Reset, Chapter Twenty-Four
Max Verstappen x Reader
Series Masterlist
Teaser: Testing weekend proves to be... a lot.
You’re going to die.
Actually die.
Your chest keeps fizzing like you’ve chugged champagne. You’re smiling too much- an unprofessional, too-big, too-real smile- and every time you catch yourself, you try to smooth it out. It lasts three seconds. Maybe four.
Because she’s right through those doors. Your car.
Your car.
You’re still trying to get used to seeing her in her full glory. You can practically see her in your mind’s eye- the AT04 is sitting at the mouth of the garage like a creature waiting to be woken up- glossy white and navy, halo gleaming, the sun making the paint sparkle like it’s in water.
Your name sits on the sidepod in bold white letters. Your number on the nose. Your branding. Your fucking signature hand painted on the halo.
You couldn’t breathe when you got to see her in person.
Because the last time a car was built for you, you were nineteen and grateful for anything that didn’t explode under you at turn-in. You’ve spent your entire life climbing into machines shaped around someone else’s priorities- someone else’s ergonomics, someone else’s driving style, someone else’s future.
But this- This is yours. Your car. Your future. Your team. When you walk into this garage, the mechanics greet you with nods, smiles- respect- and someone hands you your helmet like they’ve been waiting specifically for you. You haven’t had that in years.
Your gloves. Your seat fit. Your drink bottles labeled with your number. Your name on your drivers’ room door. Your name printed on hundreds- no, thousands- of brand-new t-shirts already walking around the paddock like you might be a real, actual Formula One driver.
Fans- your fans- wearing your colors. Your number. Magic. It’s all fucking magic.
“And here,” a comms person is saying, handing you a stack of media schedules, “after the second stint you’ll do the ESPN segment, then Sky, then a crowd walk- are you listening?”
You are. You’re just also staring at a little girl outside the paddock security checkpoint- eight, maybe nine- who’s holding a sign with ‘66’ drawn in glitter glue. Her dad lifts her so she can see you, and when she realizes you’re looking back, she beams so hard her entire face rearranges. You smile back, small and instinctive, and give her a little wave that makes her squeal and bounce in her father’s arms. It lingers with you- just for a beat. Long enough to warm the softest, most breakable part of your chest.
Then-
“There you are,” a familiar voice calls out, warm, but touched with a bit of mischief.
You turn just in time to catch Gavin striding up, half a headset on, clipboard tucked under one arm like he’s already drowning in data. He hooks a finger lightly through the crook of your elbow and tugs you out of your media handler’s orbit before they can stop him.
“My turn,” He glances back over his shoulder when your handler starts to fuss, unimpressed. “She does actually have to get in the car if you want people to like her.”
Your handler makes an exasperated noise, but Gavin’s already sweeping you into the garage with the calm urgency of someone who knows where you need to be.
“You good?” he asks once you’re side by side, his voice pitched lower now. Less show, more check-in.
“Yeah,” you say. And you mean it. "You?"
Gavin just exhales through his nose. “First day of school. Hope I packed the right snacks.”
You grin and let him help you shrug into your fire suit the rest of the way. Helmet in hand, gloves half-on, you nod once to the crew. The session clock is winding down to the start.
And then- finally- there’s just you and the car.
You kneel beside her, close enough to see your reflection warped in the curvature of the halo. Close enough to smell the sharp tang of fuel and polishing compound from this morning’s cleaning. The bustle of the paddock fades. The cameras, the glitter signs, the voices- all of it dissolves.
None of it touches you.
Not when you're here- kneeling beside the AT04 like it’s something sacred, something yours, something pulled from your ribs and shaped into carbon and voltage and breath.
Your hands move over the chassis in slow, searching strokes, reverent as prayer. You’re not looking. You’re learning. Mapping it. Claiming it. Letting it imprint itself into your palms and your memory and whatever instinct in you has always known how to tame something wild and unruly.
You will spend nine months with this creature- because that’s what it is, not a machine, not an object, but a living thing born in carbon fiber and the tears of engineers.
Nine months.
A season. A sentence. A promise. A lifetime of dreams compressed into the length of human gestation. Something in you recognizes the symmetry. Nine months carrying this machine through heat and travel and danger and scrutiny. Nine months of feeding it your best, your worst, your secrets, your skill. Nine months of becoming something together.
You run your fingers down the chassis like you’re memorizing it by touch alone. You are. This is the closest thing to motherhood you’ve ever known.
Not in the soft, pastel, storybook sense. In the primal way. The violent way. The way nature intended- where instinct overrides logic and devotion arrives like a lightning strike. The kind where mothers lift cars and walk barefoot across deserts and fight monsters with their bare hands and are called to be such a higher version of themselves that it borders on inhuman.
You felt it instantly. The moment you saw the AT04 in person, painted in your colors, wearing your number, carrying your name- your heart just… opened. No hesitation. No caution. Just recognition.
You are mine. I am yours. We belong to each other now.
No one warns you how fast it happens. How fierce it is. How sudden the urge is to protect, to nurture, to offer up your own body for its sake. Your thumb brushes along a seam in the bodywork, and you swear the car hums beneath your touch. Like it knows. Like it’s answering you. You think of how a baby recognizes the rhythm of the mother who carried it.
You’ve only known the AT04 for a handful of days. But in the bizarre, impossible way that racing makes time feel elastic, you love it with an immediacy that borders on feral.
“Car is ready for you in two minutes,” Gavin calls over his shoulder as he looks uptrack before crossing the pit lane.
And then it’s happening, holy shit, it’s happening. Someone picks up your headrest and you climb in and suddenly all the noise in the world disappears into the cocoon of your helmet as the car comes alive around you.
Hydraulics prime. Engine snarls. Fuel pump hums. Steering wheel lights up like a city skyline. Your heartbeat syncs to it.
Your team radios through. The Haas is rolling out in front of you. Okay. Okay okay okay. Go-time. Brake, paddle, feather. Act like you’ve done this before. You’ve literally done this before. Gavin and Richard want five laps of making sure the wheels don’t fall off, two of burn, then pace it out for feel. Pit stop practice, and then some bolts ons for data. You mind spirals off into the dozen scenarios they gave you- flow-vis, rakes, switching parts. You should feel overwhelmed. You should feel like you’re suffocating under the weight of expectation and responsibility and the million things you need to remember. You are, kind of.
