Chapter Text
The team rents out a club to celebrate the end of the season and another successful championship. The loud music and drinks are enough to make her forget about the irritation she feels. The drinks keep coming and slowly, she let the tension bleed out of her body as she threw back shot after shot. She felt the dangerous loss of control but couldn’t find it in herself to stop. Max hadn’t felt that light since the whole clown show started.
She’s having good fun; screaming out lyrics at the top of her lungs, dancing as bodies press against her, and smiling widely when people still continue to congratulate her. She loses track of time, doesn’t really know if three minutes pass or three hours but suddenly—
—suddenly the song is changing.
A song she’s heard before, on someone else’s playlist; Max doesn’t listen to music much, but George does, he’s aways listening to something, always humming a tune under his breath, always suggesting a song to her.
She almost wants to scream in frustration. This night isn’t supposed to be about him, it's supposed to be about her. She’s here to not think. But he’s here, even in the music, even in the escape.
On shaky feet, she makes her way through the dance floor, trying her best to stay upright but the room is spinning out of control and she stumbles, someone, Max is so gone she can’t even make out who, grabs her by the arm and leads her out of the throng of people.
“Where’s Will?” She slurs, tongue barely obeying to form coherent words, “Tell him to come get me.”
“Will?” The person asks.
Max nods, or she thinks—fuck, she’s gonna be sick.
She presses a hand to her mouth, closes her eyes to try to control the rolling of her stomach. She closes her eyes, the flashing of the lights following her into darkness.
Max doesn’t know what happens next, one moment she’s leaning against the wall, feeling the reverberation of the music against her back, and the next she’s waking up on a hotel bed.
When consciousness comes, her head is pounding, she groans, burying her face into the pillow and thanking whatever deity that exists that whoever brought her back had the good sense to pull closed the blinds. The light that’s filtering through the slits is dim and easy on her eyes.
She stays unmoving for long moment, trying to recall who she is and where she is. She remembers her name, at least, and the beginnings of the celebrations last night, but after—nothing. She hasn’t drunk until she’s blacked out in a long time.
Max blinks slowly, trying to make out the room and realizes—this isn’t her hotel room. She hastily sits up, panic sharply rising but it’s quickly snuffed out when she notices the person laying in bed beside her. He has his back to her, but she could recognize the expanse of his shoulders anywhere.
Max pulls her knees to her chest and drops her face into her hands, racking her memories, trying to remember how the hell she got here of all fucking places. Besides flashes of her wrenching into a toilet bowl, she draws a blank.
Fuuuuck, she thinks, what the fuckkkk? Who brought me here?!
She looks up, fumbling in the dark for the bedside table, there she finds her phone. The glare of the screen almost burns right through her retinas but she manages to unlock it, and searches to see if she can find anything that will give her a hint of what happened last night.
She finds messages from Annie, her assistant, the first one: Wheels up at 2pm. Please be sure to be at the airport on time. The second: You’ll have questions so I will clarify on the jet. The third one, a snide comment: I want a raise. You are not allowed to refuse.
The time is 11:50am, the airport is forty minutes away. She needs to leave right now. She checks the calendar, just in case, and there, separate from hers, the notes that have been aggravating her since last week: George - Flight to Monaco, 5pm.
So he’s still not flying with her. Fine, fine. Whatever. She throws the covers off her, and using the light of her phone finds her shoes and pants. She’s wearing one of his shirts and her underwear, her own shirt is nowhere to be found and she’s not going to stick around to find it.
George shifts to his back on the bed and she freezes, but he doesn’t say anything or make a move to get up. He’s still asleep, Max realizes, completely unperturbed by her internal chaos. She steps around to his side of the bed, his long lashes resting prettily against his cheeks, his breathing easy and steady. She hasn’t seen his sleeping face in what feels like forever, she stares at him for a moment, not knowing the next time she’ll be this close.
She leaves the hotel room like she’s a thief, tip toeing across the carpet and quietly shutting the door behind her.
When she’s on the jet, she sits across from Annie and her voice takes a edge close to desperation, “What happened?”
Annie sighs, long-suffering, “You were absolutely smashed last night, one of the mechanics tried helping you but then you started asking for Will,” at this she looks at Max pointedly, “Unfortunately for everyone involved, no one knew who you were asking for so they called me.”
“And you called Will?” Max’s voice almost cracks with the accusation, horror coloring her voice, if anyone saw—if anyone made the connection—if her father found out—
“Of course not.” The brunette rolls her eyes, cutting Max’s spiral short, “You called him and he came, of course.”
“Did anyone see?”
“No, thankfully, I got there first, managed to get you in a car but then ‘Will’ showed up, and he was more than willing to deal with you, because I sure wasn’t. And even if I was, I don’t think even your father would have been able to pry you off him.”
At this, a memory surfaces from the blackness of last night: Will—William—George William Russell—helping her in the restroom as she emptied her entire guts into the bowl, one hand holding her hair, the other rubbing her back.
“Crisis averted—for now,” Annie interrupts the memory, “I would suggest refraining from getting that drunk again.”
Max let’s her face drop to her hands for the second time that day, absolutely annoyed and embarrassed.
