Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It started, Max would later swear, with Gabriel fucking Bortoleto.

Max wasn't worried, per se. He wasn't. That wasn't what was happening. He was observing. Like a scientist. Detached. Clinical. Totally normal to watch your husband — your husband of like, what, a thousand years (since they were fourteen and signed a blood oath basically, Max is sure of it) — loiter around the paddock with a kid half his size and, probably, one-tenth his brain cells.

It was... fine.

Charles was just... being friendly.

Which. Okay. Fine. Max could cope with that. He'd been coping since they were five and Charles threw sand in his eyes at a karting track and Max immediately fell in hate-love with him, apparently. He's been coping since they were fourteen and Charles wore that stupid Ferrari cap backwards and smiled at Max with a mouth full of braces and Max decided, "Oh. Fuck. I guess I'm going to marry that."

Max had been coping when they moved in together at seventeen, when they got Leo at nineteen, when Charles got drunk at twenty-two and proposed with a candy ring, when Max said yes and also cried and also threw up because he was so nervous.

So this? This thing where Charles was hanging around a rookie like a glorified soccer mom?

Not a problem.

Max. Was. Chill.

Even when he saw Charles and Gabriel doing secret handshakes.
(They had a secret handshake. Max was fine.)

Even when Charles showed Max a meme Gabriel had made about "rookie struggles" and Charles wheezed laughing for twenty minutes.

Even when Charles said, at dinner, poking his pasta around like a delinquent child, "He reminds me of you a little, Maxy," and Max almost choked on a spaghetti noodle and died right there, haunted forever by Charles’s treachery.

STILL FINE.

It wasn't until Kimi fucking Antonelli entered the scene that Max’s left eye started twitching uncontrollably like an old war veteran sensing a storm coming.

Because listen. Listen.
Gabriel was one thing. One mistake. One lone teenager that Charles could mentor or babysit or whatever the hell he thought he was doing.

But two rookies?
Two separate small adorable idiots following Charles around like baby ducklings??
Max started keeping tabs. He started making notes.

He started —
he started making a damn List.

THE LIST.
(Working title: How My Perfect Childfree Life Is Slowly Being Destroyed By My Stupid Hot Husband and His Stray Children.)

And it kept getting longer.

Because then came Ollie fucking Bearman.

Max saw it with his own eyes — Charles crouching in front of Ollie like he was coaching a youth soccer game, patting his shoulder, handing him a bottle of water like he was some sort of proud suburban dad.

Max had to sit down.

He had to physically sit down on a tire stack to process.

Charles gave Ollie a juice box.
Max gave himself a stress ulcer.

He didn't say anything about it — because he trusted Charles, he loved Charles, he would literally commit international crimes for Charles — but he did go home that night and watch Charles a little closer.

Watched how Charles hummed around the kitchen, making pasta sauce from scratch like he wasn’t guilty of war crimes against their previously peaceful household.
Watched how Charles shoved a forkful into Max's mouth with a, "Taste, Maxy! It's better than your mum’s!" and Max almost died because it was and he loved him so fucking much it made his ribs ache.

Max brought it up, cautiously, around bedtime, when Charles was brushing his teeth wearing nothing but one of Max's old karting shirts that barely covered his ass.

"You, uh," Max said, casual like a man trying to hide a hand grenade behind his back, "you’re spending a lot of time with the rookies."

Charles blinked at him in the mirror, mouth foamy.
Spat.
Grinned.

"They're just my little friends, Maxy," he said with a giggle, walking backwards into bed and dragging Max by the collar with him. "Nothing paternal, promise. No adoption happening. No children. Ew."

He kissed Max silly until Max forgot his own name, until Max's heart squeezed in his chest like a balloon under pressure, until Max remembered exactly why he could never say no to him.

Fine. Fine. Charles promised. No kids.
Fine.

Max slept like a baby that night, buried under Charles’s weight and Leo's snoring.

Two weeks later, Jack fucking Doohan entered the chat.

And then Liam fucking Lawson.

Max saw Jack high-five Charles so hard their hands echoed across the pitlane.
He saw Liam hand Charles a can of Red Bull like it was a sacramental offering.

Max started getting chest pains.

At home, he was... coping. Barely.

