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Isack stares at the puddle forming in a shallow dip in the pavement, the occasional rain drop sending tiny ripples through the surface. He takes a sip from his drinks bottle, watching carefully, as the rain goes from a fine mist to a harder shower and back again. A photographer’s shoe splashes into view, the rhythm of the rain lost. He looks up; a gaggle of chattering journalists are chasing Max Verstappen, the world champion blissfully ignorant as he wields an umbrella and talks to his engineer, gesturing with his free hand.
Isack studies his movements. Is he talking about the camber of the wheels? He thinks that might be what Max is describing. Or maybe he’s talking about the ride height. The one thing for certain is that he shrinks into the back of the Racing Bulls hospitality, no one giving the bleary-eyed rookie a second glance as they chase the Max Verstappen and beg, like dogs waiting for scraps below the dinner table, for a picture, a comment, a quote, just one word.
Sixty free wins, one hundred and twelve podiums, forty poles, collected over an illustrious career.
All Isack had collected today was the barrier. Maybe you could also count the last few fronds of wet, muddy grass stuck to his shoes from his walk of shame.
He hasn’t managed to look at his phone yet. Open social media to the videos and 4K HD professional camera shots of him sobbing like a fucking baby. Reply to the three dozen apologetic texts from his friends. Like the face-saving instagram post from the team social media admin encouraging him to ‘go get it next time.’
But there would never be a next time. You only get one debut, and Isack hadn’t even managed to get across the start line. It would be in every record book, underlined, highlighted; Isack Hadjar, the driver who couldn’t even manage the formation lap.
He wipes his face with the back of his hand, glancing absently back towards the crowd of the paddock, hoping someone official will turn up and tell him to go home. But instead of his PR manager, he finds a pair of stark blue eyes staring back.
Max Verstappen. Looking over his shoulder. At him.
He swallows, shuffles his feet, wanting to glance away but somehow locked into position as the world champion considers him, cocking his head slightly as he adjusts his cap before he continues walking, far too busy to stop. Not for the sad rookie. Not for the media. Never, for anyone.
~
The next day, when he’s finished checking out and is standing in the hotel foyer waiting for his personal trainer, Max’s entourage come striding out of the lifts. He’s like a prince, he thinks, his melancholy more spread thin after a good night’s sleep. Like he has royal attendants for his every need. He looks back down at his phone, liking another TikTok, unaware of the casual footsteps echoing across the floor towards him.
‘Hey, mate.’
Jumping, he almost steps backwards at the sight of Max looming in front of him.
‘...Hello!’ He finally squeaks out, standing rigidly as the lion sizes him up. Look small, look weak, make him think you’re too pathetic to eat.
‘You had a rough race.’
Isack laughs. ‘I wouldn’t call it much of a race.’
‘Don’t say that,’ Max’s mouth curves with a hint of worry. ‘You will come back stronger next week. I know it.’
A hand finds his shoulder, Max’s large, warm hand resting on his tight muscles.
‘Thanks, I really- I think I needed to hear that.’ He lets out a sharp breath, expecting Max to smile and go on his way. But his palm lingers, thumb shifting downwards just a little, towards his collar bone. Blue eyes meet his own. There’s something in them now, a soft and delicate look, as Max gazes at his neck, down past his chest where his heart is starting to pound, down to his legs. Max’s hand slides across his shoulder, fingers tracing against his neck as his thumb glances against his jaw, before he releases him.
Isack’s face is burning, his breath hitched in his throat, as Max grins and waves.
‘I’ll see you next week, mate!’
Then he’s alone. He bites his lower lip as his hackles lower, his own hand tentatively sliding across his shoulder and stopping for a moment where Max’s had been. A heavy sigh escapes him, his eyebrows knitting in worry and confusion and a dozen other feelings as he finally hears his personal trainer trotting towards him. There’s a flight to catch. Next week, he will drive and finish the race. Maybe Max will collect another pole, podium, win.
Perhaps, they will both collect on something else.