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If someone caught wind of this and any photos slipped to the mainstream media, they had a potential PR disaster on their hands.
Max pondered this while on the flight. He had plenty of time with himself. The number of times he'd idly opened a random news outlet online to find dug out gossip about some C-list celebrity exceeded what he could count on both hands; if the paparazzi and journalists had such skill for bringing to the spotlight dirty business of people absolutely nobody knew or cared about – what the hell magnitude earthquake would joining the names Verstappen and Pérez in a dodgy headline cause?
He also had to bear in mind this was Mexico, as well. The media ought to have painted a target on Checo's back, as was the case always when he went back home for the holidays. Sergio Pérez, national hero. And really – Max was taking a bit of a risk by doing what he had set his mind to do. He was only hoping he'd calculated well.
He fidgeted lazily with the drink in the cup holder of his seat. In a few hours he was going to be landing, and then booking it to the waterside hotel in Puerto Vallarta, where, if Sergio's instagram photo posts and few messages were anything to go by, he was spending a portion of his well earned summer break days.
Yes. Halfway through the season and with summer break there, and all Max could think about was how Checo's arms had hooked around him back then, in the privacy of his room, and longed for it to happen again – they had their fair share of pats and hugs and playful tugs in the paddock, but it was a bit bitter in front of the cameras, knowing Sergio was going to always exercise well practiced restraint. Especially after the accidental heart eyes post from Red Bull. And, fair, Max was completely on his side. But the bottom line to all that was:
One, Max was touching down in Mexico right now, after having left home, Victoria laughing at him for being head over heels for his teammate.
Two, and in response to Victoria's blatant teasing, Max was certainly not head over heels for Checo, he only liked him.(The notion of crush was so childish that Max had not even considered it).
And now three, Max was picking up his luggage at the airport, hopeful that his teammate had not already left and he was going there for basically nothing.
Well, five days of sunbathing wasn't exactly nothing, and Max could enjoy them all even if their schedules were not going to perfectly align– but it would have been disappointing to get so close to the objective of your trip only to just miss it by a breadth.
Putting some order in his thoughts, he wheeled his suitcase hastily along.
“Good,” he smacked his palm against his thigh along with the word, already clad in bermudas and a tacky hawaiian shirt, “where am I going? To the hotel. To do what? To find Checo. To do what? I don't know,” he exasperatedly muttered to himself.
He wasn't one to talk alone usually, but he wanted to give himself a rundown of the plan and that was best done out loud.
Upon said rundown he figured the plan was at best very flimsy, and at worst nonexistent.
To recap, he resumed, this time in his head, after seeing each other again at the beginning of the season, he'd noticed a decline in Sergio’s affections for him.
They’d gotten quite close, probably little Sergio Jr’s fault. But once he was gone from the picture, Checo went back to that: friendly.
It was probably cautionary, he was sure of that and respected it. But it didn’t help him, when he was once so sure of the existence of Checo’s feelings, his certainty only dwindling the more they hung around each other in the workplace.
He was obviously not going to press Checo for anything, god knew he didn't deserve the pressure. He'd been rebounding very well at his own pace. Max was admittedly pretty proud of him for that. But every second near the man had him feeling like a live fish flopping on a grill.
Come summer break they both went their separate ways once more; Max had no idea when was right to ask Checo to hang out more, and since that one time, Checo himself hadn't asked anything else of him – so he painstakingly left it at that.
Now, after days on end of sim racing to the point where his head felt like it was going to implode, fate had thrown to him that instagram post, along with a couple of messages from his friend wishing him a restful holiday. The post was pretty standard, nice beach and all, but for the Dutchman Checo had reserved another dad selfie, genre of photo which Max was getting increasingly more insane over. Him on a chaise longue, sand in his hair and sun reflecting in his signature sunglasses.
Max knew he would start going up walls if he didn't get up and out of the house.
And the places that are accessible to someone with Max's money…
He was booking the first flight to Mexico right away.
This was why the idea was stupid and the tabloids getting wind of it could've potentially blown it out of proportion.
Max found the nearest cab and hopped in distractedly.
Deliberately going to the same hotel as your teammate and hoping to bump into him, proceeding to brush it off as a simple coincidence and then spending the rest of your vacation days with him? Definitely up there with some of Max's weirdest whims.
But he wasn't one to refuse himself any such whims.
