The Max Verstappen Fan Club (Unofficial)
You start a TikTok making fun of how obsessed fans are with Max. He finds your videos. Instead of suing, he duets one. Main masterlist || Navigation
It starts as a joke. Or maybe boredom. Or maybe both, with a hint of caffeine and poor impulse control. It’s two in the morning, your laptop screen glowing while you sip a too-warm Red Bull — because irony makes you feel powerful. You’re scrolling through TikTok, through dramatic Max Verstappen edits set to sad piano music, all with captions like “He’s not just a driver. He’s destiny.” Something in your brain snaps. You open CapCut.
Your video starts with the words “The Max Verstappen Fan Club (Unofficial)” and the voiceover of someone who takes documentaries too seriously. “This is Max Verstappen,” you narrate solemnly. “A man powered solely by caffeine, stubbornness, and the fear of losing P1.” Then you cut to a clip of him blank-faced in a press conference, add tragic violin music, and subtitle it: ‘he’s seen too much.’ Perfect. You laugh, post it, and forget about it.
The next morning, your phone explodes. Sixty thousand likes. Two hundred thousand. Comment after comment: “PLEASE MAKE MORE.” “He’s gonna see this and block you.” “Why is this so accurate???” You make another one. And another. “He doesn’t just drive,” you say in one. “He communicates exclusively in aggressive overtakes and slightly disappointed head shakes.” Another one goes: “Max Verstappen is the human embodiment of ‘are you done?’ energy.”
They go viral. Millions of views. Your DMs are chaos. People are tagging you in everything he does, begging for more commentary. You think you’ve peaked. You think he’ll never actually see any of it.
Then, one random Thursday morning, you wake up to a message you never expected to see.
@maxverstappen1 has duetted your video.
You freeze. You blink. You double-check. It’s real. You open the app, pulse racing.
It’s that video — the one where you called him the human form of “are you done.” And there he is, on the right side of the screen. Hoodie, messy hair, slight smirk. He watches your edit with a straight face for a full ten seconds before finally raising an eyebrow. Then he says, completely deadpan: “Pretty sure I asked that question yesterday.”
You scream into your pillow. The duet hits ten million views in five hours. The internet combusts. People are unhinged. “MAX FOUND HER.” “THE WAY HE’S FLIRTING??” “SHE WON LIFE.” You log off, convinced it’ll all fade. It doesn’t.
Two days later, your DMs light up. A message request from @maxverstappen1. Just a screenshot of your video and the text: “You forgot ‘doesn’t like interviews.’” You stare at it for a long moment before replying: “You forgot ‘can’t take a joke.’” He responds within seconds: “I took one. You just posted it.”
You almost drop your phone.
It becomes a thing. He likes random comments on your videos. You keep posting, pretending you’re unbothered but dying inside. One of your captions reads ‘he probably won’t see this one’ — he comments, “I did.” You tell your friends. They scream. The internet ships it before either of you even speak again.
Until he messages you: “You in Monaco?” You reply, “No, I don’t live on a yacht.” He texts back, “Unfortunate. We have good coffee here.” You roll your eyes so hard you can feel it, but somehow your heart does a weird little flip.
You finally meet him months later, during race weekend. You get a paddock pass through a friend, half-terrified, half-thrilled. You don’t expect him to notice you — until he does. “You,” he says, stopping mid-step, his accent soft but distinct. You blink. “Me?” “The unofficial fan club,” he says, and the corner of his mouth tilts upward. “Didn’t think you’d actually show up.” “Didn’t think you’d actually text first,” you shoot back before you can stop yourself. He laughs, quiet and surprised. “Touché.”
It’s strange, seeing him up close — not a meme, not an edit, not a punchline. Just a person. He’s calmer, warmer, less robotic than the cameras ever show. You talk for ten minutes before he gets pulled away by PR, but he manages to toss a “See you later?” over his shoulder, and for some reason, it doesn’t sound casual.
You do see him later. At dinner. Then in texts. Then in late-night calls that turn into inside jokes. He’s funny. Dry. Smarter than you expect, and just self-aware enough to tease you about your “documentaries.” One night, he says, “So, how does it feel to have ruined my reputation?” You reply, “Pretty good, actually.” He laughs. “Good. Because now it’s your job to fix it.”
Weeks pass like that — a slow, unexpected orbit. He posts a TikTok out of nowhere one night. Just him sitting in the car post-race, messy hair, tired smile. Caption: “The unofficial fan club president hasn’t posted in a while. Should I be concerned?” You’re tagged. You nearly drop your phone again.
You text him: “I hate you.” He replies: “You started it.” “Yeah but I didn’t finish it,” you say. “Yet,” he sends back. Then, after a pause: “Dinner in Monaco?”
You go. It’s simple — no cameras, no noise, just you, him, and the sound of the sea. He’s relaxed, teasing, less of the world champion and more of the guy who smirked into a TikTok camera at 2 AM. You tell him you never meant for it to get this far. He grins. “Neither did I. Guess you won.” “Won what?” you ask. “Me,” he says, and you laugh because he’s joking—except, maybe, not entirely.
By the end of the night, he walks you to your car. You’re both quiet, smiling, the kind of silence that feels like something starting. “So,” he says, hands in his pockets. “Still unofficial?” “Maybe,” you say, pretending to think. “Depends.” “On?” “If you’ll duet the next one.” He grins, eyes bright. “Try me.”
The next morning, your TikTok goes up. “Breaking news,” you announce dramatically. “The Max Verstappen Fan Club (Unofficial) has been compromised. Effective immediately, this is now a partnership.”
The last frame cuts to him sitting beside you, hood up, clearly trying not to laugh. “Finally,” he says. “She admits it.”
The video hits ten million views before lunch. And this time, you don’t scream into a pillow. You just smile, sip your coffee, and text him: “So when’s the next meeting, partner?” He replies instantly. “Tonight.”