“Now,” Annie continues, “About the raise…”
Max doesn’t need George, lapse in judgement be damned, that’s the lie she clings to in the following days.
But he’s everywhere.
She’s reminded of him when she sees the espresso machine in her kitchen that she’s never once used, the coffee beans in her pantry, the mugs that she has no use for, the teas she doesn’t drink, his shirts in her closet, his running shoes by the door, his favorite cardigan left behind on her jet. It’s maddening how much he’d seeped into her life without her knowledge. She tries not to think about her empty apartment or about how deep she felt George’s absence.
Instead she focuses on work, on the responsibilities she has even though the season has ended and she’s added another award to her wikipedia page. Her assistant manages to wrangle her into a black, floor length gown for the FIA awards and then the makeup artist sits her down in a chair and fusses about her hair and her makeup. Annie and the makeup artist debate about what shoes she’s going to wear. She lets them because her first pick would be her white trainers and neither of them had looked amused when she gave the suggestion.
She doesn’t want to be there, doesn’t like all the pomp and circumstance, but acknowledges that she can’t just bail. The whole time she’s there she feels restless but tries not to show it.
Max wouldn’t admit it to anyone, but the whole time they were apart, she had been stalking George’s location and social media like a sore loser. She used her burner account on instagram, the one that looked like it could be a bot or a spam account, but George doesn’t post anything and that irks her even more. He’s been at his apartment most of the week, and Max knows from their shared calendar that he’s flying out to his parents in the following days.
Then he’ll be gone from Monaco until the second week of January and Max doesn’t know if she can hold out resolving this whole thing until then. He should just end it now, or otherwise she might do something stupid, like show up at his parents farm.
And that would be even worse.
The awards are long and boring, but she can’t help but feel the rush of pride when Gabi receives his Rookie of the Year award. He more than deserved it.
Later, when it’s over, he comes looking for her, all smiles and cheeky laughter as he holds up the award.
“Congratulations!” She tells him, “You ready for next year?”
He nods, still smiling, “You know it!”
After the awards, there’s one last after party commitment that Christian had made it clear she needs to attend.
“This comes from above me,” He had told her, “Just mingle for an hour or two.”
The party is hosted by the FIA president so her presence is required. Luckily or unluckily depending on who’s point of view it is, Charles, Lando, and their girlfriends are in attendance as well, so she sticks close to them for the first half of the ordeal. Then they disappear, off to the dance floor or who knows where else.
She makes her way to the bar, decides that if she’s gonna last for another hour she might as well enjoy the free drinks. Inevitably, her thoughts turn to George even though she doesn’t want to think about him. He’s not there tonight, and she wishes he was, at least it would make it more bearable, even if the sight of him ignited sharp irritation in her stomach. He would like the music, probably, and the aubergine lasagna they served as a side dish. She drums her fingers on the countertop, and wonders absentmindedly who she could ask for the recipe.
“Here you go,” The bartenders said, sliding her the gin and tonic she’d ordered.
“Thanks,” She murmurs, pulling the glass closer to her and taking a sip.
She checks George’s location again, he’s been in his apartment the majority of the day and only stepped out in the mid-morning to go on his run. Max had tracked the moving dot all throughout his route while she got fitted for her dress. Demeaning, honestly.
She’s not sure what she’s expecting to figure out by stalking him, but this is all she can think to do. Max wishes she could just let this go. It’s not like she hasn’t done something like this in the past. There had been plenty of times where she’d insulted a partner and they’d stormed off. Usually, they either came crawling back to her or they became prideful, refused to apologize and she easily cut them off. She didn’t do complicated, didn’t like to be inconvenienced.
George shouldn’t be any different, he shouldn’t. She’d thought it herself that they wouldn’t last past the summer, he was just convenient. So why isn’t it coming easy this time? She wonders.
When they were still in the beginning stages of their relationship, he had told her he liked pretty things, that's how he had put it. Pretty things.
“A lot of the time,” he had confessed, “It’s women, because they are pretty in general. Sometimes…though very rarely, it is men. The thing is,” He gone on, “people assume, based on how I look—and yes, I know what I look like and what type of effect I have on people—I’m not being conceited. Just realistic. But based on how I look, everyone assumes that I'm the one that wants to be admired, but it’s the opposite, I like pretty things because I’m the one who wants to do the admiring.”
They had been a few drinks in, sitting on the balcony of her apartment, and the sun long set.
“Does it bother you when people call you princess?” She had asked, because she had always wondered and he seemed keen on talking that day.
He had shaken his head, “No, I don’t really care, it gets old quickly. I only care when they use it as a derogatory insult. Men see me and they don’t know how to reconcile the fact they find me attractive, so they try to emasculate me, demean me. It happened to Nico too, with the whole Britney thing.”
She frowned, “I used to say it too.”
“That’s different,” George had said, “You wouldn’t say it with the same intention, maybe that’s why Nico never gave you shit about it. But he hated it. Same with me, I reckon. I don’t care when you or Alex call me princess because I know Alex doesn’t mean anything bad by it and with you—well, that’s because I know the real princess between us is you.”
“I am not!” She had sputtered as he laughed.
“You are, and very pretty too.” He had given her a lazy smile, “The prettiest.”
She gave an undignified snort, “Yeah right.”