"You're imagining things," Charles said one night, when Max glared at him over a bowl of popcorn during their horror movie marathon.
"Am I," Max said flatly, watching the way Charles kept texting someone under the blanket, giggling.
"It's just the rookies," Charles said. "They're just being nice! You should be happy for me. I have friends!"

Max’s nose wrinkled. "You have me. You don’t need friends."

Charles threw popcorn at his face.

Max caught it in his mouth like a feral dog.

"I love you," Charles said, grabbing his chin, smushing his cheeks together until Max looked like a disgruntled goldfish. "And I love our life. Zero kids. Forever."

Max squinted suspiciously at him but nodded. Charles wouldn't lie to him. Charles loved him. Charles was an idiot but not a traitor.

He trusted Charles.

(He didn’t trust Jack "what's a tax" Doohan though.)

By the Spanish GP, Max’s List was a full blown fucking scroll.

Max’s Betrayal List™:

• Gabriel.

• Kimi.

• Ollie.

• Jack.

• Liam.

• Franco Colapinto, who Charles literally called "my sweet little sunshine" in front of heaven and everyone.

Max kept track. Max kept tabs. Max HAD A SPREADSHEET. He would NOT go gently into that good night. He was a four-time World Champion not a fucking daycare supervisor.

Charles was suspiciously quiet about it all.
He still kissed Max goodbye every morning. Still curled into him every night, knees tucked behind Max’s like puzzle pieces. Still whispered, half-asleep, "mon Maxy, mon tout petit cœur," against his neck.

Max wanted to believe him.

Max tried to believe him.

But then Oscar and Lando — their original bastard sons — were seen laughing with the rookies. Standing with them.
Uniting.

Forming a damn toddler alliance.

Max saw Oscar hand Liam a friendship bracelet. He saw Lando and Ollie comparing memes about Charles. He saw Charles in the middle of it all, laughing like a proud kindergarten teacher on field trip day.

Max knew then.
Max knew.

Charles hadn't adopted one or two rookies.

Charles had started a damn commune.

A tiny, chaotic, beautifully stupid commune.
And Max — poor, tired, love-sick, baby-averse Max — was being outmaneuvered. Outflanked. Outloved.

He was being ambushed by family.

And he was so fucking in love with Charles it hurt.

Somewhere between Charles laughing like an actual insane person over Kimi Antonelli’s SpongeBob impression and Max plotting a slow, painful demise for everyone under the age of twenty-three,
Max — poor, dumb, heart-strangled Max — was approached by Red Bull PR.

It was a Thursday. Max knew it was a Thursday because Thursdays were the days he hated the most.
Thursdays were the days he had to talk to people.

(Max. Verstappen. Talking. The world was not built for such atrocities.)

"Max," said his PR handler, wide-eyed and manic like she’d had three Red Bulls for breakfast, "we need you to go interact with the F1 Academy girls this afternoon for content."

Max blinked.
Max nodded.
Max was a professional.

Fine.

Fine!
He could do that!

He was an adult!
He was an icon!
He had four fucking world titles!

He could interact with a couple kids without spontaneously combusting into a ball of antisocial flames!!

Somewhere, a clock ticked ominously in the background.

Max showed up at the media pen with all the enthusiasm of a dying slug.

He was wearing sunglasses, mostly because the fluorescent lights made his eyes feel like overripe grapes ready to burst.

Next to him stood Maya Weug, Aurelia Nobels, and Doriane Pin.

Small. Smiling.
Brimming with the kind of youthful optimism Max had surgically removed at age eleven.

And then — THEN — they started talking.

Oh, my fucking goodness, Max thought, they're talking.

So much.

So, so, so much.

Maya started it. She asked about tyre degradation like it was casual small talk.
Aurelia immediately one-upped her by asking about weight distribution on high-speed corners.
Doriane, not to be outdone, asked what it was like to handle pressure as a teenager in a hyper-competitive sport.

And Max — Max, poor stupid baby Max —
answered them.

Like some kind of veteran sensei sitting atop a mountain, he answered them.

He started rambling about finding braking points with instinct and how the first time he ever felt at home in an F1 car was during a wet quali session when everyone else was scared shitless and he was laughing inside his helmet.
He talked about hating his own telemetry sheets for years because he thought if he looked at Charles’s data too closely, he’d never beat him.
He talked about trust. About losing it. About building it again.