But you also feel awe.
Because this- right here, right now- is everything you’ve ever wanted. The last eight months. The last five years. Your whole goddamn life. You tighten your belts. You breathe in. And then you drive your car onto a Formula One track for the first time as a real, actual, signed driver.
The car hits the track with such a clean, obedient throttle response that you laugh- actually laugh- inside your helmet. A sharp, electric little sound you haven’t made in months. You can’t help it. The first two corners feel like a dream, even if you’re just easing into them- light steering, responsive front end, rear sticking just enough to let you lean on it without praying.
Holy shit, this is mine. Turn 3 makes you giddy. Turn 4 makes you euphoric. And then turn 7.
Turn 7 sobers you up hard.
You tip the car in with the same confidence you carried through the previous corners, and the correction is immediate. Not violent. Not dramatic. Just a sudden, decisive no. The rear steps out fast and clean, a sharp sideways flick that steals the air from your lungs and sends a jolt of pure adrenaline straight up your spine.
Oh.
Your hands react before your thoughts do. A flash of countersteer, a breath held too long, a half-beat where the world narrows to grip and balance and whether this thing is about to loop you into the run-off. For one cold second, you are very aware that this car does not know you yet- and does not care that you feel entitled to it.
You catch it. Just barely. Overcorrect a fraction, feel the chassis protest, then settle again beneath you like a big animal deciding- this time- not to throw you.
Your pulse hammers. The giddiness is gone. Replaced by something quieter. Sharper.
This isn’t a car that forgives assumptions. She isn’t the car you climbed in last summer. She hasn’t been tuned, sanded down, or softened by months of development work and compromise. She’s fresh. Powerful. Slightly feral. She has more potential than restraint, more capability than discipline, and will happily hand all of that back to you sideways if you don’t listen.
It isn’t punishing you.
She’s introducing herself.
You back off- not in fear, but in respect. You stop telling it what you want and start asking what it prefers. Softer inputs. Different entry. A longer breath on throttle. You let the car talk, let it show you where it wants the weight, how it wants to be loaded, where it rewards patience instead of bravado. Your heart rate steadies into something usable. The panic drains away, leaving focus in its place. Help the team. Get the feedback. Log everything.
This isn’t about taming the car or making great lap times. You’re not here to break her in or force her into submission. You’re here to feel every quirk and imbalance, to understand the machine exactly as she is right now- not ideal, not later, not in theory. This version. The one she is today.
You settle into the lap, letting the initial high bleed out of your nerves until what’s left is function: listening, feeling, interpreting. The brakes get noticeably softer when the carcass temp is high. It porpoises a little under acceleration. The belts come through the seat in a way that tells you, immediately, that the seat still isn’t wide enough for your ass- pressure points you’ll feel by the end of the run. There’s a faint, high-pitched whine in sixth that wasn’t there on the out lap. You log it all. Use your code words. Trivial things on the radio. Important stuff mentally. Calmly. No drama. This is data. You knew she was going to be unpolished.
Your radio crackles. “Okay,” Gavin says, measured, thoughtful. “We’re seeing some of that on our side too. Let’s box and make a few small changes.” Relief, honestly. Not because anything’s wrong- but because it’s right to stop here. To adjust. To see what can be fixed before the end of the session.
“And while we’ve got you in,” he adds, almost casually, “let’s do a pit stop practice.”
Your stomach tightens. You knew it was coming. You know the brakes feel like wet cardboard. And you know- the actual #1 priority today isn’t lap time or balance or aero correlation. It’s not murdering the crew. You could be faster than the RB19 and none of it will matter if you spear your car straight through Scott- Front Right Gunner- your first time in the lane.
The car rolls down pit lane. Speed limiter on. Calm. Controlled. You line up the marks in your head, recalibrate for the feel you don’t quite trust yet.
It’s fine. Left foot, left foot, left foot- you’re on target-
No, you’re not.
You’re fast. Too fast. The brake pedal goes long, soft as marshmallows, and your brain lights up all at once. “Shit- shit- shit- ” You stand on it, heart slamming, willing the car to listen, to please listen, as the box rushes toward you far quicker than you intended.
The lollipop man actually hops back a step, hand shooting out like he could stop seventeen hundred pounds of composite and fury with his palm.
Your stomach drops through your fireproofs. This is not a rookie mistake. This is a children’s karting mistake. You shut the car off with movements that feel too big, too loud. Inside the helmet, you’re boiling in shame.
You know what you meant to do. You know what should’ve happened. You even know, on paper, it’s not entirely your fault, that the telemetry will back you up- the brakes are long, soft, unpredictable- but facts don’t matter when your team no longer looks at you the same way they did ten seconds ago.
You slide out of the cockpit too fast. You’re already apologizing before your feet hit the ground.
“I’m so sorry- I misjudged- there was more fade than I thought- ” The words fall out in pieces, jumbled and breathless, like if you can just say them fast enough, maybe it’ll undo something.
No one waves you off. No one tells you to shut up. That’s worse. Because they’re all too professional to let it show. Too professional -not comfortable enough- to say what you can already feel coiling in your gut like lead.
Don’t fucking run us over next time.
You have to fix this, immediately. Because nothing stings like a team that starts standing just a little farther back. ════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════
Yuki’s session ended forty minutes ago. You didn’t see him come in, busy signing trading cards and posters in hospitality. Actually, you haven’t seen him since you traded nods at briefing this morning, high-fived before interviews. Testing means one driver at a time- no overlap, no double runs- just a relay of feedback and function and figuring it the fuck out. He’s done his laps. Now it’s your turn. You step into the garage and stop short.
She’s waiting for you, half-prepped and half-patched, like someone caught mid-surgery. It knocks you back for a second- not fear, not even nerves, just the jarring mismatch between what you’d imagined and what’s in front of you.
She’s ugly.
Brutally, unflatteringly, aggressively ugly. The awkward teenager phase.
Flo-vis paint smears the front wing in sticky neon green, thick brush strokes turning carbon fiber into a science experiment. Aero rakes are already being bolted onto the chassis- those ridiculous metal prongs like your baby woke up with braces. It’s humiliating and holy all at once, because this is the work. This is the path.
And Jesus Christ, is it work. Everything about it is hot- the motor, the exhaust, the floor, you can feel the heat from the track practically slow-cooking your ass, lap over lap. Stop over stop.
