams and aspirations you’d never told anyone else.

There was a four week break between Zandvoort and Monza. George was locked in at Brackley working on the car with Mercedes, which meant you were in Monaco with your laptop and a deadline.

You padded over to the kitchen, treating yourself to a pint of Ben & Jerry’s after finishing an article for a paper you were asked to guest write on. You pulled the spoon to your mouth, the cold ice cream the perfect reward after pouring your heart out onto the page. Before you could curl yourself onto the sofa, the buzzer chimed.

The only people who came to visit your apartment in Monaco were either George, who wasn’t even in the country, and the postman, who already visited this morning.

You picked up the telecom. “Hello?”

“Hi, uhm, it’s Max.”

You smiled, your eyebrows joining together in an emotional pattern of confusion and happiness.

“Hey, I’ll buzz you up.”

You frantically ran around your apartment, closing the lid of your laptop, throwing away chocolate wrappers and hiding your notes before the knock came at the door. You fixed your shirt, an old band-tee you pulled on along with your joggers – considering you weren’t expecting any company.

Max stood at the door, an overostentatious bouquet of flowers in one arm and an expensive box of chocolate in the other.

“I thought you might be on your own,” he smiled.

You stepped back to let him in.

He handed you the flowers first, and your fingers brushed his when you took them. You both pretended not to notice.

“Thank you, Max.”

You found an empty vase and placed the flowers on the kitchen table, opening the chocolates as you took an awkward seat next to him on the sofa. Both of you sat there in silence, for what felt like an eternity. Speaking over the phone for the last few weeks had felt easy but suddenly, face to face with him again, your nerves had gotten the better of you.

The both of you sat trying to think of what to say. You thought about opening your laptop and sharing the article you’d finished, or turning on the TV to drown out the silence.

Max shifted on the sofa, setting the box of chocolates on the coffeetable, his knee gently brushing yours. You watched his striking blue eyes, they seemed to look straight through you, lingering across your face, searching for something.

“I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you,” he said quietly, voice low and rough around the edges.

You could feel your breath catch in your throat. You turned back toward him, and that was all it took. His hand came up, softly cupping the side of your face. His thumb brushed your cheekbone, and before you could register, he leant in, slow enough that you could pull away if you wanted to. You didn’t though.

The first kiss was soft, almost hesitant. It was just the warm press of his lips, the faint taste of his toothpaste. When you sighed into it, he deepened the kiss, still careful, still giving you every chance to stop. Your fingers found the front of his t-shirt, curling into the fabric as you pulled him closer.

Max made a quiet sound in the back of his throat and wrapped his arms around you, drawing you into his lap as you started to straddle him. His hands slid down your back, mapping the curve of your spine through your old band tee.

“You’re sure?” he murmured against your lips, pulling back just enough to look at you. His voice was husky, but his blue eyes glimmered as they stared into yours.

“More than sure,” you whispered.

He leaned in and kissed you again, deeper this time, tongue brushing yours slow and sensual. His hands slipped under your shirt, palms resting warming against bare skin, stroking up your side before tugging the worn fabric over your head. He tossed it across the apartment, and pressed another kiss along your collarbone and down to the swell of your breasts.

You automatically arched into him with a gasp as he took one nipple into his mouth, sucking gently, his tongue swirling. His other hand cradled your breast, thumb brushing over the sensitive peak. Every touch was electric. He worshipped you with his mouth, switching sides until you were trembling in the palm of his hands.

“Max…” His name came out of your mouth, needy and breathless.

He lifted you effortlessly, standing with you in his arms, your legs wrapped around his waist. “Bedroom, schatz?” he asked against your neck.

You nodded, and he carried you to your bedroom, not stopping the press against your lips. He laid you down on the bed like you were something precious, then pulled back to strip off his own shirt and jeans. The pure sight of him – the lean muscle, the faint lines on the lower part of his stomach, the obvious bulge in his boxers, it made your mouth salivate.

He joined you on the bed, covering your body with his, keeping most of his weight on his forearms. His mouth found yours again as his hand slipped down your stomach, slipping beneath the waistband of your joggers and panties. He groaned softly when he felt how wet you already were.

“You’re so perfect,” he whispered, kissing the corner of your mouth, your jaw, the sensitive spot beneath your ear. Two fingers parted your folds, circling your clit with featherlight strokes before sliding inside you. He pumped them slowly, scissoring and stretching you while his thumb kept up the pace against your clit. Your hips rocked against his hand, moaning into his shoulder as he whispered praise against your skin. “Just like that, you’re so good for me.”

When you came for the first time, it rolled through you, thighs trembling around his wrist. He kissed you through it, mumbling about how beautiful you looked.

He barely gave you a moment to catch your breath before he was sliding down your joggers and thong, kissing every inch of exposed skin. His boxers shortly joined the pile of clothes on the floor. His cock was heavy and flushed, curving up to his stomach. He took it in one hand, stroking once as he looked back at you.

