can u write smthg on reader feeling like she is bad luck because max did not win one or two races when she was there nd people on social media says it too and feels awful which max finds out
Bad Luck Charm
Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader
Summary: When fans starts calling you Max's bad luck charm, you decide staying away is the best thing you can do for him. Max thinks that's complete bullshit.
4.7k words / Masterlist
The first time someone called you bad luck you laughed.
It was stupid, ridiculous really. A throwaway comment under a fan edit, buried somewhere beneath heart emojis, fire and lion emojis, and arguments about strategy. You had only seen it because you were sprawled across Max's hotel bed in one of his oversized Red Bull hoodies, shamelessly scrolling through edits of him on TikTok while he showered.
@verstappenator33: not saying she’s cursed but max hasn’t won a single race she’s attended this season 😭
At the time it felt harmless enough, a little mean maybe, but that’s the internet.
Max had finished third that day. Third. It was hardly a disaster. He had been annoyed about strategy, about balance, about a lock-up that had cost him time in the first stint, but when he came back to the garage and found you waiting there he had smiled.
He had pulled you into his arms, kissed your temple and muttered, “Long day.”
You had rubbed your hand over the back of his neck and whispered, “You still did amazing.”
He had grumbled something about not wanting amazing, wanting first, but he had leaned into you anyway. So no you didn’t think much of the comment.
The second time you noticed more.
Monaco was supposed to be fun. It was one of your favourite races to attend, even though Max always complained about the current celebrification of it all. You loved the narrow streets, the balconies, the impossible glitter of the harbour, the way the whole weekend felt like it existed in some strange, historic bubble.
Max had qualified poorly after a messy final sector. Then the race had been worse, you can’t overtake here at the best of times but the car looked like it wanted to fight him at every corner.
He finished seventh.
By the time you got back to the motorhome your phone was already burning with notifications.
You told yourself not to look.
@f1_tea: Max when his girlfriend is there: fighting for his LIFE
Max when she’s not there: untouchable
make it make sense.
@orangearmy: She seems nice but the stats are getting scary now.
@rbrupdates: Races attended by Y/N this season: P3, P5, P7
Races missed: P1, P1
Interesting…
@maximylove33: Red Bull need to ban her from the garage I’m sorry.
You stared at that one a little longer than the others.
Ban her from the garage.
Your chest tightened, but you forced yourself to laugh under your breath because it was absurd. It was social media. People said anything online. They blamed girlfriends, mechanics, fans, helmets, haircuts, cats, moon phases.
It didn’t mean anything.
Still when Max came into the room, damp-haired and exhausted, you locked your phone before he could see. His eyes flicked to the movement immediately.
“You okay?”
“Yeah,” you said too quickly. “Just tired.”
Max studied you for a second, blue eyes narrowing with that sharp, quiet attention he always had when something felt off. He might have been blunt with the rest of the world, impatient with questions he didn’t like, but with you he noticed everything. The forced smile, the tucked-away phone, the way your shoulders sat too high. He crossed the room and sat beside you.
“What’s happened?”
You blinked. “What?”
“Don’t do that.”
You looked down at your hands. “It’s nothing.”
“Y/N.”
“It’s just stupid fan stuff.”
Max exhaled through his nose, already irritated, never at you, but at the invisible crowd of people who seemed to think loving him meant they owned every part of his life.
He reached for your phone. “Show me.”
“No.”
His expression softened at once, that was somehow worse, the anger you could handle but the softness made your throat close.
“Mijn liefje,” he murmured, quieter now. “What is it?”
You shook your head. “They’re just saying I’m bad luck.”
Max stared at you, then he let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “That is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.” You didn’t say anything and so he shifted closer, his knee pressing against yours. “I could drive into a wall by myself and they would find a way to blame you if you were standing three countries away.”
You laughed, but it came out weak.
“I’m serious,” he said. “You’re not bad luck.”
“I know,” you said, but neither of you quite believed that you meant it.
The third time was Austria.
You loved Austria because Max loved Austria. Even before the weekend started he was lighter there, still intense and focused, still Max, but happier. The sea of orange in the grandstands always did something to him even if he pretended it didn’t.