He said stuff he hadn't even thought about in years.

And they listened — eyes wide and mouths slightly open like he was telling bedtime stories about ancient wars.

Max told them about Monaco 2016 where he crashed into a wall and cried behind his visor until his radio cut out.
About Mexico 2021 where he won but didn’t feel happy because he thought it wasn't enough.

He told them —
he fucking told them —

"It’s not about winning everything, sometimes. It’s about still wanting it even when you lose so bad it feels like your chest’s gonna cave in."

And holy fuck, they nodded.

Maya was scribbling mental notes.
Aurelia looked like she wanted to hug him.
Doriane had the exact same proud-smirk Charles got when Max said something accidentally profound.

Max was.
Max was.

Max was having a fucking moment.

Somewhere else in the paddock, Charles sneezed violently and said, "Maxy is being emotionally vulnerable somewhere. I feel it."

Max didn’t even realize what was happening until one of them — he didn’t even know which one, his brain was static — said, shyly, "You remind me of my big brother."

And Max.

Max fucking short-circuited.

Because.
Because that was the thing, wasn't it?
That was the secret awful beautiful terrible thing nobody told you when you loved someone for your whole damn life like Max loved Charles:

You became what they needed you to be, even if it scared you, even if you never wanted it, even if you didn’t know how.

And Charles —
beautiful stupid perfect Charles —

had needed family.

So Max?

Max fucking became it.

Afterwards, Charles found him standing by the Red Bull motorhome looking like he’d just fought in Vietnam.

Max had the world's most confused, betrayed, soft look on his face.

"Maxy?" Charles asked, blinking. "Are you okay?"

Max blinked back.
Opened his mouth.
Closed it.

Finally croaked out, "I think I adopted three daughters by accident."

Charles blinked again.
Paused.

Then absolutely lost it, cackling so hard he had to hold onto Max’s arm to stay upright.

"You — you what?" Charles wheezed.

Max glared at him. "This is your fault."

"My fault?!"

"You infected me," Max said darkly, "with your fucking stupid heart."

Charles melted right there on the spot.

Without warning, he just slotted himself under Max’s arm like he belonged there, pressing kisses to Max’s collarbone, laughing into his skin.

"Mon Maxy," he said, smug and fond and unbearably in love. "Papa Max."

"I will divorce you," Max muttered.

"No you won’t," Charles sing-songed, bouncing on his heels, still holding Max hostage with both arms around his waist.

And Max.

Max — who had dreamed of a life with Charles and zero kids,
who thought he would die alone in a mansion with forty sim rigs and zero Legos underfoot,

looked down at his stupid beautiful disaster of a husband, and thought:

Fine.
Fine.
Maybe one or two or fifteen kids was fine.
If it was Charles. If it was him. If it was them.

Max kissed the top of Charles’s head like a man making peace with a hurricane.

There was no single moment Max could pinpoint.
No single earth-shattering day he could look back on and say yes, yes, that was the moment I fucked up beyond repair.

It was more like.
Like sand slipping through his fingers.
Like tiny little cracks splintering across his nice, clean, no-children life.
Hairline fractures, at first. Barely noticeable.

And then the whole fucking wall came down.

It started with Ollie.

Of course it started with Ollie.

Ollie Bearman, who looked like someone had let a hyperactive golden retriever loose in the Ferrari garage and given it opposable thumbs.

Ollie had cornered Max one evening in hospitality with all the grace of a drunk elk on roller skates and said, completely serious, "Max. How do you know if a ghost is haunting your house or if it’s just plumbing sounds."

Max blinked.
Max stared.
Max experienced the unique sensation of wanting to punch himself into the sun.

"Are you stupid," Max said, not unkindly. "It is always the plumbing."

"But what if it’s a ghost pretending to be plumbing sounds," Ollie insisted, dead-eyed, like he had seen some shit.

Max, who did not believe in ghosts but very much believed in Charles sneaking up behind him in the dark and scaring seven years off his lifespan,
stood there with a mug of coffee halfway to his mouth, contemplating mortality.

"If it's a ghost," Max said slowly, "tell it to pay rent."

Ollie nodded, solemn. "Good advice. Thanks, Dad."

Max choked so hard he snorted coffee up his nose.

"I am not your dad," Max growled.

