˚⟡˖ ࣪. ʚ 💌 ɞ who said that I hate you? - OO1
˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ Synopsis: S/n, the rookie in Formula 1, challenges sexism in the sport, facing criticism, intense rivalries, and false accusations. Amid fierce disputes with Charles Leclerc and unexpected support, she fights to prove her talent.
˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ Charles Leclerc x Female Reader! Red Bull Driver
˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ warnings: Heavy sexism, fake news (??), Charles being a complete jerk, and angst. Let me know if I forgot anything.
˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ Author’s Notes: This was supposed to be a short story, but I got carried away and had to split it into two parts. If you guys like it, I’ll post part two tomorrow! English is not my first language, so there might be some mistakes, sorry 🤍
˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ part two here! ✨
Formula 1 has always been a male-dominated sport, but who said that would stop rookie S/n from claiming her place? No, giving up was never on her list of options.
You’ve spent your whole life hearing that you would never make it into Formula 1, that you could never compete on equal footing with a man. But when you finally signed a contract with one of the top teams on the grid, you realized the biggest challenge wasn’t on the track—it was the people who wanted to see you fail.
Among those people was Charles Leclerc, one of the most beloved drivers among fans. Charles hated the attention you were getting, convinced that everything you did was just marketing and nothing more. He made sure to make that clear, with interviews filled with sharp remarks and intense on-track battles.
To Charles, S/n was nothing more than a lucky rookie. To S/n, Charles was just another jerk trying to bring her down—like so many before him.
“S/n, are you okay? S/n, if you’re alright, just answer!” Your engineer’s panicked voice echoed through the radio just as your car crashed into the tire barrier.
Everything happened in a blur. You had been fighting for the lead on the final lap against Charles Leclerc, and suddenly, you were struggling against your aching body to get out of your wrecked car.
“I’m fine. Just sore, but I’m fine,” you responded firmly as you stepped out of the cockpit.
Adrenaline still coursed through your veins. You kicked the car hard before shrugging it off, trying to calm yourself. The medical team rushed over, but you simply nodded and got into the rescue vehicle, removing your helmet and letting out a long sigh.
Back at the garage, you waved briefly at your trainer and went straight to your private room.
You threw your helmet into a random corner, kicked the couch, and collapsed onto it. The TV in the room replayed the crash. Anger boiled inside you. Without thinking, you got up and stormed back to the garage, determined.
“Do you have any idea what you just did, S/n?! You could have been seriously hurt… or worse!” Your PR manager, Adele, exclaimed as soon as she saw you walk in. Your trainer, Steve, and your public relations assistant, Bree, rushed to you.
You looked down at your race suit, still covered in dust. You brushed it off lightly, but nothing could erase the bitter taste of defeat burning in your throat.
“That clueless idiot is entirely to blame! He threw me into the wall on purpose! Did you see how he closed that corner?! Asshole.” Your voice dripped with indignation.
Steve and Bree immediately agreed, but Adele sighed, running a hand down her face.
“S/n, you can’t afford to lose your head over him. The media is already waiting outside, and I can guarantee they won’t go easy on you,” Bree warned, her voice calm.
You huffed, closing your eyes for a moment before facing them.
“Sorry, guys. But this time, I won’t stay quiet.”
The paddock sweltered under the scorching sun, and the sound of cameras clicking was deafening. You adjusted your team cap, trying to hide the simmering rage.
In front of you, a journalist held out a microphone with a smug smile.
“So, S/n… Do you think that crash was due to incompetence or inexperience?”
Your jaw tightened, but the journalist continued, not even bothering to mask his sarcasm.
“I mean, a lot of people were already questioning your place in Formula 1. Isn’t it obvious now that this sport just isn’t for you?”
You clenched your fists, trying to keep your anger in check. But before you could respond, a firm voice cut through the air:
“Excuse me, are you planning to ask serious questions and act like a professional, or are you just going to keep up this ridiculous circus?”
You turned to see Max Verstappen standing beside you, arms crossed, eyes sharp.
The journalist tried to laugh, taken aback, but Max didn’t back down.
“If any other driver had crashed, you’d be analyzing the data, not mocking them. But of course, it’s easier to tear down a woman than admit she has talent.”
A lump formed in your throat—not from weakness, but from gratitude.
“If you want to talk about who deserves to be in Formula 1, start by actually analyzing things properly. But I suppose real journalism is too hard for you,” Max finished, pulling you away from the journalist, who stood speechless.
When the interviews finally ended, you leaned against a wall near the exit.
“Thanks, Max. I don’t think I’ve ever been at a loss for words before.”
He smirked.