You wanted that weekend to go well for him more than anything.
Instead qualifying was messy and then the race unravelled.
A poor start again then a strategy gamble that didn’t pay off. A late-race battle that left Max furious over the radio and fifth at the flag.
You didn’t need to check your phone to know what people were saying. You felt it before you saw it.
In the garage people were careful around you, no one was outright rude, you didn’t think anyone would dare be rude, not openly and certianly not around Max, but there were glances. Tiny pauses. Conversations that dipped quieter when you walked past.
You told yourself you were imagining it. Then you heard one of the junior PR assistants whisper, “It’s going to be a nightmare online again.”
Someone else said, “Honestly they should just keep her away for Silverstone. Not because it’s real, obviously, but the optics… the comment sections are getting brutal.”
The optics.
Your stomach dropped. You stood frozen in the corridor outside hospitality, one hand still on the door you had been about to push open.
The first voice replied, “Yeah. It’s becoming a thing now.”
A thing.
You were becoming a thing.
You're Max’s girlfriend. The person who holds his hands all night when he's too wired after races to sleep, the person who knows exactly what he needs before early flights, the person who watched him be too hard on himself again and again and loved him through it all.
Now you’re reduced to a thing.
A bad-luck narrative.
A problem to manage.
You stepped back before anyone could see you.
Silverstone was the next weekend. You had planned to go. Max had asked you three times if you were sure you wanted to come because he knew the British media could be brutal, and you had kissed him in the kitchen and said, “Of course I’m coming.”
He had smirked at that, pulling you closer by the hips. “Good. Then you can watch very carefully.”
Later, sitting alone in bed waiting for Max to finish on the sim you felt something inside you twist.
What if you went and he didn’t win or missed the podium again?
What if everyone was waiting for it?
What if even the team didn’t want you there?
By the time Max came to bed you had fixed your face. His hair was a mess and his expression stormy, but when he saw you the storm eased.
He came closer, his hand finding your waist automatically. “You okay?”
You looked at him, at the tiredness in his face, at the frustration he was trying to swallow because he didn’t want to bring it to you and you couldn’t do it. You couldn’t add yourself to the list of things he had to handle.
So you smiled.
“Yeah,” you said. “I’m okay.”
Max did not win Silverstone.
But you weren’t there. You watched from home, sitting cross-legged on your sofa in one of his hoodies your phone face down on the cushion beside you.
He finished second after a late safety car, close enough to make it painful.
When he called you afterward, his face appeared on your screen still flushed from the race, hair damp and eyes tired.
“You should've been here,” he said.
Your chest ached.
“I watched.”
“It’s not the same.”
“I know.”
He frowned. “Why didn’t you come again?”
You had told him you weren’t feeling well, it wasn’t entirely a lie. You had felt sick every time you imagined stepping into the paddock and seeing everyone wonder if you were going to ruin his weekend just by existing.
“I told you,” you said. “Headache.”
“For four days?”
“It was a very committed headache.”
Usually he would have laughed but he very pointedly didn’t.
“Y/N.”
You looked away from the screen. “Max.”
“What is going on?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re lying.”
You swallowed. “I’m just tired.”
He watched you in silence and for one terrifying second you thought he was going to push. Max was stubborn. He hated being shut out, especially by you, but then someone called his name in the background.
His jaw tightened. “I have to go,” he said reluctantly. “We’re going to talk later.”
“Okay.”
His voice softened. “I love you.”
You closed your eyes for half a second.
“I love you too.”
After the call ended, you turned your phone over.
You lasted eight minutes before checking socials.
@f1girlies: She wasn’t there and Max was back on the podium. Coincidence? 👀
@mv1nation: Not a win but better than last week. Keep the pattern going.
@paddockspy: Red Bull garage seemed calmer without Y/N there, just saying.
@verstappening1: I don’t hate her but if she loves him she should stay home until the championship is safe.
If she loves him.
That was the one that got you, because of course you do.
You loved him so much it terrified you sometimes. You loved him when he won and when he didn’t. You loved him when he was impossible after bad races, pacing hotel rooms and replaying overtakes in his head. You loved him when he was soft in the mornings, half-asleep and clingy, pulling you back into bed with a grumbled “five more minutes” even though he was always the one with the schedule.