You climb out, helmet off, sweat slicking down your back, and a gearbox specialist meets you before your boots hit the ground.
“Di you feel that mid-shift?” he asks, handing you a tablet.
“Yeah,” you nod, wiping your face with a towel. “More likely mechanical than aero- felt like a lazy release, not dirty air.”
“Nice. We saw that too.”
Then you’re back in.
Out. In. Out. In.
Laps blur into sectors, into charts, into the ache of muscle memory trying to rewrite itself in real time. Your gloves squelch when you grip the wheel now, sweat pooling in the seams, and the heat’s chewing through your fireproofs like you’re wrapped in heat tape.
But it’s working.
Not the car, she still needs some love, but you.
You stop trying to drive it like the AT03. Stop expecting the balance to come from the same places, stop demanding she behave like her older sister did. You stop imposing who you were last season. And instead- you listen.
Tiny floaty moment at the upshift? You adapt. Lazy traction on exit? You finesse. The AT04 doesn’t want domination. She wants a dance partner.
She wants a ballerina. So you become one.
By the time the sun streaks across this mid-day sky, the flo-vis has dried and cracked off in green flakes, the aero rakes are gone, and the data keeps stacking- row after row of numbers that say: she’s learning. You’re learning. Together.
You climb out for what might be the tenth time- maybe more- your brain is a stew of feedback and tire degradation, but your hands are steadier now. You know where the mode buttons are without thinking. You know the car’s mood. You know her limits. You’re beginning to understand her like a mother understands a child’s first cries. What sounds she makes when she’s hungry, where she can go faster. What cry tells you she’s tired, stretched to her limit. When she’s about to shit herself.
And you love her.
God, you already fucking love her.
At the lunch break, you hand your gloves off to an intern you don’t recognize, peel your fireproofs down to your waist, and catch a glimpse of yourself in the dark reflection of a screen. Flushed. Drenched. Grinning.
There’s still a hundred things to test. Dozens of problems to solve. But you don’t feel like an imposter wearing someone else’s suit. You feel useful. You feel like yourself. You feel like a driver.
And right now, a very hungry one.
You follow the scent of food like a bloodhound, dragging your aching body to the back of the garages. This is pit lunch- not the hospitality bullshit across the paddock with linen napkins and a chef who wants to explain your made-to-order plate. No sponsors. No execs. No menus. Just calories and efficiency.
A long table is set up against the wall, mercifully in the shade. It’s actually… nice. Rice balls wrapped in seaweed. Grilled chicken. Pasta salads. Fruit in plastic containers sweating under the Bahraini sun. Electrolyte mixes in neon colors. Protein bars stacked like ammo.
Technically, you’re supposed to eat in hospitality- clean, changed, presentable. But you’re filthy, your hair is plastered to your neck, your fireproofs are half-zipped, and you don’t want to talk to anyone who might ask how it feels to be here.
This? This is perfect.
Compared to the sad, limp, folding-table garbage you survived on at Dale Coyne- Sysco garbage masquerading as lunch- this feels indulgent. And more importantly, it’s fast. Dense. Built to keep bodies moving. You’re also burning calories at a pace that would scare your any nutritionist. You need to eat- a lot- if you’re going to hold onto the muscle weight you fought all offseason to put on.
Yuki, predictably, has beat you here, and the moment you step into the area, you spot him mid-chew, hair sticking out in every direction like he’s just rolled out of a wind tunnel. “HEY!” he shouts, as if you’ve been separated for days, not mere stints. His mouth is still half-full of rice ball when he jogs over, beaming and waving like you didn’t just swap seats in the same car half an hour ago.
You laugh- genuinely, despite the sunburn, the sore knuckles, the exhaustion. You’ve both been running your own races all day long, orbiting each other like caffeinated moons. This is the first time you’ve stopped at the same time since the car kicked to life this morning. You snort. “Hi, Yuki.”
He stops in front of you, looks you up and down- fireproofs, smeared sunblock, hands still tacky with flo-vis residue- and grins. “You look disgusting,” he says cheerfully.
“You look like you lost a fight with a California roll.”
He looks down at his shirt, then at the rice ball, shrugs. “Eh.” He pops the rest of it into his mouth.
You don’t know why, but the sight of him- the familiarity, the casual chaos, the absolute lack of self–seriousness- pops something warm and buoyant in your chest. You’ve been floating all day, giddy and frantic and breathless with reverence for your car, but Yuki is grounding in the way a little brother is grounding. Well, how you would imagine one would feel, anyways.
Annoying. But comforting.
“Did you fix the turn-in?” he asks, already poking the side of your jaw like it’s a doorbell. “You had the car twitchy. Looked like shit.”
“We were testing the limits, dork. It’s fine now,” you deadpan, slapping his hand away. “Keep poking my head and I’m going to actually bite you.”
He gasps, dramatic. “You cannot bite me. I am your SENIOR driver. More wise. More old. More tall.”
“You’re not older, definitely not smarter, and you are literally a fingertip taller than me.”
Yuki stiffens. His expression drops into solemnity, like you’ve invoked a serious thought. “That fingertip,” he says gravely, “means a lot. Wait, when is your birthday?”
You burst out laughing- loud, unrestrained, the sound of actual joy instead of adrenaline. A couple mechanics glance over, smirking. Someone mutters something about “the short division” as they walk by.
Yuki elbows you lightly. “You ready for this season?” he asks, softer.
You bump him back, shoulder to shoulder. “Yeah,” you breathe. “You?”
He nods, eyes sparkling. “We gonna cause problems.”
“Big ones.”
“And beat some people.”
“Ideally, yes.”
“And eat good food.” He takes another bite of his rice ball and grins right through it, rice in his teeth.
You grin back. “The most important priority.”
“Priority number one,” Yuki confirms with authority.
Then- piercing through the soft hum of pit lane life- a sharp, two-note whistle slices the air. Your whole body flinches. You know that whistle. That’s your handler. And that’s the you’re going to be late for your fan engagement whistle.
You glance over your shoulder to see him already stalking toward you from the other end of the garage, brow furrowed, iPad under one arm, the other hand flapping like he’s guiding a toddler out of a sandbox. His eyes flick from your dirt-smeared race suit to your sweaty hairline and visibly grease-streaked jaw. His jaw ticks.