He frowned, “I’m being honest, you don’t believe me?”
Max had shrugged, “I mean, do you honestly expect me to believe that I am the most pretty ‘thing' you have ever seen?”
“Well you’ll be happy to know that you are.”
“Don’t lie.”
“I’m not. In this world, there is only one Max Amelia Verstappen,” He had said, “Its—how can I explain it—I hate losing, you know that, I hate it so, so much. I don’t think you will ever understand how brutal the 2023 season was for me. While it was the best for you, for me it was…a nightmare. But there was something—something that eased the sting. I hate losing, but you are the most beautiful to me when you are winning. Do you know how absolutely miserable that is?” He laughed, “I thought I was losing my mind, hating myself but at the same time seeing you on that podium made me want to kiss you. In all my life, I have never seen someone more beautiful, and I am so happy, that I get to admire it up close.”
Max had been too speechless and her face too hot to say a word.
George is sweeter than her, and sometimes she doesn’t know what to do with that. He’s softer too. And she—well, she can be the exact opposite of that.
Maybe it's just the way he approached this whole thing from the beginning, so full of earnest that it left her a little miffed. Words were important for George. He hated ambiguity. And he’d been clear since the beginning.
“I don’t want there to be any confusion,” He had told her in that irritating proper British way of his, after their kiss in Canada, “I want you to know I’m serious about you, about us.”
“Sure,” Max had responded flippantly, because it had been amusing to her, his sincerity.
Max is not easy to like, she knows this; something rotted inside her years ago and she hasn’t excavated it out. She’s inherited the worst qualities of her father: obstinate, confrontational, the putrid pride that has doomed all her relationships, and the inability to apologize—even when she’s wrong, even when she knows she’s wrong. Especially then.
Rather, she lets the problem steep until it takes itself out. She digs her heels in, refuses to compromise or give in. It feels too much like weakness.
Max has not gotten to where she is through compromise, no, four world championships under her belt—as a woman—have not been earned because she’s played nice. She’s had to earn her keep by biting down and digging her nails into an opportunity that came from a hand that would discard her at the first sign of weakness.
Yes, Max had already been angry when George got to the stewards office, yes, she was spitting profanities at them, yes, she felt utterly betrayed when he contradicted her account, yes, she said things she shouldn’t have said to the reporters, yes, she knew her words would upset him and she still did it anyway.
But he made it worse. And now he was acting like she didn’t exist.
She thinks, deep down, it’s not about the media or anything he said, what truly exacerbates the wound the most is being ignored. God, she hated being ignored. Hated that it made her feel desperate, like catastrophe was looming over her, and she couldn’t shake off the feeling.
This, too, is a weakness. One she wished she didn’t have.
She runs a hand through her hair, fiddling with the ends. She sighs, takes another sip of her drink and—
—she smells the perfume before she hears the voice.
“Is this seat taken?” A smooth, familiar voice questions.
Max’s feels her entire body stiffen, the noise of the party fading to white noise in her ears.
When Max finally turns to look, Kelly is there, smiling faintly. Max stares at her, she feels her mouth open, but no words come out. She snaps it shut after a beat, swallowing the thorns that have materialized in her throat and motions with her hand, but doesn’t answer.
Kelly takes the hint and slides into the seat beside her. Max looks away from her.
She says, “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”
“A few years, give or take,” Max responds, finally getting her throat to work, she blinks rapidly and looks down at her drink, tightening her hold on the glass.
“It’s been that long? Time does fly.”
“What are you doing here?” Max asks, straight to the point. She’s never been one for skirting around a subject.
“I still work with Formula E and I came with—”
“No,” Max almost snaps, “What are you doing here? Why are you talking to me?”
“I was just trying to say hello, you’ve been…doing some really amazing things. I wanted to congratulate you.”
Max hums, unsatisfied, but doesn’t say anything. She’s not sure if this isn’t all some lucid dream she’s having. Maybe the bartender slipped something into her drink.
“Fourth championship,” Kelly continues, “It’s really amazing—“
Max takes in a slow, deep, steadying breath, trying to ward off a headache. She turns to Kelly, noting that she’s already looking at Max. For years, Max had dreamed about something like this, about running into her again, having her gaze focused solely on her. But now—
Max notices her earrings, pretty and George blue.
She almost wants to laugh, here was the person Max had loved at nineteen, the person who Max had wanted to keep—who Max, young and full of hope—had declared was the love of her life, but all she could think about now was the man that had said she was a bully and lashed out in violence to reporters. The man that had spawned thousands of hate comments and articles that compiled all the instances Max had lost her temper.
Kelly is looking at her expectantly, and Max realizes that she hadn’t been paying attention to a word she was saying. The older woman laughs and shakes her head, “Well, it was nice seeing you. Maybe we can…meet for drinks sometime?”
In the past, Max has not been a beacon of morality. She’s involved herself with people that were in relationships before, the only consolation that she ever gave herself was that she didn’t owe them anything. She wasn’t the one with the commitment, the one’s stepping out was the other party, so why should she care?
Max isn’t one to dwell on “what-ifs,” she hates hypotheticals, but right in that very moment, she had an epiphany, a stray thought that verged on a “what if” scenario that she allowed herself to dwell on longer than a second. If Max ever found out that George had gone for drinks with Carmen or any of his exes, Max would vomit. And then proceed to commit a crime. Is this what it means to put herself if someone else’s shoes?