You loved him enough to wonder whether loving him meant removing yourself.
The thought was unbearable so you did what people always did when something hurt too much you tried to make it logical, you told yourself it was temporary. Just a few races. Just until the noise died down.
Until Max won again.
And he did.
Hungary.
You stayed home again, claiming work, though you had finished everything by Friday afternoon and spent the entire weekend watching coverage with a knot in your stomach.
Max won.
Dominantly.
The internet exploded.
@f1tea: Y/N absent = Max win. Third time lucky. I fear the curse is real.
@orangeprophecy: Someone send her flowers and also keep her away from the paddock please.
@mv1updates: Max has won or come 2nd at every race she hasn’t attended this season btw.
@paddockwives: Imagine being such bad luck your boyfriend performs better when you’re not there.
You stared at the screen until the words blurred. You watched him smiling up there, happy and champagne-soaked, feeling like the whole world thought your absence had helped put him there.
Max called you after.
You didn’t answer.
Then he texted.
Max: Where are you?
Max: I wanted to see your face.
Max: Schatje?
Max: Are you asleep?
You stared at the messages until the screen went dark. Then you cried so hard you had to press the hoodie sleeve against your mouth to keep quiet even though there was no one there to hear you.
A few hours later you replied.
You: Sorry I fell asleep. I’m so proud of you. You were amazing.
The typing bubble appeared almost instantly.
Then disappeared.
Then appeared again.
Max: Thank you.
Max: I missed you.
You squeezed your eyes tight.
You: I missed you too.
Spa was where everything broke.
You weren’t going to go, in fact you had promised yourself you wouldn’t. Hungary had confirmed it, hadn’t it? He was better off without you there. But Max had been strange all week, he wasn’t angry or even mad, but he was quiet. He kept asking if you were coming, casually at first, then less casually.
“You love Spa,” he said over dinner one evening, pushing vegetables around his plate like they had personally offended him.
“I do.”
“So come.”
“I have some things to do.”
“What things?”
“Work things.”
“You can work from the hotel.”
You gave him a look. “Not everything can be done from a hotel Max.”
He leaned back in his chair, eyes fixed on you. “You sure?”
In that moment you hated how well he knew you. You hated that you had built a life with someone who could tell the shape of your lies before you even finished speaking. Excpet you didn’t really hate it, because really it was part of the million reasons why you loved him.
“I just can’t this weekend,” you said.
Max’s mouth pressed into a flat line.
“Okay.”
That was all he said.
Okay.
Later when you were brushing your teeth you heard him on the phone in the bedroom, his voice was low and irritated.
“No, I don’t care what they’re saying.”
A pause.
“I said no.”
Another pause.
Then, sharper, “Because she’s my girlfriend, are you stupid?”
You froze, toothbrush still in your mouth. His tone changed after that, quieter but no less furious.
“You think I don’t know what people are saying? Of course I know.”
Your heart slammed against your ribs.
“I’m not asking you to manage her. I’m asking you to shut it down.”
Silence.
Then Max said, “If anyone in the team has made her feel unwelcome I’ll find out.”
You stepped back from the door and a strange panic rose in your throat. Somehow instead of making it better, it made you feel worse because now he was worried and he was distracted. Now you weren't only bad luck you were also a problem.
So the next morning when Max left early for training you booked a last-minute flight to Belgium.
You told yourself you just needed to prove something to yourself. That you could be near him and not ruin anything. That the world was not actually keeping score.
You arrived on Saturday and stayed hidden. It was pathetic really, you wore sunglasses and a cap low over your face, sitting in a quiet hospitality corner you knew cameras rarely reached. You didn’t tell anyone except one security guard you trusted, who looked at you like he wanted to ask questions but wisely chose not to.
Qualifying went badly. Not catastrophically but badly enough. A mistake in Q3. A snap of oversteer. A lap that should have been pole but turned into fourth. You felt the garage change around you before the session had even ended.
Then you heard the buzz of a message, but it wasn’t to you. It came through on the screen of a team tablet someone had left on the table beside you, a notification from a group chat flashing bright before disappearing.