You can practically hear the internal monologue: She’s filthy. She’s wet and sweaty and disgusting. She’s supposed to be in the middle of a crowd in thirty minutes.
You cringe. Lowkey, you’d been hiding. Just for a second. You hadn’t meant to avoid the next thing on your schedule- you just... forgot it existed. Forgot this wasn’t the job. That this wasn’t all it was. You start to rise, peeling yourself away from the table. Your knees crack. Your calves twinge. You feel like you’re molting out of a second skin made of heatstroke and axle grease.
But before you can go, Yuki catches your sleeve- soft, a quick tug- like he’s pulling a loose thread.“I’m glad you’re here,” he says quietly.
And something in you loosens, just a half-inch, just enough to feel like you’re not about to float away again. “Me too,” you say.
He nods. “Okay. Go work. Try not to hit anyone with the car.”
“It was ONE pit stop, Yuki- ”
He’s already speed-walking away. You yell after him, “YOU OVERSHOT YOUR MARK IN BRAZIL!”
“I WAS ON SLICKS IN THE RAIN!” he calls back, breaking into a jog.
You laugh again as your handler starts pulling you in the other direction- bright, breathless, stupidly happy- heart lighter than it’s felt in months. Yes. This is your teammate. Your friend. Your gremlin. The garage feels different when he’s in it with you- lighter, louder, younger. Like the whole season is about to burst into something wild and alive.
And honestly? You can’t wait.
But your handler is already checking his watch. “Quick fix-up,” he says, ushering you into the side corridor that leads to the team’s private hospitality suite. “Hair. Face. Shirt change. Ten minutes until you’re up.”
You peel off your fireproofs with a grunt, hands slick with sweat and grease, and scrub your face with one of the chilled towels they keep in the mini fridge. He hands you a fresh polo, a comb, and a tinted moisturizer stick- his version of a pit stop.
“You good?” he asks lightly, as you pull your hair into a sleek ponytail. His tone is casual, but his eyes track your movements carefully. “First proper crowd out there. We put Danny out at the same time. You’ve worked together, yes?”
You grin, confident. “Yeah, yeah. Me and Danny, that’s great. I’m good.”
“You sure?” he checks again, smoothing your collar. “They’re pretty fired up.”
“Yeah.” You flash a smile, more out of habit than hubris. “I’ve done press. I’ve done fans. This isn’t my first rodeo.”
He hums, not quite agreeing, not quite arguing. You can see the flicker of something more serious in his eyes- he’s seen the crowd. He’s seen the size. The signs. He’s walked the barricade already this morning and knows exactly what’s waiting on the other side of that gate.
But he doesn’t say any of that. You’re good with people. That’s part of your whole thing. Maybe you’ve got it handled. So he just nods, passes you a bottle of water, and walks you out of the paddock. General area.
It is, in fact, your first rodeo.
You’ve never been in the middle of anything like this. It hits you in waves- even hotter than the heat off the tarmac, shimmering, warping the air around you. The noise. The bodies. The flash of cameras. Your own name shouted with the kind of enthusiasm you never dared imagine for yourself.
You smile. Automatically. Perfectly. Your press-training kicks in with frightening precision: shoulders soft, chin angled slightly down, eyes bright but not manic. You’ve controlled this image for years. Every interview. Every social post. Every pit wall appearance. Every carefully calculated expression of confidence.
So why- why- why is your first instinct disbelief? Why does your second instinct sound like guilt? Why is your third instinct panic?
It makes no sense. You constructed this version of yourself. You crafted her like a weapon- polished her until she gleamed. You held yourself at gunpoint to be the girl who deserved this.
And yet here you are- Hyperventilating behind a flawless smile because a crowd of people are excited to see you. A crowd whose energy just keeps getting bigger. Your handler nudges you to the left- another cluster of fans, another wall of sound. More fans, more hands, more eyes. And now you’re overwhelmed like some kid who wandered onto the wrong stage by accident. Your outside stays perfect.
But inside? Inside something is buckling. Not breaking- no, you won’t allow that- but bending under a weight you didn’t realize could be this heavy. Because you wanted this. You dreamed of this. You chased this across continents and contracts and sleepless nights and humiliations and failures.
So why- why now, when it’s finally happening- does a hot wave of guilt rise up your throat like shame? Why does your first real thought- beneath the adrenaline and the surreal delight- feel like I don’t deserve this. Someone better should be standing here. Someone cooler. Calmer. Less… freaked out. Someone who isn’t trembling so slightly, but enough that you have to keep shifting your grip on the Sharpie to hide the shake. You sign again- another hat, another notebook- and you keep your voice bright when you say “Of course!” and “Thank you!” and “Nice to meet you!” But inside you’re spiraling.
Why me? Why me? Why me?
Why do they care? Why are their eyes shining for you when Yuki has been here longer, when Max could walk by at any moment, when Checo has an entire nation who adores him?
Why you?
Your guilt coils tighter. You feel like an imposter wearing your own face. Like someone who should be bowing or apologizing or stepping aside so a real driver can stand in this spot. You feel like a liar. Like you tricked them. Like you choreographed your whole personality to earn their faith, and now that they’ve given it to you freely, you don’t know where to put it.
“I’m so proud of you.” “My daughter loves you.” “Thank you for inspiring us.” “It means everything to see a girl on the grid.” Sweet. Earnest. Said through grins that split faces and, every once in a while, a mess of tears.
The first one makes your eyes sting with something sweet and gentle. The third warms your ribs. By the tenth, your heartbeat is starting to pick up- too fast, too high. By the seventeenth, it’s becoming something else entirely. Something alive. Something with weight. Something with teeth.
Nothing you haven’t seen online- words on a screen- but here, face to face, it hits differently. Here, it feels sharp. Real. Like a hundred tiny hooks snagging your skin.
Because it’s not just admiration they’re handing you. It’s legacy. It’s history. It’s pieces of themselves. It’s pressure, coiled tight and invisible, threading itself through every “you inspire me.”
You are carrying something enormous. You are carrying every girl who has ever loved motorsport. Every girl who was told she couldn’t. Every girl who looked at a starting grid and didn’t see herself.
And they’re not looking at the car. Not the team. Not the numbers on the board. They’re looking at you.
Your smile holds. Perfect. Bright. Exactly what the cameras want. Inside, you’re bleeding.