Ollie was already gone, off to go investigate the plumbing.

Then it was Kimi Antonelli.

Fucking Kimi.

Max had been minding his own business, doing important things like glaring at pigeons from the Red Bull pit wall, when Kimi shuffled up next to him with the aura of a teenager who was absolutely about to ask something stupid.

"Hey Max," Kimi said in that weird raspy voice like he was eighty-five years old and retired, "how fast do you think a cat could drive if it had thumbs."

Max stared into the middle distance.

"Like. If you trained it. Properly." Kimi clarified, deadly serious.

Max had no earthly idea how to respond to that.

But something in his deeply fried, trauma-soaked brain answered back anyway.

"Depends on the car," Max said. "Formula Ford? Maybe pretty fast. RB20? The cat would cry."

Kimi nodded thoughtfully, hands in pockets, absolutely taking notes in his brain.

Max had the sudden, horrifying thought that he had just contributed to a scientific paper in progress titled "Can Felines Operate Open-Wheel Racecars: A Study."

Charles found them later and said, "Max, what were you talking about with Kimi?"

Max said, "Nothing."

Charles said, "You look guilty."

Max said, "Your face looks guilty," and walked into a doorframe by accident.

Isack Hadjar was worse.

Isack Hadjar cornered Max in a hallway at Zandvoort and said, "Do you think dolphins are trying to contact us or are they just being assholes."

Max did not have the spiritual capacity to handle that conversation.

He just looked Isack dead in the eyes and said, "Both."

Isack nodded, punched him lightly in the arm, and left, humming.

Then Jack Doohan caught him in the garage while Max was eating a protein bar and said, "Would you still love Charles if he was a worm."

"What," Max said.

"Like. If Charles was a worm. Like a big worm. Would you still be with him."

Max did not even blink.

"Yes," he said. "I would build him a worm-sized Monaco mansion and a tiny little Ferrari."

Jack looked at him with the gravitas of a priest witnessing a sacred vow.

"You’re a real one," Jack said.

Max unwrapped another protein bar in despair.

Liam Lawson did not even bother with small talk.

Liam just sat next to Max at a team dinner, leaned over, and said, "If you ever want someone to help you hide a body, I’m your guy."

Max put his fork down very carefully.

"What body," he asked.

"No body," Liam shrugged. "Just saying."

Max, who once drove a getaway car for Charles when Charles "accidentally" stole a police dog (long story, involved ice cream), merely nodded.

Gabriel Bortoleto was somehow the most normal.

Which was saying a lot because Gabriel once tried to climb a Christmas tree at a sponsor event.

Gabriel approached Max after qualifying in Jeddah and said, "Hey Max. I think your helmet design is sick. Do you want to see the one I drew for myself when I was like eight."

Max, against all odds, said "yeah, okay" and looked at Gabriel’s cracked Samsung Galaxy screen like it was displaying ancient religious texts.

It was stick figures.

Stick figures everywhere.

One stick figure was driving a literal square.

Max told him it was beautiful.

Gabriel looked like he was going to cry.

Max immediately walked into another doorframe because the amount of emotions inside his chest cavity was exceeding maximum load.

Maya Weug started it up again by asking Max after a sprint race whether she should dye her hair red.

Aurelia Nobels and Doriane Pin immediately joined the conversation to say Maya should dye it Ferrari red for psychological warfare.

Max, already so deep in the hole that sunlight was a myth, said "Do it. Fear is a weapon."

He did not even realize he had spoken out loud until Charles came by ten minutes later and whispered in his ear, "Papa Max instructing the troops again?" with a grin so wide it split Max in half.

Max threw his cap at him.

Missed.

Charles laughed until he was breathless and kissed Max in full view of seven mechanics and a pigeon.

Max melted into it anyway because he was weak for his husband and also maybe very stupidly in love.

Later that night, Charles was lying across Max’s chest, lazy and warm, scrolling on his phone while Max absently played with his hair.

"You know," Charles said, suspiciously casual, "the kids think you’re like. Very cool."

"I am very cool," Max said immediately, because self-preservation was not in his vocabulary.

Charles snorted. "You’re their dad now."

"I am not their dad," Max said, scowling at the ceiling like it had personally betrayed him.

Charles only laughed, soft and fond, and pressed a kiss to Max’s throat.