But you saw enough.
Is Y/N here? Because this is going to become a whole thing again.
Your whole body went cold.
A second message appeared.
Can someone please make sure she’s not around tomorrow? Max doesn’t need the distraction.
The distraction.
For a second you couldn’t breathe.
Not bad luck this time.
Worse.
A distraction.
You stood up so fast your chair scraped loudly against the floor but no one seemed to notice, or maybe they did and pretended not to. You left before Max got out of the car and by the time he called you were already on your way back to the airport.
“Where are you?” he asked, hearing the noise around you.
“At home.”
“No you’re not.”
Your silence betrayed you.
Max’s breathing changed.
“Y/N.”
“I came for qualifying,” you whispered.
There was a pause.
“What?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Why are you sorry? Where are you I’ll come—”
You closed your eyes, and the tears slipped out anyway. “I shouldn’t have come.”
Max went very quiet.
“What do you mean? Did someone say something?”
“No.”
“Please don’t lie to me.”
“Max, please.”
“Who said that to you?”
Your voice broke. “Everyone.”
The word came out small.
Humiliating.
And then you couldn’t stop.
“Everyone says it. Online, in the comments, in the paddock, your team, everyone. When I’m there, you don’t win. When I’m not, you do. And I know it’s stupid, I know it isn’t real, but then I come and something goes wrong and people look at me like I brought it with me and it feels real.”
Max said nothing.
You wiped your face with the heel of your hand.
“And then today I saw a message. Someone said to make sure I’m not around tomorrow because you don’t need the distraction.”
His voice, when it came, was low and rough.
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who, Y/N?”
“I don’t know, Max. I just saw it.”
Another pause.
Then he said, “Where are you right now?”
“The airport.”
“I’m coming to you.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“You have a race tomorrow.”
“I don’t really care.”
“Max this is exactly the—.”
“No,” he snapped, and you flinched even though he wasn’t angry at you. It was as if he felt it anyway, because his voice softened immediately. “No, listen to me. I care about the race. Of course I care but not more than you.”
“I don’t want to be something you choose over racing.”
“You’re not something I'm choose over racing,” he said. “You’re my world. That’s not the same thing.”
“But what if I make it harder?”
“You don’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Yes, I do.”
“How?”
“Because I drive the car,” he said, blunt and immediate. “Not Twitter or the team or the fans. Me.”
A sob caught in your throat. Max breathed out shakily.
“Schatje,” he said, softer now. “You think I win because you stay home?”
You couldn’t answer.
“You think when I am in the car I‘m faster because you’re sad somewhere without me? You think I don’t put every single ounce of effort into the race no matter what.”
The words hit you hard enough to hurt.
“No,” you whispered. “I know you do”
“That’s not what you’re saying.”
You went still. “I just don’t want to hurt you.”
“You are hurting me by disappearing.” Max rarely said things like that, it wasn’t because he didn’t feel them, but because feeling them out loud had always been hard for him.
“You don’t answer after races,” he continued. “You lie about work. You say you’re sick. You look at me like you’re already leaving and I don’t know what I did wrong.”
Your chest caved.
“You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Then why am I being punished?”
You broke. Right there, in the corner of an airport lounge, with people walking past and announcements echoing overhead, you pressed your hand to your mouth and cried.
Max stayed on the phone. He didn’t fill the silence with useless comfort, he just breathed with you until you could speak again.
“I saw the comments after Hungary,” you admitted. “Everyone was so happy you won without me there and I was happy for you, I was, but I felt like I wasn’t allowed to miss being there. Like the best thing I could do for you was stay away.”
Max cursed softly in Dutch.
Then he said, “Do not get on that plane.”
You sniffed. “What?”
“Don’t get on it… please. I’m sending someone to bring you back.”
“Max, no.”
“Yes.”
“I can’t walk into that paddock tomorrow.”
“You can.”
“I can’t.”
“You can,” he repeated, steady now. “Because you’ll walk in with me. And if anyone has something to say then they can say it to my face.”
The next morning you woke up in Max’s hotel room. You had planned to come back, talk to him, then hide somewhere until the weekend was over.