You wanted this. You built your whole career on this- marketed yourself as the proof-of-concept. Give me the chance and I’ll represent us. And you meant it. God, you meant it.But that was theory. That was pitch decks and sponsorship blurbs and feel-good profiles on page nine of Motorsport Weekly. Anything you needed to say to convince a girlboss coffee company to send you $3,000 and a box of t-shirts. This? This is reality. This is a young girl’s eyes shining with belief.
She’s older than the girl you saw at the fence this morning. Fifteen, tops. Old enough to choose her own faith, her own clothes, her own heroes. A hijab frames her face neatly, pinned with care, the fabric a soft neutral that doesn’t try to compete with the heat or the noise or the spectacle around her. She isn’t pushing like some of the adults you’ve seen today or bouncing or flailing like the younger kids. She waits. Patient. Certain. Like she knows exactly why she’s here.
Something in your chest tightens once you take the implication of it in.
Because if she’s old enough to choose to wear a symbol her faith- old enough to commit to something that will shape how the world sees her- then she’s old enough to know exactly who she’s placing her belief in now.
And she’s placing it in you.
When your eyes meet hers, she lifts what she’s been holding. It’s a drawing- but not a childish one. Clean lines. Careful proportions. Your car rendered with startling accuracy, the angles right, the stance aggressive and alive. Your helmet, too- your number precise, your colors exact. She’s talented. Really talented. This isn’t a spur‑of‑the‑moment scribble. This took time. Attention. Reverence.
You step closer without thinking.
She hands it to you with both hands.
For a second, you forget how to breathe.
You take it carefully. Gently. Like it might shatter if you move too fast. She smiles- not wide, not performative. Just proud. Like she gave you something important, and you understood that it was. She doesn’t have anything for you to sign. She doesn’t want anything from you.
“Thank you,” you say, and your voice drops without your permission. “This is… incredible.” And it is- it really, really is- but the second the word leaves your mouth, your throat threatens to close. There’s something acidic sitting behind your sternum. Some kind of guilt that won’t go away, because she looks at you like you hung the stars over Bahrain. Like you built the car with your own hands. Like you are everything good and possible in the world.
And she deserves someone who isn’t on the edge of tears. She deserves someone who isn’t locked inside their own chest. Someone who doesn’t feel like they’re faking every step. Someone who isn’t counting their own heartbeats to make sure they’re still standing. Someone who feels grateful the right way. Whatever the fuck that means.
You, yourself? The flesh and blood inside the suit? You’re not a symbol. You’re not a hero. You’re not a movement. You are just a driver. Just a girl who happened to like cars who worked and worked and worked, and clawed her way up, and now you’re here- holding something you never asked to hold.
They try to nudge you along- keep walking, keep smiling, keep signing and waving and the entire time you’ve been trying to dig a little deeper, find a little more, be a little more. You knew it was coming- despite your best attempts, you are a finite resource. You’ve been wondering when you’ll hit bedrock.
Clink. Bedrock.
You take one tiny, singular step back. And of all things, you think of your mother.
She called you at three A.M. this morning- because she miscalculated the time difference and tried to catch you when she got off work. You missed it. Called her back at 5:30 AST instead, which, in hindsight, was probably better. Crying and driving those backroads in winter is unsafe.
And Jesus, did she cry.
At first it was the normal stuff. The expected stuff. How she wished she could see you today. How she wanted you to promise you’d be careful. How proud she was. Normal mom-cry things. The kind you know how to hold without falling apart.
You take another half-step back.
And then- without warning- there was a nineteen-year-old girl on the other end of your line.
Not Marissa, your mother. Not the woman who raised you and packed lunches and learned how to budget vet bills and mortgage payments and feed thirty dayworkers on the ranch during branding. A girl. One who loved racing. One who talked about it like it still lived under her skin.
She didn’t dramatize it. She didn’t make it tragic. She just… told you. About open-wheel cars she built with whatever she could afford. About local tracks between the neverending stretch between Austin and Dallas- circles with names nobody talks about anymore. About racing on weekends and working during the week and sleeping in her truck because hotels cost too much. About how fast it made her feel. How alive.
Stories you’ve all heard before, sure, but she said it with such a hiccup to her voice that it felt important for you to listen to them again. She said she did it as long as she could.
She didn’t talk about when she stopped. You know that story, too. Cowboys are hot. Condoms are not. Shotgun wedding. Ranch life. Real life. The kind of life doesn’t leave room for dreams like that, even if it’s a beautiful life with a full house and a full heart.
There wasn’t bitterness in her voice. Just acceptance. Like she’d folded that version of herself up neatly and stored it somewhere safe. Like the animal that loved to go wheel to wheel with grown men could be tamed into a party trick she called on for the occasional recreational circuit. When time allowed. When money allowed. When the kids allowed. When the ranch allowed. And then she said, quietly, like she wasn’t sure she was allowed to say it:
“The only person I ever had to look up to was Lella Lombardi.”
She laughed a little. Not happy. Not sad. Just… honest. “Her career was over before I was even born. Half a point. That’s all she ever scored.” A pause. “I didn’t care. I just needed proof.” And then- softer still-
“There’s proof now.” That’s when you’d pressed your fingers into your eyes and gone silent. Because if you spoke, you’d sob. You think of her now. Of that call. Of the weight in her voice. And of the pride. How it felt like a hand on your back and a thousand-pound anchor around your ankles at the same time.
Another half-step back.
What if you drop it? What if you crash out of Q1 and all of this- all of this hope- gets shredded on impact? What if you fail? Not just yourself, not just the team, but them. What if they start to believe, all over again, that girls don’t belong here?
You’re fully backing up now, half-steps be damned, when you collide into something solid. “Woah, Hollywood- easy.”
It’s Danny. You twist just enough to see his grin, arms half-raised. He hadn’t been far behind you in the line- and he looks every bit the media darling he is- hair pushed back, cap on backwards, gigawatt smile- a practiced extrovert built for this kind of chaos. “You havin’ fun yet?” he teases, all sunshine and dimples. “C’mon, this is your crowd! Look at all these people!”
He means it kindly. You know he does. He thinks you’re in your element. That this- this hurricane of lights and bodies and noise- is the stuff you thrive on.