Max laughs, the absurdity of it all is too much, she shakes her head, offers some honestly to herself for the first time that week, “If I had met you again a year ago—hell maybe even six months ago—I would’ve of course said yes.”
Kelly’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise, she opens her mouth, but Max continues, “Now though…I’ll pass.” She slides off the seat, “Have a good one.”
She hasn’t even finished talking before she’s unlocking her phone, pressing the call button.
“Hey Annie,” She says the moment her assistant picks up, “See what’s the earliest time we can fly out. Please. I really have to get home.”
She does not look back.
(But she does stop a waiter on her way out, and asks about the recipe, just in case.)
Hours later, she finds herself in front of George’s apartment door. She has a key, but she doesn’t know how welcome she’d be if she barged in. It hadn’t worked the last time. She doesn’t know how long she stands there, burning a hole through the door, trying to get her words in order. She had mulled it over on the fourteen hour flight back but now, nothing seemed acceptable.
The first thing she should do is probably knock but the sudden burst of bravery that she had had fizzled to nothing in the hours of wait and anticipation.
What if George had already decided that she wasn’t worth it?
What if she was just putting off the inevitable?
Max doesn’t know how to do this—doesn’t know how to hold on to things without torching them to the ground. Doesn’t know how to be vulnerable anymore. But she remembers Kelly’s earrings, their color George blue.
George blue over her first love, George blue over the sting of rejection—and everything that followed. George blue over Brandon and all the nameless faces, George blue over her own cowardice. George blue above Kelly green, and that realization was more astronomical than she could put into words.
George blue, George blue, George, George, George—
She rings the doorbell, her heart in her throat, hands shaking.
A minute passed, then two, then just as she’s feeling her heart about to fall out of her chest in devastation, the door opens.
George looks as though he hasn’t seen the light of day in weeks. The bags under his eyes are deep, almost purple in their intensity. His usually perfectly styled hair is greasy, his skin dull, and he’s wearing an old, frayed t-shirt with mysterious orange stains on the front.
They stare at each other for a full beat before they both open their mouths to speak at the same time.
“Shouldn’t you be in Rwanda—“
“You look like shit—“
George’s right eye twitches, recovers quickly, and he snidely responds, “You don’t look any better yourself.”
Max bites her lip, belatedly realizing that insulting him wasn’t going to get her an invitation inside. She opens her mouth to say something to amend but George is already moving aside, making way for her to enter. She stares for a moment, shocked that he’s wordlessly offering reentry into a space she though she’d have to beg to be let into.
Max steps inside, quietly, feeling like a stranger rather than a frequent visitor. She knows her windbreaker is his coat closet, her second gaming laptop somewhere in his study, and her skincare in the second sink in his restroom. She idly wonders, if George had been as haunted by her as she’d been by him.
The door quietly clicks shuts behind her.
It might as well have been a gunshot, with how loud it sounded to her ears.
And she thinks—fuck it. She turns to him, and speaks before she has time to regret it.
“It was not even about you,” Max starts, defensively, despite George not even saying an accusatory word, “The stewards were already dead set on fucking me over before you even stepped foot inside, and then you—“ she waves her hand to signal everything that had happened after, “—and they were just happy to have a good excuse. I was so angry, and you—were just there. Wrong time, as they say. But it’s like,” and the words, now that they have started don’t seem to be able to stop, she feels her accent getting thicker in her rush to explain, “Maybe you do not get it, but for me, it has always been like this, I always have to fight to be heard. If I don’t, they walk all over me. I was wrong—it of course should not have happened. But then you ignored me. Did not even give me a chance to explain, and then I needed to fight back with you too—and I hated it.” She pauses, almost breathless, “So that is how it is. Now it has gotten out of hand, stop ignoring me."
George doesn't say anything, instead, he searches her face, analyzing her sincerity.
They stand there for a full minute, Max almost feeling the need to squirm under his gaze.
He finally concedes, “You taking out your anger on me was out of line."
Max nods, agreeing, because it is true.
“But I should apologize too. I said some awful things because I knew it would make you angry.” He looks guilty as he admits this, “You and I have different ways of dealing with things. You explode, then it’s over. It’s different for me, it’s not something I like to admit. But I let it build up, and up and up until I physically can't bear it anymore and then I become—I become…a version of myself that I don’t like." He swallows thickly "I become vengeful, resentful. You shouldn’t have said the things you did, but I shouldn’t have retaliated in public. I knew it was a weakness, and I exploited it. I hurt you. Knowingly. Because I wanted it to hurt. And I’ve been hating myself for it." He steps closer, but doesn't reach for her, "I’m sorry, Max, I really, really am.”
“Well, it’s not like I can blame you,” She responds, shrugging, “I was being…difficult.”
They stand there looking at each other, the last rays of the sun fading behind the curtains and swallowing George’s apartment in darkness. She looks up at him through her lashes, and gathering every once of bravery she has, she moves closer to him and George, without hesitation, spreads his arms, enveloping her in a hug.
“I’m sorry,” She says into his shirt, finally, the words feeling like ash on her tongue.