Max had other ideas. He had met you at the hotel entrance himself, even though it was late, even though he had meetings, even though everyone would have told him rest mattered more. He was wearing sweats and a hoodie, hair messy, face tight with worry.
The second he saw you, he crossed the lobby and pulled you into his arms.
Hard.
You’d whispered, “I’m sorry,” into his chest.
He’d answered, “Stop saying that.”
Then he took you upstairs, gave you one of his shirts, made you drink water and got into bed beside you fully dressed because you were crying too hard for either of you to pretend sleep would come easily. At some point in the night you had woken to him gently taking your phone from your hand.
“No more,” he murmured.
“I wasn’t looking.”
“You were going to.”
You hadn’t argued.
Now in the grey morning light Max stood at the end of the bed already dressed in the team kit, watching you carefully.
“You don’t have to come ,” he said.
Your stomach dropped and he saw your expression change immediately.
“No,” he said, moving toward you. “Not like that. I just mean you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. I would never force you, but please don’t not come because of them.”
You sat up slowly. “Do you want me there?”
Max looked almost offended.
“I always want you there.”
Your eyes burned.
“But I under—”
“I want to come,” you said.
His face softened.
“Okay.”
“I’m scared.”
He sat on the edge of the bed and took your hand. “I’ll be there.”
You finally smiled, small and private.
“There she is,” he murmured.
The paddock noticed. Of course it did. You arrived with Max, his hand firmly intertwined with yours, his expression giving absolutely nothing away except the very clear message that anyone with an opinion should reconsider having it near him.
Cameras turned and whispers started and you felt them against your skin like heat.
Max did not let go of your hand when you passed photographers or when you entered Red Bull hospitality, or when two members of staff glanced at you and then quickly away. In fact he tightened his grip.
“Max,” you whispered.
He leaned closer, eyes forward. “I’m behaving.”
“You’re walking like you’re about to commit a crime.”
Inside the garage, the air felt strange. Then GP looked up from his station and smiled at you.
A geuine smile.
“Good to see you,” he said.
Something in your chest loosened.
“Thanks,” you said softly.
A few minutes later Laurent came over, his expression was professional, but gentler than usual. Max stood beside you like a guard dog.
“Y/N,” he said. “Glad you’re here.”
You weren’t sure if Max had spoken to him. Judging by the slightly haunted look behind his eyes he probably had. In fact you had a feeling he had a spoken to a few people.
GP cleared his throat. “For what it’s worth I’m sorry if anyone made you feel otherwise.”
Your throat tightened. “Thank you.”
Max’s jaw flexed. That, apparently, was him continuing to behave.
The race was chaos. Spa always was. Rain threatened, then disappeared, then threatened again. Strategy shifted every few laps. The start was messy, the midfield dangerous, the radio tense.
You stood in the garage with headphones on, heart pounding so hard you could feel it in your fingertips.
Max climbed from fourth to third.
Then third to second.
Then, with twelve laps to go, he hunted down the leader.
The garage barely breathed.
You watched the timing screens one hand pressed to your mouth as Max closed the gap lap by lap.
A defensive squeeze, and then Max went around the outside with the kind of impossible bravery that made your stomach drop and your heart soar at the same time and reminded everyone exactly why he was the best.
The garage erupted.
You didn’t move.
Not until GP’s voice came over the radio after the chequered flag.
“P1, Max. That’s P1. Great job mate.”
The sound that left you was half laugh, half sob.
On the screen, Max’s car slowed on the cooldown lap.
His radio crackled and his voice came through.
“Yes! What a race!”
Then.
“Is she there?”
The garage went quiet and GP glanced over at you, smiling.
“She’s here mate.”
Max breathed out.
“Good,” he said.
A pause.
Then, clear enough for everyone to hear he added, “Tell her she’s my good luck charm.”
Your face crumpled.
He had made sure they heard. He had made sure the world would hear too.
By the time Max got back, you were trying very hard not to cry and failing miserably. He climbed out of the car, pulled off his helmet, and looked for you before anyone else.
