Heated Rivalry - MV3 x fem!driver!reader
His radio crackles. “Is she catching him or not?!”
warnings: Jos V, childhood friends to rivals to lovers, crash, yearning
a/n: that radio message lives rent free in my head, he sounded so desperate ugh. THIS IS LONG, finally winter break that means: clearing my drafts
lil smau at the end, read AFTER THIS
🔊 listening to: Drag path - 21pilots
They meet when karting is still fun.
Max is eight. You’re seven, almost eight, small enough that your gloves slide around your fingers. You’re both already good. Not “for your age” good. Just good.
You’re put in the same heats constantly. Same paddock. Same fights for position. Same podiums.
You become friends because it makes sense.
You sit on the ground together between sessions, backs against the tyres. You share snacks, complain about braking points and laugh when one of you spins. You argue about who’s faster and promise each other you’ll both be in Formula 1 one day.
Max talks a lot. About winning. About being the best. About how second place doesn’t matter. You listen. You still race him hard.
Jos is always there.
At first, he ignores you. Another kid. Another rival. A girl. But as the seasons pass, you start winning more often. Not always. Just enough for people to notice.
Enough that Jos does too.
He starts pulling Max aside more often. Whispering things you can’t hear. Max’s mood changes depending on results. Wins make him lighter, funny. Losses make him tense, angry and aggressive. You didn't like that Max.
One weekend, after you beat Max fair and square, Jos says it out loud.
“You are not here to make friends, friends won't make you win.”
Max doesn’t argue. He never does.
After that, everything changes.
Max starts keeping his distance. He stops waiting for you. Stops talking to you unless he has to. When you ask him what’s wrong, he says nothing.
“I just need to focus” he tells you once, voice flat.
You don’t understand. You’re nine. Maybe ten. You go home crying, wondering what you did wrong.
You didn't know why he acted that way. Had you done something wrong? Did you say something that hurt him? You cried yourself to sleep every night for weeks, until it stopped hurting.
Why should you cry for someone who had moved on?
Or so you thought, because while you cried silently, Max did the same.
You don’t stop racing. You just stop being his friend.
The years pass.
You move up categories. Different teams, different cars, the same championships but never really together. You don’t talk anymore. Not properly.
By the time you’re teenagers, karting is long gone. Now it’s single-seaters. Contracts. Pressure, more pressure and your futures on the line.
Jos is still there, always there, like a hawk, always lurking over Max's shoulder. Always throwing you furtive glances when he crossed paths with you, sometimes searching for your gaze when his son was on podium.
You end up in the same junior championship one season.
You’re faster that weekend.
Not by a mile. Just enough to matter.
Qualifying puts you right behind him. One place apart. Cameras keep cutting between you. Commentators talk about your past like it’s trivia.
The race is tense from the start.
You’re stuck behind Max for laps, watching him defend like he always has. Aggressive. Late moves. No space given.
You go for an overtake on the straight. Clean attempt. You’re alongside.
You moves under braking. He's forced off track as gravel flies everywhere. You barely keep the car under control. He loses positions. Your heart is racing.
He is furious.
On Max’s radio, his engineer asks the question.
“Max, what happened?”
His answer comes instantly.
“She pushed me, I pushed her back, and after she pushed me off the track. It’s not fair” Max says angry.
You hear it later. On replay. Over and over again.
After the race, reporters swarm you too.
Someone asks if you want to comment on the incident.
You shrug, forcing a smile.
“Just an incident” you say. The word sticks and it becomes a meme, a joke. Something people laugh about.
Max didn't laugh. That same day his father made sure of it.
After that weekend, the rivalry hardens. No apologies. No conversations.
Then Max reaches Formula 1.
Nobody is surprised.
You watch from the outside. From Formula 2.
A year later. Maybe two.
You arrive too.
Different team. Different colours. Same paddock.
You’re both professionals now. He's in RedBull, you're in Ferrari. Media-training is working, now you nod when you pass each other. Nothing more.