And it can be. But this isn’t a paddock Q&A or thirty person factory tour group. This isn’t controlled. This is raw voltage. Thousands of volts of expectation surging through your skin. And Danny’s been doing this for a decade. He doesn’t remember what it’s like to be ten minutes old and made of exposed flesh.
You try to smile back. It wobbles. Danny doesn’t notice. “Let’s grab that group over there,” he says, already nodding toward a tight knot of fans waving flags and wearing your merch. “They’ve got your shirts on- go on, Superstar.”
You don’t move. You can’t. The pressure’s mounting in your chest- tight, quiet, invisible. The kind of panic that doesn’t scream. You’re done. You’re done you’redoneyouredoneyoure- Your handler sees it before you can even think the words. The off-beat blink. The way your jaw flexes just a second too long. The smile that’s turned to static- glossy and hollow and just a little too perfect. Like you’re not really here.
A hand touches your elbow. Gentle. Firm. Your handler. “I think that’s enough for now.”
Danny blinks. “Oh. Yeah?” He looks between you both, a little sheepish. “You sure?”
You blink, and give the automatic, people pleasing response. “I- what? No, I can- ” But you can’t. Your pulse is a hummingbird. Your skin is too tight. The noise is turning into pressure, into heat, into-
The handler guides you backward before you can protest. “Just a breather,” he murmurs, his body shielding you from the crowd’s line of sight as he steers you back through the paddock gates, but not through the paddock. A side path, an alley, you don’t know. Behind the hospitality buildings, into that weird nowhere-space of half-privacy- air-conditioning exhaust humming, crates stacked, staff slipping through with trays.
The second you’re out of view, your body folds.
Two hands brace on the rim of a trash can. Your forehead nearly touches your knuckles. You’re sucking in air too fast, too shallow. You’re going to throw up. You’re going to throw up in the paddock. You’re going to-
A voice cuts in behind you. “Again?” You stiffen. You’d recognize that voice if you went deaf. He sounds like he’s already mentally looping the footage. There’s a dry, almost clinical amusement in it. Not cruel. Just Max-being-Max. Cool. Unfussed. Slightly superior. “You’re not gonna throw up again, are you?” he adds. “Like Zandvoort?”
Zandvoort. P3. Cooldown room. Spinning room. Helmet off and panic-slamming the restroom door and stomach emptying before you could even get the congratulations out of your mouth. If you weren’t about to vomit, you’d laugh. His comment punches through the fog, the pressure, the nauseating swirl of look at me look at me look at me oh god stop looking at me.
You swallow hard and croak, “No.” Then, because your pride is dead and buried six feet under, you add: “Just… checking if anyone left something important in here.”
It’s a pathetic joke. Weak. Limp. Dry. But strangely? You’re not embarrassed. Not even a little. Because if anyone is destined to witness every one of your ugliest, worst-timed, least-goddess-like moments-
it’s Max Verstappen.
Why fight it.
Whatever.
You keep your palms braced on the trash can, breathing in slow, shaky pulls, the nausea ebbing now that your brain has somewhere firmer to stand. You glance up just enough to glare. “Go away.”
He doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t. Max steps closer- not close, just within conversational range- hands in his pockets, head tilted like he’s assessing a gearbox failure.
“I could,” he says, “but this is the best thing I have seen all day, no?”
You scoff, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. Your handler steps in like you’re guardian angel before you can come up with a scathing reply. Calm as ever, clipboard under one arm, phone in the other, radiating absolute indifference to your current humiliation. “She lasted almost three times as long as you did, so there’s that.” he says.
Max blinks.“…What?”
Your handler doesn’t even pause. “Your first time? Spain? You made it eight minutes. We had to extract you from the fan zone like a toddler off a bouncy castle. You looked like you were going to start swinging so we made up an urgent interview for you.”
Max’s jaw drops. You go still, turning your head just enough to see his expression crack into one of pure, horrified betrayal.
“Eight,” your handler says cheerfully, already tapping something into his phone. Max’s jaw actually drops. He clearly hadn’t expected that detail to be aired so casually. In public. In front of you.
You freeze- then the laugh hits you like a punch. And you absolutely lose it. You feel better. Immediately, you feel so much better. It bursts out of you, sharp and bright and unstoppable. “Eight minutes?” you wheeze, hand bracing on the trash can for balance. “Jesus, Max, that’s barely- ”
Your brain catches up. Your surroundings catch up. Work. Professional. Yeah. You slam your mouth shut so fast your teeth click. But the implied word? Oh, it hangs there. Electric. Obvious. Undeniable.
Foreplay. Barely foreplay.
Max’s head turns toward you with the slow precision of a man rotating a sniper scope. Annoyed. Irritated. And unfortunately for him- absolutely- holding back a smirk. He hates that it was funny. For a split second you think he might actually snap back with something clever, something surgical. He opens his mouth like he’s about to. Closes it. Tries again.
Nothing lands.
You can see it happen- the comeback stalls somewhere between his brain and his pride.
“Shut up,” he snaps instead, sharp but cracked through with a laugh he didn’t authorize. He gestures vaguely in the direction of the pit lane. “Go… go worry about your shitbox.”
════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════
It’s a glittering ballroom filled with obligation.
Logo-latticed backdrops. High tables with trendy cocktails. Ice sculptures melting into event rugs. The hum of industrial AC fighting against the heat of hundreds of over-perfumed bodies and egos in tailored suits. It smells like money and ambition and a whiff of end-of-day deodorant failure.
These sponsors don’t represent teams. They represent the sport itself. The people who keep money in Formula 1, in the FIA’s, in Mohammed Ben Sulayem’s pocket. Who buy whole weekends, influence calendar decisions, and send their darlings into the paddock in branded polos with all-access badges.
Attendance isn’t optional. There’s no driver, no team, no principal who could escape this fate. It’s a diplomatic battlefield in sequins. You walk in as a complete unit- The Bulls. Max, Danny, Checo, Yuki, and you.
It might be a genius strategy, or it might be a PR disaster just waiting to happen, depending on who you ask. You’ve been paired off by vibe and necessity. Danny gets Max. You get Yuki. No one gets Checo- he’s fine. Checo’s already peeling off toward a cluster of Latin American telecom executives. He throws you a nod as he goes, and you trust him to manage himself. Checo isn’t your problem.
Max hangs close to Danny. He looks good- black sport coat, sharp lines, severe posture- but it’s clear he has no interest in mingling. His eyes are already scanning the exits like he’s plotting a prison break. You can practically see the mental math: how many drinks until I’m allowed to leave?