Max settled into his suite nicely. He'd seen many beaches in his lifetime since becoming basically a millionaire, but there was always something special, he thought, leaning incautiously over the balcony railing and taking in the panorama.
Probably the fact Sergio was somewhere down in those sands was what made them so interesting to Max.
Max was down on the beach.
Breakfast was good. He hadn't seen Checo anywhere during the meal, though.
They usually didn't text during holidays very much so Max didn't break that. What would he have texted, anyway? He was still feeling kind of moronic about the whole deal, but he was too proud to back down.
He was on vacation, if anyone asked.
Maybe Checo had come and gone from breakfast earlier. It wouldn't have been surprising at all. Maybe, Max had thought, clinging his fork against his plate piled high with stuff that would've given Brad a heart attack – maybe he was out on the town for the day. Maybe he wasn't going to get to actually find him. Maybe he'd already left.
Maybe he hadn't come alone.
He shook those thoughts away fast and got to work on his biggest cheat meal in a while.
The sands were blinding in the sun. Thankfully, he had his shades, and, just in case, to shield from unwanted attention, a bucket hat.
It was one of the sillier hats he had. In fact he'd amassed a collection of those in a while, and he had some of the hats with him.
He pulled his cover over his face as much as possible, and plonked himself down in the sand, on a towel. He didn't fancy using the hotel beach chairs.
He had no idea what to do now that he was here. He was just… hoping.
Max did the standard sunscreen routine, and laid back. The Mexican sun would have him burning up if Checo didn't show up soon.
Among the many wealthy patrons of the hotel there were several that had brought their children on vacation as well. Noisy little things, usually exceedingly spoiled and bratty, kicking sand up in the air everywhere they went and leaving beach toys in their wake, for some poor guy to trip on.
Made him miss Sergio Jr, really.
All in all, it was nice to go somewhere incognito. Nobody, save for the hotel database and the receptionist, knew his name, and everything was good in the world.
It took several hours and him almost falling asleep dangerously alone in the late morning sun for something to happen.
Max was idly scanning the crowd, after a while of sunbathing. Most of the people were pretty boring, everywhere the same toned men and pretty carbon copies of the same instagram models. He was hoping to see that stand out figure amidst them all.
Indeed, there Checo was. And he knew it was Checo when his heart skipped a beat at the sight.
Tanned darkly, proof of him having spent an uncharacteristically long time out in the sun, the man was bare chested , swim shorts hiking up the inside of his thighs, sand on his calves and hair hanging in curly strands along his round face–
Max thanked the heavens he was wearing sunglasses and that he was also just generally red and hot so nobody noticed the embarrassing flush that took over him.
But, in truth, Checo was not alone.
He was trekking back from the water, and Max had no idea how he hadn't noticed him for so long, but, alongside him, he saw right away–
Little Checo was scrambling at his dad's legs, possibly rambling and gesticulating about wanting to go back to water. The little goggles and floaties he had on made him absolutely adorable. But Checo looked spent and picked the kid up, hoisting him over his shoulder, braving through a storm of playful kicks and giggles from him as he took him back to the beach chairs.
The entire scene felt private and Max's cheeks flushed for a long time, especially because he didn't get to see Sergio shirtless often. This was a sight to behold.
He lowered his bucket hat as much as possible, probably looking like an ass while pretty much everybody else was with their heads uncovered.
In his flustered state, Max forgot to note that the extent of Checo's company was just that, his kid. Maybe he would've breathed a sigh of relief otherwise.
He sat back down on the towel, willing his heart to calm down and think of an approach.
Sergio laid Chequito down on the beach chair, deaf to all his protests. He told him his papá needed some well deserved rest and that Chequito should tan nice and well so when he goes back to kindergarten every classmate can tell that he was not lying about the nice things he did on vacation and all the fun places he visited.
He fished a bottle from his bag absentmindedly and gave it to his kid, checked if he needed any more sunscreen, urged him to drink his water and that was that. Oh, and denied him any ice cream before lunch.
Checo laid back on his own chair, under the umbrella. Soon he would have to pick Chequito back up again and head inside, as the midday sun was getting scorching. But he would allow himself fifteen more minutes of just lying there.
He had been debating sending something else to Max.
Maybe even a little invitation to the summer fun.
But he hadn't.
And it probably was for the better. He couldn't even begin to imagine the butterfly effect of that.