It takes pain for things to start changing between you.
The incident starts with George.
You’re running just behind the Mercedes, pushing harder than you probably should be, because that’s what Ferrari has asked of you and because backing off isn’t really in your vocabulary anymore. The gap is small, almost nothing, but enough to think about a move.
George defends late.
You commit anyway. You’re already there, already turning in, already trusting that he’s seen you. The contact is sudden, sharp as your front wing clipping his rear tyre and instantly the car is out of your control.
Everything happens at once.
The Ferrari snaps sideways, carrying you straight across the track. There’s no time to react before another car appears in your peripheral vision.
Impact. Hard. Carbon fibre explodes as you’re sent into the barrier, the force of the crash slamming the air out of your lungs.
Your head jolts forward. Your vision blurs.
Then silence.
Red flag.
Your engineer’s voice breaks through first, urgent but still controlled.
“Are you okay? Talk to me. Are you okay?”
You take a second. Longer than you should. You test your fingers, your feet, your neck.
“I’m… yeah” you manage, breath uneven. “I’m okay. Car’s done.”
“Okay. Stay where you are. Medical car is on its way.”
A few metres away, George’s Mercedes is stopped too. Marshals swarm the scene. The Ferrari is wrecked, nose destroyed, suspension hanging at a weird angle that makes you swear.
Further up the track, Max has already slowed.
The replay is running on his screen. Once. Twice. Different angles. He recognizes the Ferrari immediately, even before the timing tower confirms it. He knows your car.
He knew you.
His engineer starts giving updates, talking about procedures and restarts. Max cuts in.
“Is the driver okay?” tone neutral, flat. Professional.
There’s a brief pause before the answer comes.
“Yes. Both conscious. Medical car with them now, Geor-”
“I don't give a flying fuck about him”
His eyes stay fixed on the screen.
The broadcast zooms in on your cockpit. You’re still inside, helmet tilted forward slightly, hands gripping the steering wheel like you’re grounding yourself.
“Take your time” your engineer tells you. “Unbuckle when you’re ready.”
You do it slowly. Carefully. When you finally push yourself up and stand, the crowd reacts immediately, relief washing through the paddock.
Max watches the entire thing.
He watches you pause with one hand on the halo, taking a breath before straightening fully. He watches you lift your visor, nod to the marshals, raise a hand to signal that you’re okay.
Later, after the race restarts and eventually ends, the paddock is tense.
George is stopped by the media first.
“I didn’t see her there.” he says.
Max hears it as he walks past. He stops.
“Didn’t see her?” Max asks, turning back, voice calm in a way that immediately raises alarms.
George looks surprised. “That’s what I said. I was defending.”
“You moved late” Max replies. “You know that.”
George shrugs. “That’s racing for you.”
Max steps closer, close enough that people around them start paying attention.
“She ended up in the barrier” Max says, jaw tight. “That’s not just racing.”
George’s expression hardens. “You don’t get to lecture me.”
Max laughs once, sharp and humourless. “I do when you don’t take responsibility.”
A team member steps in quickly, hands raised, murmuring about cameras and timing and not here, not now.
Max pulls back, but his eyes never leave George.
“Next time” he says quietly, “leave space.”
He walks away before George can answer.
In the medical centre, you sit on the edge of the bed while a doctor checks you over, asking the same questions twice.
When they finally clear you, your phone is already buzzing.
You don’t see Max yet but you hear about the argument.
Huh? So now he cares?
After the crash with George, things don’t just go back to normal.
They never do.
You’re cleared to race and Max... keeps his distance, he doesn’t come to see you. He doesn’t text. He doesn’t say anything publicly about the incident beyond a short, neutral answer in a press conference. But you notice things anyway.
The first time you’re all in the same cooldown room after that race, the air is heavy. George avoids your eyes.
“Bit aggressive today” Max says casually, like he’s commenting on the weather.
George stiffens. “It’s racing.”