Yuki, though. Yuki is your problem. He’s glued to your side, fidgeting with the button on his jacket.
Danny gives you a look across the small cluster of them. His eyes sparkle. You both know what’s about to happen. PR deployment mode: initiated. You and Danny slip into it without needing to speak. A well-oiled social engine. If you can help it, you’d like to stay together. Lean on Danny, let Danny lean on you.
It’s you who introduces Yuki to a group of hospitality logistics VPs, looping in his Kanagawa roots, his favorite sushi spots in London, gently correcting his English when needed, smoothing the edges with a graceful “he means this”- so subtle, they don’t even realize you’ve saved him from saying “I shit myself after eating bad salmon” instead of “I had food poisoning.”
It’s Danny who shields Max from a conversation with a high-energy executive who wants to pitch him a streaming docuseries idea on camera crew access to his “intimate inner circle.” Danny throws himself into the line of fire like a lunatic- yes, he’d love to be followed to the toilet for six weeks- and by the time the guy’s laughing, Max has slipped away clean.
It becomes a rhythm. Easy charm. Hard pivot. Graceful exit. Lather. Rinse. Repeat. You and Danny are unstoppable. Tag-teaming. Handing off. Laughing under your breath at each other’s bits. Sculpting the group’s reputation in real time.
It’s honestly kind of fun. Even Yuki’s starting to thrive a bit- now that he’s fed, watered, and only being asked to speak when you’ve paved the road smooth in front of him. Max… not thriving, per se, but holding it together with Danny steering him gently like a shopping cart.
You want to keep going like this. You’re good at this. You and Danny, together, are great at this.
But god, it’s slow.
You’re still in one corner of the ballroom. You’ve made it to maybe ten percent of the room. You’ve both got at least three “must-hit” groups still queued in your heads. Danny slinks up next to you after a round of pleasantries.
He leans down, murmuring in your ear.“Think we’ve gotta split, sweetheart.”
You groan, nose wrinkling. “I know. I just hate it.”
He nods solemnly, conspiratorially. “We’re a beautiful beast together. But we’ve got one more hour and a mountain to climb.” You glance at Max and Yuki behind you. They’re both standing in awkward silence without the direction of their dedicated liaisons. Schoolchildren waiting for their chaperones to tell them where to be.
You sigh. “I’ll take my short king and hit the end of the room.”
Danny smirks. “I’ll deal with tall, blond, and broody.”
You both start to move- and then pause, instinctively glancing back at each other. “Find me if anything good - or terribly, terribly bad- happens,” you say.
“Obviously.” You and Yuki peel off toward the east side of the ballroom- your half now. He sticks close to your elbow like a baby duck in a suit.
You're immediately struck by how much more efficient this is without Danny, and how much less fun it is. No playful banter at your back. No cheeky backup when someone corners you with a questionable product pitch. No deep reserve of easy charm to fall into if you want to take a break and just smile.
Now it’s just you and Yuki. And Yuki is- god love him- a lot. At first, it goes alright. You swoop through a conversation with a group of Eastern European investors. They’re interested in broadcast rights, digital integration, overlays for livestream viewers. You know the brief and dance them through the right talking points- how Red Bull’s digital fan engagement is higher than any other team’s, how Redline’s Twitch streams draw younger viewers, how F1’s American expansion creates new markets.
Yuki is nodding emphatically. “I hate my Twitch chat sometimes,” he adds.
There’s a pause.One of the investors chuckles, but it’s confused. You cut in, smoothing. “He means the spam bots. Lots of crypto scams lately, makes branding look bad.”
“Yeah, and like… weird comments,” Yuki says with a little laugh.
You freeze. Smile still plastered on your face. There’s another pause. He doesn’t mean to be chaotic. He’s just honest. You pat his shoulder gently, redirecting. “But he handles it like a pro. Makes it look easy. Total natural in front of the camera.”
Conversation after conversation, Yuki is enthusiastic- which is better than disengaged, but it means your brain is working twice as hard. Every brand pitch turns into a game of how fast can I smooth this over.
He’s not saying anything catastrophic, thank god. He’s just missing the beats. The little cues. The rhythm of business-speak. He jumps in too early, asks questions that are a bit too blunt, asks a crypto sponsor if their flagship coin is “still crashing or not anymore.”
You want to clap a hand over his mouth and redirect him like a toddler. You want to shake him and kiss his cheeks in the same breath. God, you love him.
But fuck, he’s exhausting. The whole time you’re talking- negotiating, smiling, steering- you’re also mentally duct taping every little social fissure, plugging holes in the conversational dam, deflecting stray grenades of well-intentioned honesty. You're playing high-stakes verbal chess with a raccoon beside you.
You reach the last table- someone from a champagne brand who is deeply excited about targeting Gen Z. “We’re launching a low-ABV spritz. Very pink. Very trendy. Think fun but aspirational. Right in there for people who are sober-curious, but not serious about it, if you know what I mean. Do you two drink?”
Yuki lights up. “Too much! The salarymen at home-” You hook him under the arm and turn away before anyone can hear him finish and press your lips together. It was going so well.
You spot Danny lingering at the perimeter of the ballroom with a flute of something, scanning the crowd for you like a soldier waiting for a recon unit to return. The second you make eye contact, you beeline toward him with laser focus, Yuki still jabbering beside you about how weird the sponsor’s cologne was or something about his shirt not fitting. You’re not listening. You’re trying to calculate if you can make a clean handoff without being obvious.
Danny sees the look in your eyes and smirks.
You lean in close, speaking low so Yuki can’t hear. “Take him.”
Danny sips. “Why?”
“I have to hit Amex and Allwyn, and I cannot do it with him interrupting to ask if someone’s necklace is real or saying ‘that’s boring’ when someone talks about ROI. He’s not being rude on purpose, he just- he’s like a puppy. A rich, poorly socialized puppy.”
Danny grins, but doesn’t budge. “No dice. You want me to take yours? You take mine.”
Your eyes narrow. “Are you serious?”
“Deadly.”
You glance over your shoulder. Max is parked by the Montblanc display, arms crossed and obviously bored, saying absolutely nothing while a sponsor drones on about brand alignment. At least he looks good. The man can stand still like it's an art form.
You sigh. “Fine.”