They didn't even text a lot during breaks. Sergio would've fancied changing that but he didn't want to overstep with Max. Break was break, everyone only had so much time to themselves before being forced into the racing whirlwind again. He'd sent over a selfie along with some well wishes already. Cookie cutter, but pleasant enough.
It was odd; he himself wanted to get closer to Max now. His feelings were very complicated for a while, muddled, but something had clicked at some point.
He felt like the world's biggest hypocrite, though. For a moment it all even had him concerned if he'd divorced only because of a stupid crush on his teammate.
Thankfully, he knew it was bigger than that. If you have to worry about being a hypocrite then you probably aren't one, right?
It had all hit while they were being exceedingly domestic that time at the factory with Chequito around. Checo realized he wanted to do more than just hug Max as friends. Out of some foolish impulse he'd almost accidentally invited him on a trip to Mexico with him. He could only be infinitely grateful for Max's tactfulness and the way he handled that awkward slip up of his.
Dang, that hug Max threw them into afterwards made him think he'd even had a chance.
Good thing he wisened up shortly after. Probably not ideal to go for your teammate in a situation like his own. So Checo was set for at least a couple more months of pining silently, until whatever this was went away.
He breathed out a sigh and fanned himself with a magazine he'd brought with. There was no need for a towel to dry himself off – the sun and breeze did all the work.
He knew it was time to call the beach quits for that morning when Chequito started getting impatient and running around. Especially going on about tío Max .
Chequito had liked Max a lot and always brought him up again and again, asking when he'd see him next. Sergio always had to deny his questions, to some degree, because in truth he didn't know when that next meetup was happening.
He was in for quite the surprise.
Chequito was off with a plastic bucket and little sand shovel and was beckoned over to hand them in for packing since they were leaving the beach, but Sergio couldn't make him shut up or sit tight when he kept on pointing somewhere off and talking about tío Max.
Sergio wanted to say he's not here, but the boy pranced off again, with that sureness in his step and his dad knew that it was the kind of sureness that would have a stranger's day mildly inconvenienced. Clearly, whoever Chequito saw tío Max in was a very close lookalike.
He shoved everything in the bag uncoordinated. He would take it all out and arrange it during Chequito's afternoon nap. Until then, he had a stranger's day to save, so he started lazily towards his kid, who was walking very determined, steering around all the people, chairs and sheets strewn in the sand.
Over on his towel, Max quickly realized his acute lack of a plan of action, now ambushed by Chequito who was barrelling towards him very sure of his identity, so he dragged his hat all the way over his eyes – he knew it would make zero difference. Checo was trailing behind him and his flimsy disguise wouldn't be of any use.
He wasn't so sure what the hell he was playing at, either way. He was here to see Checo. All the better if Checo came to him, less effort spent, right?
Wrong. He found himself at a loss for words that was to become incredibly funny the moment Checo asked what he was doing there.
As Chequito came closer he started spewing out words Max didn't understand, so he just stood there waiting with an awkward smile on his lips, shifting on his beach towel.
“I'm so sorry,” Checo's voice came. “He thinks you are someone else we know, I…”
He looked… so good. As he came closer, Max couldn't stop staring at his lips forming the words, at his still damp hair.
He shook a quickly forming reverie away.
Checo stopped dead in the middle of his apology. Both ignored Chequito as he plopped down in the sand by Max's feet. The boy looked triumphant, glancing back and forth between his papá and Max, told-you-so look plastered on his face smugly.
Checo's eyes drifted slowly down his face to his lip, where on the top left rested the little mole.
Max knew it was no use to hide.
He tipped his bucket hat up, lowering his sunglasses on his face coyly.
“Junior is having a hell of a time, I see.”
Checo was not hallucinating anything because of sunstroke.
It was, indeed, Max, and the moment he saw that mole his knees almost gave out and met the sand.
He managed to keep himself up.
Many questions – first of all, how was Max there? – but none left his mouth as they stared at each other idly.
Finally, finally, Checo managed an awkward laugh.
“Max! Interesting seeing you here.”
The man shook his head, as if he agreed that yes, seeing each other here was indeed very interesting.
Suddenly painfully conscious of his naked state, even if absolutely normal given they were on the beach, Checo waved his hand vaguely in front of his chest, in a half attempt to cover himself up. Stupid move, because Max’s eyes instantly drifted down.