He settled carefully between your thighs, rubbing the throbbing head of his cock through your slick folds. “Tell me if it’s too much,” he said softly. Max pushed in slowly, inch by inch. You both moaned at the stretch, filling you to fullness.

“Fuck, you’re incredible.” He breathed.

You wrapped your legs around his waist again, heels digging into the small of his back. He rolled deep thrusts that dragged against your sensitive spot. One hand laced with yours, the other cradled your hip, angling you so he could go even deeper. Every thrust was accompanied by a kiss across your body. He whispered your name like a prayer, telling you how long he had thought about this moment.

You came with a broken cry, clenching around him tighter after burying himself deep with a low groan, his hips stuttering as he spilled inside of you, the sensation of him pulsating inside of you.

For a long moment you stayed like that, tangled together, breathing in each other. Max pulled out carefully and disappeared into the bathroom. He returned with a warm, damp cloth and a glass of water. He cleaned you gently between your legs, pressing soft kisses to your inner thighs, then helped you sit up to sip your drink.

He pulled you into his chest once you were both settled under the covers. His big arms wrapped around you, one hand stroking along your arm. He kissed the top of your head, a little press of affection that made your heart ache in the best way.

“You okay?” he asked quietly, tilting your chin up so he could see your eyes.

“More than okay,” you whispered. You moved in to snuggle closer, his skin was warm, heartbeat steady under your ear.

He smiled, pulling you in tighter. You fell asleep like that, wrapped in Max’s arms, feeling safe and cherished. The rest of the world and its complications felt like a million miles away.

–

The weeks that followed blurred into one another. Your work schedule had begun to swallow you whole. Between deadlines, meetings, late night edits, flights to different time zones, and your offer to write a guest article, your work had consumed every single moment of your spare time.

You finally submitted it. You knew that your brother wouldn’t necessarily appreciate the Russell name being attached to it, but you thought of plenty of ways to get around it – one of them using your signature ‘puppy dog’ face.

The season had continued to move, and between races across the world and your job taking control, you never saw Max after that night.

Phone calls and texts became few and far between; you told yourself that you were just both busy. That your jobs were demanding this side of the year.

Abu Dhabi came round quickly, the final race of the season. George had practically got on his knees and begged you to come along.

“You’ve missed half the season now,” he complained one evening. “People are starting to think you’ve disappeared.”

You laughed and reluctantly agreed to come along. A part of you scared to face Max, another part excited to see him again.

The paddock during the last race of the season always had a particular buzz about it. The media were relentless chasing the championship leaders, fans running after the drivers for them to sign caps and Netflix cameras desperate to find the drama.

But the world seemed to stop when you finally saw him. He was talking to a reporter when you caught eyes, a smile started to slowly creep across your lips as you remembered the taste of his against yours. Except, as you got closer, a woman stood beside him. Her hand rested in his, her long, sleek, black hair sweeping behind her. She was the kind of woman you see photographed on the front of a magazine.

Max was completely still. Like a deer caught in the headlights – or a man who had finally been caught out.

The entire paddock seemed to fade into one spotlight on them both.

George followed your gaze, blissfully unaware of the real reason. “That’s Kelly,” he started. “Max’s girlfriend.”

“Oh, right.” It was all you could summon. Words now unable to be formed as the lump in your throat formed.

When you both made it to the Mercedes suite, George ran off to a meeting with the team, leaving you alone with your thoughts. The night air was warm, too warm. You weren’t sure if your hands were clammy from the humidity or the nerves of seeing him with another woman.

“Hi,” his voice was quiet.

You couldn’t look at him, you just watched the string of mechanics buzz by.

“Hi.”

He scooched closer to you, his shoulder brushing yours. The sparks were still there, but they didn’t feel as bright now. “I was going to tell you.”

“Really, Max? Because from the looks of it, you got what you want from me and now you have a beautiful model on your arm.”

He moved in and held onto your hand, careful to look around if anyone would notice. “It’s not like that–she–Kelly, she’s a long time family friend and my dad–”

“Just stop, Max.”

“We would never have worked.” His words felt like a slap. “George would never have let you. You know that.”

Your whole body felt like it was shaking now. You pulled out the completed article from your handbag. “I was going to give this to you after the race,” you pushed the papers against his chest in a fist of rage. “I wrote about you.”

You could feel a single tear slip down your cheek. “The man nobody else sees off the track.”

He caught the papers, just before they began to fall from the floor. The headline read ‘The Man Behind the Lion.’

“Goodbye, Max.”

He looked down, his eyes blurred by the tears that had begun to form, but he focused on the final line of the article.

‘Perhaps the most remarkable thing about Max Verstappen is not because he’s fearless, but somewhere between the trophies and champagne fueled podiums and impossible expectations from fans and the team, is that there is a man who is loyal and pure of heart.’

And for the first time since you met him, you understood why your brother hated him so much. Because Max Verstappen could never be pure of heart.

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