“It’s alright, S/n. Look, I know what it’s like to be criticized. Not like you, of course. It must be even harder for you… Society is still so sexist. But you’re strong. You’ll get through this.”
He draped an arm over your shoulder.
“And since I was so nice, how about you buy me an ice cream?”
You laughed, finally feeling some of the pressure and anger fade away.
“Alright. Let’s go.”
( . . . )
Just minutes after you left, the same journalist who had humiliated you was now grinning at Charles—the one responsible for your crash and disqualification. The contrast was brutal.
“Charles, what a race! You mastered the corners brilliantly and proved once again why you’re one of the best on the grid. How does it feel to be such an inspiration to aspiring drivers?”
S/n watched the broadcast while picking up her ice cream. Max had been smiling at you, but as soon as he saw your expression, his own smile faded. Your muscles had already tensed in anger. The way Charles smiled and basked in the praise made your blood boil.
“Well, I think some drivers need to understand track limits better. But… it’s all part of the learning process, right?” Charles spoke modestly, but his tone carried clear provocation.
You felt your entire body tremble. How dare he act like a hero after what he had done?
Max, standing beside you, whispered:
“S/n, don’t do anything. This is exactly what he wants.”
He gripped your arm, worried about what you might do next, and pulled you away from the shop.
You took a deep breath, but every word from that reporter felt like a knife sinking deeper into your skin.
Minutes later, Charles approached you in the corridors, hands in his pockets, wearing a smug grin.
“Are you okay, princess? That was quite the accident… Shame you couldn’t keep the car under control.”
S/n clenched her jaw, fists tightening. Every fiber of her being screamed to punch him right there.
But she held her ground, her voice a cold, sharp blade.
“Careful, Charles. Because when I win, there won’t be any excuses left to save you.”
And with that, she walked away, leaving him speechless.
When you reached your motorhome, Adele was waiting for you, pacing back and forth.
“Hey, Adele! What happened—” Before you could finish speaking, she pulled out her phone and showed you a news article.
“S/n under suspicion: FIA investigates possible data manipulation in the rookie driver’s car.”
Your eyes scanned the words, your heart pounding. A lump formed in your throat. It was a lie. A dirty, planned lie…
You felt your fingers trembling.
Lando came up behind you and read the headline over your shoulder.
“This can’t be a coincidence,” Lando said, frowning. You jumped at his sudden presence and immediately turned to face him.
“They want me out of the game,” you murmured, pure anger in your voice.
You walked into the motorhome and threw yourself onto the couch, running a hand over your face, exhausted from all the accusations.
( . . . )
Two weeks had passed since your confrontation with Charles, and finally, it was another race weekend. You smiled as soon as you stepped into the paddock—nothing could shake you here.
Everything was perfect. You were in a great mood, and everything felt in perfect harmony.
As you made your way to your team’s garage, you suddenly felt someone grab your arm before you could step inside.
You stumbled, but someone caught you. Looking up, you saw Lando, his hand on his chest as he tried to catch his breath.
“Lando! What happened? Why did you drag me here?” you asked, laughing at his reaction.
The worried expression on his face made your heart skip a beat.
“S/n, did you check social media today?” Lando asked, and you shook your head.
“No, why?” You asked, looking at the phone in his hand.
Frowning, you grabbed the phone, your eyes darting over the bold headline on the sports website:
“SCANDAL IN FORMULA 1: S/N INVOLVED IN AFFAIR WITH COMMITTED TEAMMATE”
“Internal team sources reveal that rookie driver S/n isn’t just trying to make a name for herself on the track but also off of it. According to exclusive reports, S/n has allegedly been having an affair with her teammate while he was still in a relationship with his now ex-girlfriend, who is pregnant!
The secret relationship has supposedly caused numerous arguments within the team, with rumors that tensions in the garage became unbearable after a confrontation between the ex-girlfriend and S/n. Some team members, speaking anonymously, claim that the driver’s performance has been questioned because she has allegedly been receiving internal favors to keep her seat.
Moreover, speculation has arisen that her closeness with her teammate may be influencing certain strategic decisions in her favor, raising doubts about the legitimacy of her season results.
The FIA has yet to comment on the matter, but the negative backlash is growing on social media. Has S/n used Formula 1 not only to prove her skills but also to climb the ranks through scandal?”
“WHAT?!” you shouted, and Lando quickly covered your mouth.
You felt your blood boiling in your veins. Your heart was beating so fast it echoed in your ears. You reread every sentence, every disgusting lie, and the anger inside you grew into a suffocating knot in your throat.
“This is absurd,” your best friend said in a low but furious voice. You looked at him in desperation, your chest rising and falling rapidly, your body shaking with fear.