“You seem to say that a lot lately,” Max replies.
No one laughs.
Ferrari tells you to focus on your own championship. On points. On consistency. You nod, agree, do your job. But the truth is, you start thinking further ahead.
About the title fight. About Max. About how close it’s getting.
By the time the season reaches its final stretch, it’s clear what’s happening. Max and Lando are locked in a fight that’s going to come down to the last race. The margins are tiny. Strategy matters. Teammates matter.
And you matter too, even if no one says it directly. You're third title contender after all.
You checked the board again:
Lando Norris (408 points)
Max Verstappen (396pts)
And then… you were just 4 points behind Max. That was it. Your chances were gone unless everything went perfectly—or horribly—for Lando. He’d have to finish sixth or lower, crash, DNF… something would have to take him out of the equation completely for you to even have a shot. And you knew it wasn’t going to happen on its own.
In Qatar, you find yourself between Max and Charles on track again. Different situation this time.
And then Ferrari calls you in. You hesitate for a fraction of a second, but you follow orders.
It’s the wrong call. The tyres aren’t ready. The gap to the car ahead is too small. By the time you get back on track, you’ve lost precious seconds. The undercut fails, the overcut impossible.
Your engineer tries to console you over the radio. “We’ll look at the data after, you did everything you could. Good job.”
You don’t respond. You can hear it in your own head. You know it’s true. But it doesn’t make the loss sting any less. The podium is there, but it tastes like ash.
And from the back of your mind, you’re already thinking about Max. About how close he is to the title. About what you could still do to make a difference.
Because this race isn’t over, not yet.
You don’t say anything. Not to Ferrari. Not to Max. But the idea starts to take shape anyway, slow and uncomfortable.
In the drivers’ briefing before Abu Dhabi, the tension is impossible to ignore. Everyone knows what’s at stake. You and Max don’t look at each other. Lando is calm in that irritatingly composed way of his.
Max sits two rows ahead of you. You watch the back of his neck while the FIA talks about track limits and safety.
You think about those karting days for the next 40 minutes.
On Saturday night, you run into Max by accident in the paddock. Literally—shoulder to shoulder near the motorhomes.
“Sorry,” you both say at the same time.
There’s an awkward pause.
“You okay?” he asks finally, voice low, careful.
“Yeah,” you answer. “I’m fine.”
He nods. Looks like he wants to say more. Doesn’t.
“Good luck tomorrow,” you add.
He meets your eyes then. Really meets them.
“Same,” he says.
Race day comes fast. You qualify well. Too well. Ahead of Max.
Ferrari is happy. Your engineer congratulates you. Strategy meetings follow. They talk about podiums but no one mentions the championship.
You think about it anyway.
Abu Dhabi
Abu Dhabi decides everything.
Final race. World Championship on the line. Max needs the win. You’re still in the title fight, even though you know it’ll take a miracle to win.
On the grid, Max pulls up just behind you. You don’t look back. You don’t need to. You can feel him there.
The lights go out.
The race unfolds exactly like everyone feared and hoped it would.
Max is faster. You can see it in the mirrors. Oscar is glued to his mirrors in second. Lando sits in third and you? fourth.
Ferrari has made mistakes all weekend, points lost, strategies gone wrong—but now, now it’s do or die. The championship is within Max’s grasp… if only Lando can be slowed, blocked, anything.
You knew you didn’t stand a chance, not this year.
Your engineer’s voice comes through the radio, tense, almost panicked. “You're faster than Lando. Push him! Keep him behind!”
You bite your lip. Lando was not giving that 3º place to you.
You glance at the mirrors. Lando’s gap is tiny. One mistake, one bold move, and you could slip past him—or be ripped off the track.
You take a deep breath, gripping the steering wheel. “For old times’ sake” And then you go.
Commentator 1: “She’s right behind Lando… and she’s not making an easy move. Looks like she’s trying to hold him up.”
Commentator 2: “Yeah, she’s definitely fighting. She’s keeping Lando in check… and that could help Max in the championship.”