“I know,” George says, pressing a kiss to her temple. She wraps her arms around him, and presses her face into his collarbone, relief flooding her chest. They stay like that for a long time.
Later, much later, after they have dinner and showers, they sit down in his couch and Max finally let’s herself ask.
“So, are you…going to write me up a list?”
“A list?” He asks, perplexed.
“You said it's been building up for a while, that implies you’ve been holding some things back from me.”
George looks surprised, as if he didn’t expect the question.
“Well,” she presses, “Get on with it. If not, this is going to continue and we will hit the shitter again.”
He rolls his eyes at her words but says, “It’s just…things you say, sometimes, things you do that you probably don’t realize you’re doing.”
Max looks at him expectantly.
"It drives me mad that you leave your clothes in the drier for literal days."
“Seriously?”
He nods, his droopy, damp hair making him look a little miserable, “And you leave your hair stuck on the walls of the shower so it doesn’t go down the drain but you don’t throw it away.”
“Ok…I'll try to be better about that...what else?”
“And…well…” He reaches for her hands and she lets him cradle them between his own.
“Spit it out,” she says impatiently, unhappy to learn that part of the reason this shit blew out of proportion was her bad laundry habits.
“Sometimes it feels like you don’t care," He admits almost in a rush, like admitting it would anger her, "And I’m the only one who is affected by all this.” He caress her knuckles with his thumb.
"What?" She says, distracted by the feel of his warm skin.
He hesitates but continues, "You act...like you've always got one foot out the door."
“That...is true," Max slowly agrees, looking down at their joined hands. "I am—usually, I do not have serious relationships with people. This is...new for me.”
“I know, that’s why I didn’t want to push. I thought over time you would come around, that you would see I care about you and you would change. But the more time passed, I began to realize you hadn't changed your way of thinking and your careless remarks drove me mad, it made me feel like you just…didn’t care about me. And that made me very upset. I was going to talk to you about it but then everything happened and it seemed…almost the perfect time to see how badly I could get under your skin.”
She almost wants to laugh at that, “You really are a jerk.”
“I told you my defects existed, you just didn’t want to listen.” He gives her a small smile.
George stays silent, but Max can tell there's something else he wants to ask, she can tell by the crease of his brow, so she waits, wonders what else he's been concerned about and hasn't voiced it.
"When are you going to tell me about him?" George finally asks, tangling their fingers together.
"About who?"
George presses his lips in a line, "You've talked to me about Kelly...but you lock up when it comes to Brandon."
The mention of Brandon almost makes her want to snatch her hands out of his hold but George's hands hold firm, and she forces herself to not run away.
She shakes her head, "There's...not much to say. He...was married, I've told you that. He made promises, said he'd get a divorce. I believed him, like an idiot. The story is not very interesting...I just hate how I acted. I hate being reminded of how desperate I was. He would aways tell me I was being too controlling and when I did something wrong in his eyes, he wouldn't talk to me for days." She frowns, remembering that she also had something she wanted to tell him, she looks up at George, "When you are upset with me, I would much prefer you...being angry, but being with me. Rather than just...ignoring me. I...hate being given the silent treatment. Makes me feel like...like you only like me when I'm being good but that I am not...worth caring about otherwise."
George's face does something strange, like it's in pain, but he nods, "Sorry," He says again, "I didn't—I didn't know."
"Seems like we didn't know a lot about each other," She says, untangling their hands and moving closer to tuck herself in his side. He wraps his arm around her, letting her nuzzle into his chest. "But I do like you. So I am willing to try."
They don't spend Christmas together, but George comes back early to Monaco and they spend the New Year together. Max is stupidly giddy about her first New Years Kiss, decides right then and there that she'd like it to be a yearly tradition and tells George as much. He smiles, kisses her again, and says, "Anything you want."
"Have you two kissed and made up yet?" Jack Whitehall jokes at 75th F1 anniversary event, Max smiles tersely at the dumb, public joke, but is secretly amused that they have, in fact, kissed and made up.
Things are well between them, though in public she maintains a distance. They agree on keeping things private, mostly because they want to remain two separate entities but also because Max isn't ready to confront her father and George won't force her to do anything she doesn't want.
The 2025 season opens as it usually does, with blistering anticipation and barely tamed expectations. She knows it’s not going to be an easy one, George is going into contract negotiations and Max—well, Max is dealing with a slow waking, irritable beast. Some of the problems that were surfacing in 2024 remain unresolved within the team, not even the 2024 win was enough to smooth over the tears beginning to rear their ugly heads.
The signs begin to show early. Tense meetings between Christian and the engineers, the unhappy looks on the mechanics faces, and the administrative branch getting more complaints daily. Her father is rallying support, he's wanted Christian out for a long time, he's been bidding his time and it seems that this time around he has enough ammunition to get him out. Max doesn't know how to feel, though she detests the fact that Christian was cleared of his allegations when the proof was so substantial.
She doesn't need the added stress of the team politics, so she lets Annie manage it, and after she gets the important details from her. The woman runs a tight ship; wether it be managing Max's schedule or kickstarting the entire Verstappen.com racing program from the ground up. Max will tell her what she wants and somehow, Annie knows who to reach out to and who to hire to make it happen. Max had hired her when she was twenty, and they'd worked well together since then, it's one the reason's Max hadn't opposed when she'd asked for a raise.