"You’re their dad," he repeated, sing-songy and evil.

Max grumbled but didn’t kick him off.

He was too busy thinking about Maya's helmet ideas, and whether Ollie ever figured out the plumbing thing, and if Jack really meant the worm question, and if Liam actually owned a shovel.

He was too busy thinking that maybe, maybe, maybe it wasn’t so bad.
Maybe it was kind of fucking wonderful.

It happened without warning.

One second Max was existing peacefully, lying half-dead on the sofa after a brutal triple-header, Leo snoring on his chest.
The next second his phone buzzed thirteen times in a row, vibrating itself right off the coffee table.

At first, Max ignored it.
Then it buzzed again so violently it knocked over a candle.

He groaned, picked it up, and immediately wished he hadn’t.

A notification stared back at him with all the malice of a wasp in summer.

Ollie added you to "Les Enfants Terribles (aka future WDCs) 👑🏎️"

Max blinked.

No. No, no, no.
He scrolled the participants list with the sense of a man discovering a small, localized apocalypse.

Oscar.
Lando.
Ollie.
Kimi.
Gabriel.
Isack.
Jack.
Liam.
Maya.
Doriane.
Aurelia.
Franco.
Charles.

And now.
Max.

He considered throwing his phone out the window.

He considered throwing himself out the window.

Les Enfants Terribles (aka future WDCs) 👑🏎️

Ollie: MAXX HELLOOOOO DAD

Max: I am NOT your dad

Charles: You are 😘

Oscar: Welcome dad #2

Max: Charles I am divorcing you

Charles: No you’re not

Charles: Also can you help them pls they have so many questions and I am tired ❤️

Max: NO

Doriane: HI MAX WHAT TYRE STRATEGY WOULD YOU USE IN A RACE WITH SUDDEN RAIN

Max: Inters if track temp above 18C. Full wets if not.

Aurelia: Omg he actually answered

Maya: He loves us already

Jack: dad said no but meant yes

Max: STOP CALLING ME DAD

Kimi: Max can you help me with my maths homework

Max: no

Kimi: pls it’s due tomorrow

Max: send it

(attachment: "calculus_homework_from_hell.pdf")

Max squinted at the picture.
It was. Calculus.
He swore under his breath and started scribbling on a napkin because apparently he was a dad now.

Somewhere in the madness, Oscar and Lando started screaming at each other.

Oscar: bro how do you defend championship lead I’m so stressed

Lando: u literally have like 4 points on me shut up

Oscar: CRYING SCREAMING THROWING UP

Lando: MAX HELP ME BEAT HIM

Oscar: NO DAD HELP ME BEAT HIM

Max: both of you shut up

Max: stay consistent. don’t panic. every point matters. control what you can control.

Ollie : dad advice 🥺

Max: i will block you

Meanwhile, Ollie was on another planet.

Ollie: has anyone figured out if ghosts are real yet

Isack: depends on your definition of real

Gabriel: have you tried asking politely

Ollie: guys serious answers only

Max: ollie if a ghost pays rent it’s real otherwise ignore it

Ollie: understood thank you father figure

Max: I AM NOT YOUR DAD

Liam: too late bro you’re locked in forever

Gabriel, mercifully, asked real questions.

Gabriel: Max do you think I should adjust my braking points if my tyres are heating unevenly in S1?

Max: yes. trail brake longer into turn 3. short shift on exit to manage wheelspin.

Gabriel: THANK YOU SIR 🫡

Maya: omg he’s so formal about it

Aurelia: sir max father of driving advice

Jack: FATHER MAX

Isack: FATHER MAX

Max: I am removing myself from this planet

Meanwhile, in private texts:

Charles: having fun babe? 😇

Max: I am calling the police

Charles: ur doing amazing sweetie 🫶

Max: YOU ARE AN ENABLER

Charles: imagine all our kids winning championships one day 🥹

Max: THEY ARE NOT OUR KIDS

Charles: they kinda are tho

Charles: ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

Max threw his phone into the sofa cushions and screamed into Leo’s fur.

Leo sneezed on him.

Max reconsidered his life choices.

Back in "Les Enfants Terribles 👑🏎️" chat:

Franco: max do you think it’s better to build race pace over quali pace or quali over race pace at monza

Max: race pace. you can’t win monza on quali alone

Franco: thank you father 🛐

Ollie: I found a ghost in the attic btw

Kimi: is it paying rent

Ollie: no it just keeps whispering

Max: it’s the plumbing. ignore it.