Commentator 1: “Interesting strategy, whether intentional or not. She’s fast enough to challenge him, but she’s just using the car to manage the gaps. Max must be watching this closely from behind.”
Commentator 2: “Feels like the old karting days, doesn’t it? Two drivers who know each other well, and now she’s playing it smart to influence the outcome. Fourth place for her, but potentially crucial for the title.”
Commentator 1: “Every corner counts here, every decision. And she’s doing exactly what she needs to do—keeping Lando behind and Max in the lead. Incredible”
You brake later. You fight every corner, every apex. You force Lando wide in Turn 5, he regains, you fight again. You’re not racing for yourself. You’re racing for Max. Every lap has you calculating where to push, where to block making sure Lando can’t gain.
“Tyre temperatures—” you turned off the radio, you didn't give a fuck about tyres right now, only 3 laps left.
Your own breaths are loud in the headset.
His radio crackles. “Is she catching him or not?!”
“Affirmative!” his engineer yells back, voice almost breaking. “She’s right on him, holding him, Max! She’s making it happen!”
Max grips the wheel tighter, jaw tense. Every second is pain, hope, fear.
You push harder, knowing every move could ruin both of your races. Your Ferrari tires squeal, brakes glowing red-hot, but you don’t care. Lando fumbles slightly through the final chicane. You force him into a wide line.
“You can’t pass me,” you think. “You can’t, not today.”
Ferrari knows exactly what you’re doing and they let you. Lando doesn’t.
Final lap. Final corner. You slide into the apex perfectly. Lando is behind, every muscle screaming, but it works.
Max crosses the line first. Oscar in second. Lando drops to fourth.
The chequered flag falls.
Max Verstappen is World Champion.
On the radio, Max lets out a breath he’s been holding for months. “Thank you” he mutters. Quiet, almost inaudible, but it’s for you.
Max slows the car on the in-lap, voice shaking just enough to give him away, but when he parks it, there’s only one thing he does first.
He looks for you.
Not his team. Not the cameras. Not the crowd.
You’re still sitting in the Ferrari, third place, helmet resting against the headrest, heart pounding so hard it hurts. You knew you didn’t stand a chance today. You knew what you were doing. And now it’s done, you are happy.
Max climbs out of his car and the noise crashes over him all at once.
But when his eyes land on you, everything else disappears.
For a second, the world really does stop.
You get out of the car more slowly, legs stiff, hands still buzzing. You straighten up and look across parc fermé, his eyes already locked on yours.
No hesitation. Max breaks into a run.
Someone shouts his name. Someone grabs at his suit. Cameras scramble, confused, trying to follow where he’s going.
He runs straight to you.
You barely have time to process it before he’s there, arms wrapping around you, helmet knocking gently into yours as he pulls you in hard, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.
You freeze.
For a second, you don’t know what to do. It’s been ten years since he’s touched you like this. Your hands hover awkwardly at your sides.
The cameras are losing their minds.
You hug him back.
Your arms slide around his middle and the contact is real, solid, grounding. The helmets knock together again.
He stays there for a few seconds longer than necessary.
Long enough that his team gives up trying to pull him away.
You feel him shake.
Slowly, deliberately, Max lowers his visor just enough to hide his wet eyes from the cameras. You can feels the tears anyway, slipping free, as he shakes.
You pull back just a fraction, barely a few centimetres.
Carefully, gently, you reach up and lift his visor fully.
For the first time in ten years, you see them again.
Those sharp blue eyes.
He looks at you like he did when he was eight years old.
“Thank you” he says, voice breaking.
You swallow hard. “You won” you reply softly.
He shakes his head once. Just once. Still holding you.
And then, finally, reluctantly, he lets go.
“Can we...ugh" he couldn't find the words "We will try again”
“Again?”
“Always. As long as it takes to have you back”
This time, he doesn’t look away.
And neither do you.
SMAU (reactions to Max winning the race)