“What kind of sick joke is this, Lando?” You stared at the phone in your hand. “Who would have the audacity to make this up?! How the hell am I ‘influencing strategic decisions’ when they barely trust me to change my tires at the pit stop?” Your voice was low, but Lando looked at you worriedly, already knowing you well enough to see that you were on the verge of an outburst.
“Whoever did this wants to destroy you, no matter what. First, that ridiculous accusation about the car’s data, and now this?” Lando leaned against the wall, running a hand through his hair.
“And the worst part is that people are going to believe it!” you said, deadly serious but clearly terrified.
“S/n, I know you want to explode right now, but we need to think about what to do. They want to destabilize you.” Lando spoke, and silence fell over the place. You weren’t just angry anymore—you were sad, upset. You wanted to cry.
You took a deep breath, but it felt like you couldn’t get enough air. Your eyes returned to the phone, where the article was already going viral. In the comments, a flood of toxic messages appeared:
“Knew she wasn’t actually talented.”
“Women in F1 always end up making headlines for the wrong reasons.”
“Of course, it had to be a woman. Getting ahead the easy way.”
“Shame on the sport. Who’s protecting her?”
That was the final straw for you.
Your chest ached. Not from weakness, but from a deep sadness that made your body tremble.
Lando noticed.
“This isn’t just about destabilizing me, Lando! This is a direct attack on my reputation! They’re basically saying I’m only here because I slept with someone?! This is disgusting!” Your voice cracked, and tears started streaming down your face. You had never broken down like this in front of anyone. Your legs gave out, and Lando noticed, rushing toward you and pulling you into a tight hug.
“You can’t let them win, S/n. You’re not alone, okay?” Lando murmured, running a hand through your hair.
“Why, Lando? Why do they hate me so much? I never did anything to these… assholes, I swear! I may be explosive, but what did I ever do to them?” you sobbed, your voice failing. Your best friend was always there for you, and you were grateful for that.
( . . . )
“What the hell is this!?” Max bursts out, furious, as he storms into the meeting room where you, the team leader, and the PR team are gathered.
You still felt the sadness burning inside you when the door swung open forcefully. Your teammate, Max, rushed in, his eyes blazing with indignation. Right behind him, Kelly, his girlfriend, clutched her phone tightly, as if ready to smash it.
“Oh, so you saw the ridiculous nonsense they’re spreading too? Welcome to hell.” You sigh, your tone calm. Everyone stares at you, surprised. They expected you to be angry—or worse.
Max ran a hand through his hair, visibly upset.
“I saw it, and it’s unbelievable! Who has the audacity to make up something like this? I’m still with Kelly, and now they’re trying to turn this into a scandal?” Max says, sitting down beside you. Kelly joins him, and despite her frustration, she offers you a reassuring smile.
“This is so ridiculous it’s actually offensive! As if I would end a relationship over a stupid rumor!” Kelly says, clearly frustrated with the situation. She looks at you, her expression softening when she sees the emptiness in your eyes. “I know you would never do something like this. Just because you’re a woman working in a male-dominated field doesn’t mean you have to sleep with someone to earn your place. Whoever wrote this deserves to be sued.”
An unexpected tightness grips your chest. After everything you had endured that day, hearing Kelly defend you instead of accusing you was a relief you didn’t even know you needed.
You offer a small, tired smile and meet her gaze.
“Thank you for believing in me,” you whisper, and she smiles back.
“The problem was never you, S/n. The problem is people who refuse to accept that a woman can be great at what she does without relying on anyone,” Bree, your PR assistant, speaks up, and you let out a deep sigh.
Max nods in agreement.
“Exactly. They want to destroy S/n’s reputation because they know they can’t beat her on the track,” Max finally says after a long silence. He takes a deep breath, grabs his phone, and starts typing. “I’m shutting this down right now.”
Within seconds, his Instagram post is already going viral:
@maxverstappen: “Just to be clear: the rumors about S/n and me having any kind of romantic involvement are completely false. Kelly and I are together and doing great, and this attack on S/n is just another disgusting attempt to discredit her. Enough with the fake news. Respect the sport.”
Kelly follows suit, posting a story:
@kellypiquet: “Let’s get one thing straight: S/n has NEVER disrespected me or Max in any way. This story is just another example of how women in sports are attacked for no reason. Grow up.”
( . . . )
After the fake news scandal, you expected Charles Leclerc to use it against you, but to your surprise, he remained silent. No provocative comments, no sly remarks in interviews. He just watched you from a distance, as if analyzing your every reaction.
Charles truly didn’t feel comfortable mocking this kind of situation—not after everything he had witnessed.