So Max doesn’t interfere personally with the stir surrounding the battle for power in Red Bull, decides to let whatever happen, happen.
Her father is not happy about it, he thinks she should take more interest in it. Says this is their chance at restructuring the team into something that would benefit them, and Max isn't deaf to the criticisms or the things that are being said. She knows what the press writes, about her and about every teammate she's had that she seems to outperform. The thing is she doesn't want to be involved. All she wants is to race and focus on the things that she finds interest in, and the last thing she's interested in is staging a takeover.
She tries to be dismissive about it, until it starts affecting her races.
The car is shit, she’s known since testing and she complains about it as loud as she can. The McLaren's are dominant, and she feels the familiar bitterness of losing clawing up her throat. She can't seem to turn it off, the noise has suddenly turned up, almost as intently as it had been before 2023. Any time her visor comes down, an aching, all consuming hunger takes over.
The very real possibility that she's going to lose the championship is becoming more probable and the ruthless monster that she keeps locked in her chest begins to pace in its enclosure like a starving lion. Race after race she feels it gnaw in her chest, growing steady, and very, very dangerous. Max, the machine, and Max, the girl, are once again colliding, undistinguishable from each other, she wonders if they had ever been separate at all. Maybe all these years she had just been fooling herself. Maybe at her core, she would always be a rabid creature and she would never be able to tame this ugly thing inside her.
Max sees the signs, sees herself fall into the bad habits that have ruined her before, but doesn't know how to stop them. She doesn't leave her anger on the track, instead she carries it with her to the world beyond, the lines she had drawn a long time ago suddenly blurring. She feels like the walls are shrinking in around her, the oxygen diminishing in a slow form of torture, and the only way she knows how to rid herself of this feeling is to tear right through it.
She forgets, briefly, that she is no longer as alone as she had been at twenty-one.
So she bites, but it's her own skin that gets caught in between her teeth.
Barcelona 2025 is the moment she loses, she thinks in hindsight. The whole race had been a joke, the strategy gone straight to hell and then the wrong tires. She hasn't felt such distorting rage in a long time.
But the moment Max’s car touches George's, the blinding rage she feels goes out like light. Instead its replaced with the abhorrent feeling of dread. The creature inside her receding into hiding with a wounded noise. Her heart seems to give out and drop to her stomach, and she bites the inside of her cheek so hard she tastes blood.
What did I just do? She thinks to herself, Why did I do that?
When GP tells her she’s been given a ten second penalty, she accepts it without argument.
That’s how Max goes racing, George tells the interviewers later, No conversation really required.
And damn it all to hell, this can’t be Qatar all over again.
George sends her a message after both their post race debriefs end.
We need to talk, the message reads and Max thinks she's going to be sick. He could walk away from all of this, she realizes, could walk away from her. And there would be nothing she could do to stop him, she's given him more than enough reasons to leave.
"I'm sorry," She tells him, the moment he walks into her hotel room, the apology easier this time, sincere, too, "I don't know what the hell I was thinking."
George, much to her surprise, isn't angry, instead it's something much worse.
He is disappointed.
Max feels something fracture inside her, but she can't place where it is, can't patch it up or remedy it fast enough. She can't reel it in.
"Max..." He starts but she interrupts him.
"I am sorry!" She exclaims, feeling like a child, her breath hitching, "I'm serious!"
"I know, I know you're sorry, but—" He shakes his head, "Sorry...isn't enough, Max, not this time."
Something hot burns in her stomach, something awful. Inside her, her control is splintering through the cracks, a wave of an emotion she can’t name is rushing through that she doesn't know how to control.
"Well then what?" She demands, “Tell me and I'll do it. Whatever it is.”
George doesn’t say anything, he walks past her, leaving her staring at the empty space he had just occupied. Max bites the inside of her cheek, in the same spot that she had bit down after the crash, the taste of iron is almost comforting.
“I can’t do anything but apologize,” She says, turning to speak to his back, “I can’t turn back time.”
“I know that,” The Brit responds, clenching and unclenching his fists.
“Well then what?” Max very nearly screams. Tell me what to do so you’re not looking at me like that, she doesn’t have the nerve to say.
“Max, I think...I think—Max, I think this is something I can't help you with.” He runs a hand through his hair in agitation.
She flinches back, as if he had raised his hand, “What does that even mean?”
He turns to look at her, his eyes glazed with something she doesn’t want to acknowledge, “I have always admired you,” He confesses, “The way you race…to me it is the most brilliant display of talent I have ever seen. But you—when you are driving, there’s something not you about it. And I get it!” He exclaims before she can interrupt, “I do, I get it. When we’re out there emotions run high, we say and do things that we wouldn’t otherwise and sometimes that’s what fuels us. But you—Max your anger is burning right through you.”
She feels her lower lip tremble, so she says nothing, doesn’t trust herself enough to respond.
George looks away from her, “You place yourself and others in danger. This isn’t the first time you’ve done something like this. I know you’ve said…that you always feel like you have to fight to be heard, but Max you have already proven yourself, there’s no need for this…” He searches for the right word, “…this feeling that the world is against you. The world doesn’t see you as they saw you at seventeen. So why can’t you?”