The last time they’d seen each other naked… he couldn’t even remember. But they barely, if never, did that.
“On… on vacation?”
Max pulled his knees in front of his chest and smiled. There was a bright shade of red blooming across his shoulders and what Sergio could see of his chest. Sunburn in the making.
“Yeah,” the Dutchman replied. “Funny running into you.”
“Seriously? I think you saw my post,” Checo teased. This time he couldn’t tell whether the flush of his face was the sun or a strong blush. “You liked it, after all.”
He saw Max give a half hearted shrug.
“I did, but I don’t remember if you said anywhere where you were staying.”
The sheepish look on his face told Checo he was telling a little white lie, for some reason unknown to him.
The sand between his toes burned so he shuffled around.
“Guess little Sergio was right then, no? About tío Max, ” Max went on, to fill the silence, the same shy look on his face, like caught red handed with something. “You looked like you were having a lot of fun in that selfie. It gave me beach fever.”
“Did it, now?”
Chequito’s hands found Max’s knees. He was already okay with being handled by Max and he seemed to not have forgotten any of it, by how carelessly and comfortably he leaned onto him and smiled up at him, almost as bright as the sun above.
Max beamed and took off his bucket hat, plopping it onto the kid’s head. His face disappeared quickly under the too wide brim and a muffled giggle came from within.
“Don’t stay out in the sun for too long, Chequito.”
The sight was unbearably cute, and Sergio watched as his kid adjusted the hat on his head. It was a blue one, with an orange flower pattern on it. It went well with Max’s strikingly blue eyes, he noticed. On Chequito, it made him look like Pocoyo.
Checo made a half wave somewhere behind him, towards the beach chair where he’d left their belongings.
“We were going to go inside for lunch. I need to just pick up our stuff. Since you’re here already, you want to come with us?”
Max seemed to unwind instantly at the proposition. Thank god, Checo couldn’t stand another awkward moment between him and Max.
As for between Max and Chequito, everything was just as they’d left it, even better. Chequito did happy grabby hands at him, disinterested in any more playing in the sand. Max seemed to happily oblige the request to transport, picking him up like he weighed nothing.
“Go pick your stuff up, I’ll look after him?”
Checo shortly nodded and ducked out of there, leaving the two together as he left to cram the rest of his dad and kid stuff in the tote bag and fold the towels neatly to take back to the hotel room.
On their way back, and after the initial shock of the surprise meeting had passed, it did end up dawning on Checo that it was in fact pretty weird for it to be just a coincidence.
Max was alongside him, trotting in the sand, rocking Chequito in his arms and having a very odd sort of conversation with him – he asked in English, the kid responded in Spanish. It was about nothing in particular, he noticed. They were on two wholly separate wavelengths.
Still, it was clear they really liked each other. Chequito liked Max and that hadn't changed over the period of time in which he hadn't seen him. The way he clung to his neck told him everything. Max had told Checo he was good with kids, so he definitely had some knowledge, and it all transcended language barriers.
There was no way Max had no idea of Checo's whereabouts. And he smirked to himself thinking about it. There was no guarantee of anything for Max if he did come. Checo could've been occupied with someone else. If Max had really done it on purpose, taken this trip all the way to see him, as his mind nagged at him to believe, then…
He glanced over at the man in flip flops, his own bag thrown over his shoulder, all while managing Checo Jr in his arms. He only observed them silently, the same persistent grin on his face.
They made a very appropriate picture together.
Chequito glanced at his papá and leaned over in Max's arms to grab hold of Sergio's shoulder, yanking him in close until his arm brushed Max's as they walked. Neither said anything.
Checo urged his kid back up to their suite for a shower to clean up from all the salt and sand. Then, they would go downstairs for lunch, joined by Max.
What Checo wasn't expecting, however, was a very red Max Verstappen showing up at his door just as he was about to get in the shower.
The man looked like a lobster. Checo tried and failed miserably to suppress a laugh at poor Max.
“How did you find my room?” He asked, barely able to keep a straight face. Max looked embarrassed as hell.
“I, er… I saw your room number on the key. You took it out of the bag in the elevator.”
“I remember that,” Checo said. “What's up?”
In lieu of an answer, Max turned around once. As if the burns needed him to do any more explaining.
“The Mexican sun is not for everyone, is it? Come in.”