Danny beams, already shifting to intercept Yuki. “Pleasure doing business with you.”
You take three steps toward Max before he speaks without looking at you. “Where’s Danny?” he asks, still staring ahead, not even pretending to be subtle about his irritation. He follows your line of sight- sees Danny already knee-deep in a long-winded pitch with Yuki hanging beside him.
“Swapped,” you say, tone breezy, like it's not a big deal.
He turns to look at you then- really look- eyes narrowing. His voice is quiet but flat, edged with something sharp and unreadable. His jaw flexes. “You traded to get me.” He says it like an accusation, not a question. “To make yourself look better?”
There it is. That flash of something wounded beneath all the irritation. The kind of disappointment that doesn’t come from this room, this moment- but from every other time someone’s treated him like a trophy to be won or a checkmark to be exploited. He’s so used to being used, he doesn’t even wait to be proven right anymore.
You blink. “Jesus, no. Don’t flatter yourself. I traded to get rid of Yuki.” Max pauses. You let it hang a moment before adding, “You were just the unfortunate consequence of that deal.”
He stares at you, unreadable again, and then- reluctantly, maddeningly- his mouth twitches. Just barely. But he follows when you move, and you take that for agreement, no matter how begrudged. You both pivot in sync, facing the sponsor ahead like nothing happened- except now the air between you hums with something slightly steadier, slightly sharper.
The rules of engagement remain intact. For now.
The Amex rep greets you both with an easy smile, flanked by two younger employees in his circle and a communications liaison who immediately starts her stopwatch-brain ticking. You lead with warmth- nothing sugary, just polished and efficient. Max is content to let you take point, hanging half a step behind you with his hands tucked in his pockets like he has nowhere better to be.
Which, for once, he doesn’t.
You talk them through the basics- thank them for their sponsorship expansions at the American races- your home races, you remind them. “And I saw the concierge program is growing in Europe?” you ask, smoothly shifting the focus. “You’ve got new perks rolling out ahead of summer travel, right?”
They perk up immediately. One of the execs actually nudges the other, a subtle impressed gesture, like she read the notes.
Max says nothing. Not because he’s bored- because, for once, he doesn’t have to. There’s no looming expectation that he keep the room spinning with corporate soundbites. You’re doing the lifting without breaking a sweat, steering the entire exchange like a pro. When you glance his way, it’s not a demand. It’s an opportunity.
“They’re doing a special access tier for Monaco,” you say casually, just loud enough for him to catch. “Sounds like a pretty slick setup. Premium suite access, private marina transfers, whole nine yards.” You tip your head toward him slightly. “You know anything about that?”
Max blinks, but only for a beat- then catches the handoff for what it is. A layup. Clean. Easy. Like a real conversation, not a trap.
“Bit, yeah,” he says, scratching the back of his neck. “I don’t use the concierge stuff myself much, but my mum’s obsessed with it. They got her the suite upgrade at New Years and a car from the airport- she hasn’t stopped talking about it.”
The sponsor’s smile grows. The woman who had been scanning the room for her next mark now reorients fully toward him, interest piqued.
“Oh, that’s great to hear. Real user stories like that always land better than whatever our marketing team puts together.”
Max shrugs modestly, and you bite back a smile.
Nailed it.
As the conversation naturally turns toward transition, you gently redirect, summing up with a sincere note of gratitude and a promise to follow up. Max mirrors your energy without even thinking about it. When you finally step away, Max exhales. Not dramatically, just a little breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.
A few tables over, Christian watches from beneath the rim of a crystal tumbler- just sparkling water, but he sips it like it’s something stronger. Shameless eavesdropping. His eyes track Max without meaning to. It’s not that the kid’s never looked competent at one of these things. He’s just never looked like he belonged.
Until now.
He’s not performing. He’s not white-knuckling it. He’s standing at ease, a hand loosely tucked into a pocket, watching you close out the final lines of your pitch to the Amex exec. You’ve done most of the talking- by design- but Max hasn’t disappeared into the carpet. You’ve teed him up cleanly twice now, and he’s taken both openings without flinching. Hell, on the last one, he even offered something insightful. Not canned. Not rehearsed. Just... relevant.
Christian’s seen him try before. Seen him fumble through talking points, overthink a press line, shut down when a partner asks a follow-up question that veers even an inch off the media sheet.
But now?
Max looks, God help him, comfortable.
Not playing second fiddle. Not ducking out. Not barking at a handler for overbooking him or sending angry glances toward the nearest exit.
And it’s not like Danny’s not here- Christian’s eye flicks across the room to catch him animatedly chatting with Yuki near the bar, one hand motioning broadly like he’s telling a story he probably shouldn’t be. Danny had always been the ideal foil. Friendly, easy, reliably funny. A human buffer. The best pairing Christian had ever gotten out of Max for sponsor work.
But Danny’s standing right there, and Max has never looked more at ease than he does beside you.
Christian leans just slightly, turning toward the man next to him.
“You seeing this?” he murmurs.
Jos doesn’t move at first. Then, without looking over, just says, “I’ve been seeing it.”
Christian lets out a small, almost disbelieving laugh, more breath than sound. “Jesus. I didn’t even know he could look like this at one of these things. I always thought Danny was our ceiling.”
There’s a pause. Jos doesn’t answer right away. He’s watching you both carefully- like he’s measuring something only he can see. Max doesn’t even know he’s being observed.
Then finally, Jos speaks. Quiet. Reserved.
“Lots of potential there.”
It’s an innocuous enough comment. But it hits the back of Christian’s neck in the wrong way. He glances over. Jos’s posture is still. Hands behind his back. His expression gives very little away- just the faintest trace of satisfaction in the set of his mouth. Not pleased. Not proud. Just... satisfied. Like something is going according to plan.
Christian hears “potential” and thinks media polish. Fewer PR headaches. Maybe even letting Max take lead on sponsor engagements without someone babysitting.
He doesn’t press. Just lifts his glass again and watches you nod Max through the next step in the rotation- effortless, like the two of you have been doing this for years.
Jos doesn’t stop smiling. ════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════ Series Masterlist I have some formatting stuff to clean up, but I will get to it tomorrow! SHIT IS ABOUT TO GET REAL, guys. War is over. We are officially out of the enemies stage of this enemies to friends to lovers. What was your favorite Max versus 66 spite fueled scene?