Max feels tears stinging the back of her eyes, and she presses her lips tightly together, her throat constricting so tightly she doesn’t think she can make a sound.
“I hate watching you do this to yourself,” George says, his blue eyes sad. “And I hate that I can’t do anything about it.”
“You don’t have to do anything,” Max finally manages to say, voice like gravel, “I don’t need—I don’t need you to-to do anything. I can handle this on my own.”
“But that’s the thing Max! You don’t have to do this alone anymore! I’m here Max, and I want you to rely on me, I want to take care of you and to protect you,” He comes to stand close to her, and he holds a finger to her chest and whispers, “But I can’t protect you from what’s eating you in here.”
She stares at him wide-eyed, tears she cannot stop slipping down her cheeks. Max does not remember the last time she cried. Does not remember the last time someone said something so tender to someone as vicious as her.
“I love you,” George says, “You know that right?”
Her lungs seize, and the monster—the monster in her chest—for the first time in two decades transforms back into the seven year old girl she’d once been. A girl full of dreams, full of hope, the girl who had liked her hair long and flower crowns. And it had been George who found her, even though she’d shifted into something unrecognizable.
She doesn’t realize she’s outright sobbing until George cradles her face in his palms, “You’re okay,” He reassures her. “It’s okay.”
“Are you leaving?” She asks—and it’s a miracle he even understands her through her broken sobs.
Are you leaving me?
“No, Max, I’m not leaving.” He holds her until her sobs quiet, until she’s so spent that her head lolls onto his shoulder and she falls asleep.
Max asks for help, days later.
Not even a week later, she has her first therapy appointment.
It’s not easy, some days are better than others, some, she feels like screaming at the therapist for dragging out of her the ugly things she could never admit out loud. Others, she feels drained, like she’s been running a marathon.
The hunger she feels for winning is painstakingly being untangled from the anger, leaving her with determination that doesn’t require her to shatter herself to pieces.
The season continues on, and after Christian is fired after the British Grand Prix, the second half of the season seems to do an upturn. It's not just one thing, of course, McLaren have been fumbling around like idiots and it gives her enough ammo to capitalize on it.
But Max still loses the championship by two points.
The disappointment isn’t as destabilizing as she would have thought, the bitterness not as pungent.
“Don’t be too disappointed,” She tells her team on the radio, “I’m definitely not disappointed. I’m really proud of everyone.”
She finds herself meaning every word, even in the bittersweetness of the moment.
There’s not much of a celebration after, but she finds George between the motorhomes and he slips an arm over her shoulders, “I’m proud of you.”
She smiles up at him, going on her tippy toes to press a kiss to the side of his mouth, “I’m proud of you too, Mr. Consistency. Good job getting Mercedes that P2.”
He sighs, his shoulders sagging, “Not really what I wanted but next year for sure.”
She rolls her eyes, “Not if I have anything to say about it.”
“We’ll agree to disagree.”
The second New Years Kiss is probably better than the first. George lightly bumps his forehead against hers before leaning down to kiss her, says, "To many more."
Max smiles against his lips, yeah, she thinks, the future opening up before them, to many, many more.
“I love you,” She tells him when they separate. She’ll probably remember the smile George gives her until the day she dies.
It's in Bahrain, at the end of pre-season testing, where someone snaps a picture.
"So you want me to fuck off to Nordschleife," She accuses, coming up behind him.
He laughs, turning to her as she stands next to him. He grabs her nose between his fingers and wiggles it, "Stop threatening to retire before I beat you."
She slaps his hand away, "Mate, you know these cars suck ass."
"I do know," George agrees, "But I can't say that. You know that."
"Ughh," She whines, "Head boy George is kissing ass againnn."
He turns up his nose, "Head boy George reserves the right to not kiss you then."
Max sobers up at this, "That's not fair, you can't do that."
"Watch me," He threatens.
She grabs his shirt, pulls him down, but he turns his head, and she ends up bumping her lips agains his bony jaw. She shakes him, "Now this is bullying."
George grabs her hands, "Stop that," He tells her, "Now, come on, lets get to dinner."
She lets herself be pulled along.
The picture is on the Sun hours later.
Annie is calling her at three-thirty in the morning to do damage control. Her heart had almost escaped her chest when she saw the scandalous headline and even if she tried to deny it, there was incriminating picture attached to it. She has five missed calls from her father.
I'm so fucked, she thinks, the picture had caught the exact moment Max had tried pulling George down to her level. It made it seem like she was forcing herself on him. Her notifications are lighting up like lights on a Christmas tree. Max wants to set something on fire.
Max has pulled all the curtains closed and has crawled under the bedsheets in a sad attempt at trying to disappear. It’s been five hours now, and it’s not working. It’s sunny outside but the room is shrouded in darkness. Her phone is lost somewhere in the tangle of sheets, out of sight and out of mind. Or she’s trying to keep it that way. She’d turned it off the moment she’d seen the cursed post.
This is how George finds her.
He sits down on the bed next to where she's rolled herself into a burrito. He runs a hand through her hair.
His golden brown hair is perfectly styled, but the bags under his eyes tell another story.