Max stepped inside, defeated. He was holding a tube of an ointment of some sort, Sergio saw in his hand.
“I was trying to put it on myself, but moving this much hurts… I didn't expect this to happen, I dunno.”
Ever since he’d known Max, he seemed to Sergio like the kind of person with thin enough skin to get absolutely fried on the beach if he was not careful about it. Plus, the sun was at its worst during this time. Likely, he'd just underestimated the amount of sunscreen necessary.
He swatted at Max's hands, who was trying to scratch all over his back and shoulders, and a bit of his arms, too.
“Don't do that! Can you tell me how this happened?”
They went into the suite. On the couch, in front of the TV, cuddled Checo Jr, huddled up to some plushie, watching a bit of Disney to hold him off while his papá was showering, but as soon as he heard the commotion, he turned his attention to Max – and burst out in giggles.
“Ahora no seas grosero, Checo,” Sergio chided. Then, distractedly switching to English halfway through, “is not nice to laugh.”
Max fidgeted a little in place. The boy was right to laugh, he was quite the picture.
He could say the same thing about Sergio, still in the damp swim trunks, with a tank top haphazardly thrown on which ended up sticking to his chest anyway. That's where Max's eyes had gone, again, avoiding looking at him directly.
“I think I didn't apply enough sunscreen?” he tentatively said.
Checo gave him a once over. He was allowed to, now, while checking out his sunburn.
“I would say that is right.”
He ended up forfeiting most of his shower time to sit down Max on the couch and try to apply the cream he brought with. Many things didn't make the process smoother, like Max wincing with every one of Sergio's featherlight touches, or the closeness.
Checo had never imagined in his life that the first time he'd get to touch Max's body would be in such a context.
In a hotel room, in Mexico. On vacation. On Sergio's vacation, which Max had more or less intentionally crashed. Not that his presence wasn't welcome, not at all.
Viva el sol mexicano.
Little Sergio had tangled himself in Max's legs when they'd all sat on the couch, and resumed his cartoon marathon without fuss. Max looked on and understood nothing, because it naturally was all in Spanish. He didn't say anything about the entire thing. Checo was glad he didn't. He had no idea how they'd justify this, explain it to themselves. He was, however, more than happy to help.
Chequito had a pretty swell looking float, but he could only take it to the pool and not the sea. Sergio explained this to Max while in the elevator together, after Max had swung by after breakfast to check on them.
Because Checo's room had become Max's room, too. First, the driver's room, now the hotel suites as well. They hung out a lot because they were good buddies and whenever someone wanted to find Max the likelihood of them checking with Checo first was higher than looking for him in his own room.
Jo and Hugh and everyone gave him so much crap about it, but Sergio deflected any and all comments gracefully and took care not to get too close to Max when they were left alone together. He didn't want to allow himself anything, and sometimes that left Max feeling a bit blue in the balls. But it was alright overall.
In any case, Chequito brandished his pool float pridefully – it was a duck with sunglasses. It had a seat and everything, and two handles for ease of maneuvering. Chequito was very proud of his cool duck float, having insisted on carrying it to the pool on himself.
“How is your burn?” Checo asked, for circumstance more, because he could see Max's already rosy shoulders where his thin tank top left his back exposed. It had healed really well in just two days. In any case, Max seemed to be wearing revealing stuff on purpose, even more than what the beach called for.
“Doing good. Your hands are magic hands,” Max joked, about his cream-applying prowess.
It made it hard for Checo to not stare at the curve of his upper back, or at Max's cleavage – he was, admittedly, very well endowed in that area – when Max donned one of those loose and low tank tops. Under the guise of the hot sun, Max would have happily come out wearing a thong if it meant getting Checo’s undivided attention; if not for several problems, which included a little kid and potential paparazzi.
At the pool, Chequito legged it to the ladder and hastily descended to play.
Max and Sergio settled on taking up two beach chairs and soaking up the sun for another day.
“Yesterday I was so careful, now I just want to lie down again. I promise to use enough sunscreen this time,” he'd pleaded with Checo. Checo had awkwardly laughed at that.
“You sound like a nagging girlfriend,” he tried to joke. “You should at least keep your promise.”
Max, red to the tips of his ears with the girlfriend comment, nodded mutely and squirted some of the sun cream in his palm.
“Do a generous amount. You want my help again, like with the burn?”