He pushed through the crowd and reached for you. He was sweaty and champagne-less, but the second he reached you none of that seemed to matter. He wrapped both arms around you and lifted you clean off your feet. Cheers erupted around you, cameras flashed, and for a moment it felt impossibly cinematic, like the final scene of a film. You buried your face in his neck, holding on as tightly as he was holding you.
“You’re incredible,” you whispered.
His hand spread across your back.
“We did it.”
You shook your head. “Max—”
“No.” He set you down but didn’t let go. His eyes locked on yours, intense and unflinching. “Listen to me. I don’t ever want to hear you say you’re bad luck again.”
Your lips trembled.
“I mean it,” he said. “If I lose, its because of racing. If I win, its because of racing. But you? You are the person I want to come back to after both.”
The tears spilled over. He wiped them away with his thumbs, not caring that cameras were catching every second.
“I’m sorry I disappeared.”
“I know.”
Later after the podium, after the anthem, after champagne and interviews and a hundred people trying to pull him in a hundred directions, Max posted a rare photo. It was a picture someone had taken in the garage just after the race. Max still in his race suit, arms around you, your face hidden against his shoulder while he pressed a kiss to the side of your head.
The caption was simple.
My good luck. Always.
The internet, predictably, lost its mind.
@f1tea: MAX SAW THE COMMENTS AND SAID ABSOLUTELY NOT.
@verstappenfiles: Curse broken. Everyone apologise.
@mv1nation: Never calling her bad luck again. I fear he will personally fight us.
@paddockspy: Max Verstappen hard launching a defence of his girlfriend was not on my bingo card but I support it.
@orangearmy: “My good luck” I’m crying he loves her so much.
You didn’t read most of them. Max made sure of that.
That night back at the hotel your phone stayed on the bedside table while you sat between his legs on the bed, his arms wrapped around your waist, his chin resting on your shoulder.
The trophy sat on the desk across the room. Max had barely looked at it.
“Do you want to celebrate?” you said softly.
“I am.”
“You’re sitting in bed.”
“With you.”
You smiled faintly. “Very wild.”
“I’m older now.”
“You’re twenty-eight.”
“Exactly. Ancient.”
You laughed and felt him smile against your neck. For a while neither of you said anything, then Max’s arms tightened around you.
“I need you to promise me something.”
You turned slightly. “What?”
“If you ever feel like that again you tell me.”
Your chest tightened.
“Max—”
“You tell me. Even if you think it is stupid. Even if you think I have more important things. Especially then.”
You looked down at his hands, warm and secure over yours.
“I didn’t want to distract you.”
“You’re allowed to need me.”
After a moment, you whispered, “I promise.”
He kissed your shoulder. “Good.”
You turned in his arms to face him. He reached up and brushed a strand of hair away from your face, his touch gentle in a way the world rarely got to see.
“You are the furthest thing from bad luck,” he said again.
This time you believed him.
“I know.”
His eyes searched yours and then he nodded, satisfied.
Outside somewhere far below, fans were still singing, the city was still buzzing. The internet was still doing what the internet always did, loud and frantic and hungry for the next thing to tear apart or worship, but in the quiet of Max’s hotel room none of it reached you.
There was only him. His steady hands and his heartbeat beneath your palm.
Taglist: @shigarika @bunnisplayground @thecoolpotatohologram @alexxavicry @gigglepre @esw1012 @satorinnie @percysaidnever @osclerc @sainzluvrr @autumn242 @shadowreader07 @joyfulpandamiracle @inmynotes63 @athanasia-day @embonbon @waterdeeply @shadowsoundeffects13 @fastandcurious16 @odegaardlia @skzvibes-blog @iambored24601 @e10owmaks @painfromblues @leto-twins-3107 @rxx-eegh @lewishamiltonismybf @mara1999 @armystay89 @ramonaflwsr @zazima @mischiefmxnxgedhp @yoonessa @wordskeeper @brumstappen @irenkaproszepana @butterkaput @blueskies4everxo @teamnovalak @taylordaughter @taetae-armyyyyy @kitty-m30w @abcdefghi09lmnopqrstuvwxyz @kevynnashley @robindrake13 @lilorose25 @sogoodtoheritsvicious @angelluv16 @alex1ella @nightrose-18