"I fucked up," Max says weakly. "I'm sorry,"
"Don't apologize," George says, "You know I've never been opposed to us going public, I just wished it had happened on our terms, I'm more worried about you. How are you holding up?"
"I-You know what they're saying? That I'm a predator," She closes her eyes tightly, as if that'll make all of this go away, "That Red Bull is the home of exploitation."
George's fingers pause in their ministrations, "Well," He starts slowly, "That's what they were saying. Have you been keeping up with the news?"
She shakes her head, her voice muffled by the pillows, "No, I turned off my phone."
"When you turn it back on, don't be upset okay?"
She raises her face from the pillows, "You mean more than I already am?"
George winces, "I...might've done something in the heat of the moment."
"Like what?"
He hesitates, but then seems to give up, he pulls out his phone, opens up his Instagram and hands the phone to her. She takes it from him.
His notifications are in the thousands, she notices, but Max focuses on going to his profile.
The multicolor circle of his stories is lit up and she clicks on it.
"Hello, everyone," The George in the video starts, "I've come on here to personally address the disgusting accusations that have been raised against my girlfriend, Max Verstappen. Everyone is welcome to visit any news source they deem reliable, but it is no secret that the Sun disguises itself as a legitimate news outlet when in reality it is nothing but a gossip column that exploits the private lives of people just for a few extra clicks.
"I'm sure that what was written about Max and I, without our consent and knowledge, boosted their foot traffic for a while. However, there are lines that should not be crossed." A severe frown crosses George's face, "So with this I will say: the article written by the Sun early this morning is completely false and has no basis in reality. Max did not force herself on me and has never done as such.
"Max and I have kept our relationship private because we are both focused on maintaining our professional and personal lives separate from each other. We are not required to disclose anything to anyone just because we are in the public eye. However, taking an out of context picture and then twisting up an entire false narrative to slander and demean the character of the person I love is not something I will idly sit by and let happen."
"Do not believe everything that you read online. Sometimes things are not as they seem. To our fans and the fans of Formula One, thank you for your continued support. Let's put these false rumors to rest and turn our attention back to racing. Thank you for your time, see you in Australia."
Max releases a slow breath, and looks at George, he stares back, and says, "I'm sorry I didn't run it by you first, but I am not sorry I did it."
She smiles, "I think it was a good speech." Her smile slowly falls, "I don't think my father will say the same."
"Have you spoken to your father?"
"I don't want to talk to him."
"And you won't have to," He reassures her. "I have already spoken to him."
"What..?" Max asks, confused.
"In my defense, he called me. We reached an...understanding."
She pushes away the covers and sits up, she questions, "An understanding?"
"Yes, between gentlemen. You know how it is."
"No..." She shakes her head, "I don't know."
"Max," George says, very seriously, very intently, "Do you remember when I told you I wanted to protect you?"
She nods.
"I meant that, I will protect you. From the media, from anyone that wants to hurt you, even if that person is your father. Just like he can threaten people and manipulate a narrative, so can I."
She doesn't know what to say, so she chooses not to say anything. Instead, she raises her arms, and George moves closer, she wraps her arms around his neck, inhaling his comforting scent.
"I love you," She murmurs, and he tightens his arms around her.
"I love you, too."
Max had given up a lot of things to get to where she was now. Her childhood, friendships, school (though she can honestly admit she was never meant for it), any semblance of a romantic relationship before George, and her femininity. She was still unlearning habits that she had picked up because of this. She was starting to regain the things she'd lost in her pursuit of greatness. There was no greater satisfaction than standing on the highest throne of a sport that was dominated by men and there was something so incredibly satisfying about conquering the very institution that had undermined her.
But now, Max, the woman, was realizing that life went further than the track, and she didn't want to stay stuck in fear forever.
She's streaming when she finally faces the world that had made her want to hide, a week before Australia, on her own terms.
She's playing Call of Duty when the commotion starts, she hears the hiss and screeching of her cats by her feet, a pained bark cutting through the air.
"Oh my god," She nearly screams in frustration as they make her miss a shot and they take off running around the room, "Stop that!"
They don't stop, and she moves to stand, ready to abandon the team play, "Sorry guys, the cats are terrorizing my dog."
Before she can however, George comes in the room, she looks up at him in surprise, and says, "They're fighting again."
He rolls his eyes, shakes his head but doesn't say anything. He moves off camera to grab Sassy and Jimmy in one arm each. They hiss when they're picked up but don't fight him.
"Do...you want to say hi?" She asks, not really thinking, and not really regretting it even after she registers her own words.
George's eyebrows shoot up in surprise, and asks quietly enough that it won't be picked up by her mic, "Are you sure?"
Max nods smiling faintly.
George comes around the desk, and bends down, so his face is in the camera, "Hi everyone!" He greets, smiling as he holds the cat's up, "On cat dad duties today."
Her chat starts going off.
She smiles up at George and he returns it and she thinks, yes, this is how it should be.
Max doesn't know it yet, won't for another few years, but she'll retire from Formula One in 2028 a five-time world champion. And on New Years, George will get on one knee, and ask her to let him love her forever, and she'll say yes, and yes and yes, because she would chose him a million times over.