Isack: max can I ask a life question

Max: no

Isack: what do u do if u think you’re failing but everyone says you’re doing great

Max sat there for a long time staring at the message.
He thought about 2015.
He thought about 2021.
He thought about every night he’d curled up in a hotel bathroom because the pressure felt like it was going to kill him.
He thought about Charles laughing, bright and careless, pulling him back from the edge.

Finally, Max typed:

Max: you trust yourself. you trust the work you’ve done. even when it’s hard. especially when it’s hard.

The chat went silent for a second.
Then—

Maya: father

Gabriel: PAPA MAX

Aurelia: DAD SPEECH

Lando: crying again brb

Oscar: sobbing I love you dad

Max: STOP CALLING ME DAD

Charles: ur literally everyone's dad now accept it

Max: i hate you

Charles: love u too 🫶

That night, Max lay in bed while Charles curled up against him like a smug little furnace.

"You like them," Charles murmured, voice thick with sleep.

"I do not," Max lied viciously.

Charles hummed, amused, and pressed a kiss against Max’s jaw.

Max stared up at the ceiling, at the long stretch of his life ahead.

All those kids.

All those futures.

All that chaos.

And somehow, against all odds, it didn’t feel like a burden.

It felt like
home.

It started at 2:13AM.

Max was half-dead in bed, one leg kicked out from under the blanket, Leo using his shin as a pillow, when his phone buzzed once.
Then again.
Then again-again.
Then violently and with intent to murder.

Max cracked one eye open.
The screen glowed in the darkness like a vengeful ghost.

Oscar  and Lando  added you to "Championship Panic Support Group"

Max blinked.
Closed the app.
Tried to sleep.

His phone buzzed again with a new message.
And another.
And another.

Leo let out a suffering noise, the sound of a man wronged by the universe, and covered his head with a paw.

Max sighed like a soldier heading to certain death and unlocked his phone.

Championship Panic Support Group

Oscar: hi max

Lando: hi dad

Max: NO

Max: NO NO NO

Oscar: pls we need help

Lando: it’s serious 🥺

Max: it is 2am. go to sleep.

Oscar: CAN’T SLEEP

Lando: TOO MUCH STRESS

Max: what stress

Oscar: title fight stress

Lando: and also relationship stress

Max frowned.
Paused.
Scrolled up.
Scrolled down.

Wait.

Wait wait wait.

Relationship stress?

RELATIONSHIP STRESS??

Max sat up in bed so fast Leo slid off his leg and hit the mattress with a bewildered thump.

Championship Panic Support Group

Max: WHAT RELATIONSHIP

Oscar: us

Lando: me and oscar

Oscar: dating

Lando: boyfriends

Oscar: since june

Lando: since miami actually but we didn’t tell anyone until june

Oscar: sorry 😭

Lando: surprise!! 🫶

Max stared at the screen.

Stared at the wall.

Stared at the screen again.

A slideshow of the past six months reeled through his mind:
Oscar and Lando whispering.
Oscar and Lando sitting suspiciously close.
Oscar and Lando sharing water bottles and throwing helmets at each other like toddlers.

Max rubbed both hands down his face and considered throwing his phone across the room.

They kept typing.

Of course they kept typing.

Oscar: and like

Oscar: now we’re 1st and 2nd in the championship

Lando: and it’s really stressful

Oscar: and we don’t want to like

Lando: mess up the relationship

Oscar: or the racing

Lando: or the friendship

Oscar: or everything

Lando: AND URGHHHH

Oscar: and you did a title fight with charles and didn’t die????

Lando: pls teach us wise father

Max: I AM NOT YOUR FATHER

Oscar: pls dad 😭

Lando: pls papa 🥺

Max had a tension headache building right between his eyebrows.

He lay back down, staring at the ceiling.

He could just leave the chat.

He could mute them.

He could turn off his phone and pretend this never happened.

Instead, Max found himself typing.

Max: first thing. remember the racing is separate from the relationship.

Max: when you’re on track, you’re drivers. not boyfriends.

Max: you have to trust that neither of you will be stupid.