A quick nod no before Max could get any more flustered and Sergio raised his hands placating.
“If you say so. No harm done if you need help.”
Max was fine. Totally.
They didn't talk a lot about work, surprisingly. All the ‘what are you doing after’ questions were suspended as well, they just enjoyed each other's company, surprisingly domestic. Max convinced himself the domestic part was only there because of Chequito, who was barely on his second time being taken care of by him and already enjoying this life and taking dad Max for granted.
There was a small surprise in for him when Checo invited him out again for dinner one night. The knock on the suite door caught him with his hands in a pile of laundry, trying to sort his clothes into two stacks: the ones that needed desperate cleaning and the ones that could still handle a few more wears.
“Come in!” he beckoned Checo inside, because he knew it was Checo. Nobody else came looking for him.
Incognito was a blessing indeed.
Sergio's hair was neatly combed and shirt ironed.
Max couldn't help the flush rising on his cheeks as Checo spoke the invitation to him.
Them two, out on a dinner date, again.
It would be just like in Milton Keynes.
With Chequito tagging along, obviously. Still.
“My treat again. Since I know all the best restaurants around here. Don't worry, you can make it up to me in Zandvoort somehow,” Sergio winked. “Wear something nice.”
Wear something nice.
Max slumped on the floor with a pending breakdown because he had nothing proper nice in his luggage. Of course he accepted the dinner invite in a heartbeat, what was he to do? He was only a man.
He ended up going with his jeans, a white t-shirt and a blazer he'd had the good intuition to throw in when packing, making up a half decent outfit.
When Checo and Chequito came by to pick him up, Checo looked absolutely dashing .
Max was floored.
He'd put together one of his handsomest suits, he even had dress shoes. Max had no idea why someone would even think to pack this much for a beach vacation but he didn't complain because it wasn't often that he saw Checo this handsome.
“And you, little fella,” he leaned down to nuzzle Chequito's cheek with his hand, “aren't you such a gentleman!”
On his papá’s arm, the little boy, dressed up in khaki shorts and a Spiderman t-shirt, laughed brightly.
Sergio gave Max a toothy smile only he knew how to give, that made him want to lean in and kiss it right off him. Urge that was barely resisted.
“Let's go.”
All in all, it had been a pretty damn good time.
With the exception of the fact that Max never properly took any of the chances to kiss Checo silly when he was offered them, because he was chicken, it had been pretty damn good. They had asked a lady during their evening out and she was nice enough to take a couple of pictures of them, for the memory. They beamed next to each other, Chequito in between them both, and Max saved that photo in his personal folder to stare at for ages later, maybe on the next plane ride.
They'd had a lovely couple of days of sunbathing together. They stretched their vacation beyond the realm of plausibility, as the date for the next race week drew closer and closer and they had to be back to their normal routines soon, way too soon. But Max cherished that period deeply, when he and Checo sat down on the same towel, shoulders brushing.
Max had built countless castles with the kid, and even buried Checo up to his neck in the sand once, and they all laughed while they did it.
And the late night walks on the shore, their toes digging in the soft, humid sand and the sea lapping at their feet as they went…
Max was sure he'd missed so many opportunities to cheekily snog his friend.
He was flying back home to see Victoria for a few days before the season resumed, to tell her how he'd jumped onto the plane with such momentum and ended up making absolutely no move.
Unbeknownst to him, while dropping off Chequito in Mexico Sergio was going to go complaining to his own friends about the exact same thing.
He did get another hug like the one from before. Maybe for a bit longer, maybe it lingered a bit more, when Checo's eyes spelled light disappointment as they flashed to Max's lips and Max trembled a bit upon noticing that.
In the air, Max opened his phone idly and connected to wifi. He was just contacting the outside world, after almost two weeks. Of course he'd called people during his stay with Checo, namely family and even some friends, but it was the first time he was checking the internet in that long, blissfully oblivious stretch of time.
A notification from a news outlet he didn't specifically follow popped up in his notification bar. Thinking it was going to be another clickbait article, Max went to quickly dismiss it, but the two names stuck together in the headline caught his attention. He reluctantly went to click on it.
Upon the article opening in his browser, the color drained from his cheeks as his fingers froze, phone in hand.
PHOTO Sparks Fly? Max Verstappen and Sergio Pérez, Feeling The Heat Under The Mexico Sun