Then, the day after the media chaos, when you were alone in the garage reviewing race data, he appeared beside you, casually leaning against the table.
“So… what’s it like being the most dangerous woman in Formula 1?” Charles asked sarcastically, but without the malice he once had.
You narrowed your eyes, already expecting a jab. You were used to his teasing.
“Listen, Charles,” you said, stepping closer, “if you’re here to make jokes, you can turn around and leave. I’m not in the mood.”
Charles crossed his arms, but his gaze lacked the arrogance it usually carried.
“Relax, hothead. I’m not here to fight. I just… wanted to see how you were holding up,” Charles said, scratching the back of his head. You hesitated for a moment, confused.
Charles was asking how you were?
“As if you care,” you spat, rolling your eyes and crossing your arms.
Charles shrugged.
“I’m not going to lie—I enjoy messing with you. But I know what it’s like to have the world call you a fraud.”
Your eyes widened, surprised by his admission.
“You? The media’s golden boy? Ferrari’s prodigy?” you mocked, and he rolled his eyes.
“The media chooses who to attack. Today, it’s you. Tomorrow, it could be anyone,” Charles said before walking away.
And for the first time, you didn’t feel immediate hatred for Leclerc.
( . . . )
After the false news spread, the journalists still hadn’t let go of S/n. Now, more than ever, she was the main target. During a team event, a persistent reporter started pressing her with loaded questions.
“S/n, do you think your involvement with Max could affect your career in the long run?”
The reporter’s words instantly irritated you.
“I’ve already said there was no involvement. That’s a lie.” You responded confidently, keeping your anger in check.
But he just smirked, still trying to provoke you.
“But rumors always have some truth to them, don’t they? Maybe it’s just a matter of admitting it…”
Before you could snap, Charles appeared by your side, resting a casual yet protective hand on your shoulder. You glanced at his hand, then at him, then back at his hand. You raised an eyebrow, confused.
“Interesting… you ask very specific questions for someone who has no proof of anything.” Charles stared directly at the reporter. The journalist hesitated, and Charles continued. “Formula 1 is a competitive sport, but it seems like you’d rather turn it into a cheap reality show.”
You were surprised. It was the first time Charles had publicly defended you or had any interaction beyond provoking you.
When the journalist finally gave up and walked away, you turned to him, suspicious.
“Okay… what was that?” You asked slowly, still looking at his hand on your shoulder. Charles pulled it away, made a face, and wiped it on his clothes.
He shrugged.
“You already have enough problems. You don’t need an idiot like that making it worse.”
You stared at him, trying to figure him out.
“You hate me. Why are you helping me?”
Charles held your gaze a second longer than necessary before smirking.
“Who said I hate you?” He said and then walked away, leaving you more confused than ever.
( . . . )
After Charles’ unexpected defense, the dynamic between the two of you became dangerous territory. You started noticing how often he was around—sometimes teasing, sometimes protective, but always testing your limits.
Then, during another press conference, Charles defended you again. Lando and Max exchanged glances before looking at you, waiting for your reaction. You stared, mouth slightly open, completely lost. You turned to Lando and murmured:
“What was that?”
Lando just shrugged, looking even more confused than you.
That really sent some intrusive thoughts your way.
At the paddock gym? He was there, running on the treadmill next to you.
In team briefings? He made a point to sit close and throw in snide remarks.
At sponsor events? He joked about how you had to smile for journalists who clearly hated you.
And the worst part? He never crossed a certain line.
One night, after a mandatory team dinner, you were walking back to the hotel when you heard footsteps behind you. You turned abruptly—there he was, hands in his pockets, walking casually as if it was nothing.
“Are you following me now?” You rolled your eyes.
Charles gave you a slow smirk, completely unfazed by the accusation.
“Relax, hothead. I’m not that obsessed with you. We’re just heading to the same place.”
He said it so casually, making sure to emphasize the nickname he had given you, something he always did when you were alone.
You crossed your arms, suspicious.
“Right. And you just happen to always be where I am lately? And what’s with that nickname?”
Your arguments didn’t bother him one bit—unlike you, who desperately wanted answers.
He shrugged.
“Coincidence. Or maybe I just like seeing you get worked up.” He clicked his tongue. “And the nickname? It’s just a fact. You’re really stressed all the time, S/n.”
You narrowed your eyes. You wanted to hate him completely, but something about his calm, teasing demeanor made your blood boil in a different way.
And the nickname? He wasn’t wrong.
So you turned on your heel, walking briskly toward your room.
You didn’t want to think about him. You didn’t want to be around him.
That was it.
Avoid him. You told yourself.