Max: respect each other’s space. leave room. race fair.

Max: but off track, you have to forgive fast.

Max: whatever happens on track, leave it there.

Max: don’t take it to the hotel. don’t take it home.

Max: otherwise you’ll lose both the championship and the relationship.

Silence.
For once, blessed silence.

Then:

Oscar: omg that’s so smart

Lando: DAD WISDOM 😭

Oscar: we’re literally crying

Lando: he’s like. so wise. so powerful.

Oscar: so fatherly

Max: i will come to your houses and personally unplug your wifi

They started asking more questions, of course. Because life was suffering.

Oscar: what if one of us crashes the other out by accident

Lando: yeah like what if i accidentally nerf him off at turn 1

Oscar: or if i send him into the barriers in the sprint race

Max: apologize fast.

Max: and mean it.

Max: and remember it’s not bigger than the relationship.

Lando: URGHGHGH DAD WHY ARE YOU SO GOOD AT THIS

Oscar: literally crying into my pillow

Then Lando dropped a nuclear bomb.

Lando: what if we get married before one of us wins the title

Oscar: 😳

Oscar: 😳😳

Oscar: babe

Lando: idk just thinking about it

Oscar: BABE

Max: WHAT THE FUCK

Max: WIN THE TITLE FIRST

Max: THEN GET MARRIED

Max: IN THAT ORDER

Lando: okokokok 😭😭😭😭😭

Oscar: love u babe

Lando: love u more

Oscar: no i love u more

Max: I’M LEAVING THIS CHAT

He didn’t leave.

He stayed.

He gave them advice on managing stress.

On eating properly even when the nerves made you want to vomit.
On sleeping even when your brain was spinning.
On hugging each other and forgiving each other and always always always remembering that championships come and go but the people who love you are rarer than gold.

He stayed up until four AM.

By the time Leo barked at the sunrise, Max was half-asleep with his phone dangling from his fingers, messages from Lando and Oscar pinging in soft, tired little bursts.

Oscar: dad thank u so much 😭😭😭😭

Lando: genuinely don’t know what we’d do without u

Oscar: ur our max-dad

Lando: maxdadmaxdadmaxdad

Oscar: MAXDAD FOREVER

Max: i hate you both

Max: but eat well before the race this weekend

Max: and hydrate

Max: and don’t crash into each other. i will personally beat you with a baguette if you do.

Oscar: YESSIR 🫡

Lando: love you dad 🥺

Max: go to sleep.

Oscar: goodnight papa 🥰

Lando: goodnight dad 🥰

Leo huffed and shoved his nose into Max’s arm.

Max finally let himself smile in the dark.

He was never going to admit it
but maybe
maybe
maybe
he didn’t mind being their stupid Maxdad after all.

It started — as all tragedies did — with a ping.

Max was in the middle of a debrief when his phone buzzed violently in his pocket like it was being tased by heaven.

He ignored it.

It buzzed again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

Charles leaned sideways in his seat like an absolute toddler, craned his neck, spotted the notification, and stage-whispered in the most obvious way humanly possible, "I think it's your children."

Max refused to dignify that with a response. He tucked his phone deeper into his pocket and scowled at the telemetry on the laptop in front of him like he could kill it with his mind.

Chapter Text

Max had survived the first and second group chat.
Barely.
He thought, maybe if he muted the entire app and pretended to have a sudden thumb injury, he could live in peace.
Maybe he could go outside. Touch some grass. Rebuild a life.

But life is a cruel thing.

Because at 3:06AM, another notification slapped his phone screen like a drunk pigeon flying into a glass window.

Ollie, Doriane and Kimi added you to "zombie ghost invasion preparation"

Max stared at it.
He stared at it like it had personally wronged him and stolen his taxes.
"Zombie ghost invasion preparation."
He wanted to throw his phone into the nearest active volcano.
He wanted to sue Charles for emotional damages because this? This was his fault somehow. These were Charles' kids. Charles and his stupid enabler face and his equally stupid enabling habits.

Max braced himself and opened the chat.

Zombie ghost invasion preparation

Ollie: we are SO fucked

Kimi: bro its starting

Doriane: 100% confirmed

Ollie: ghosts and zombies everywhere

Kimi: i saw a ghost today

Ollie: NO WAY BRO

Doriane: was it the kitchen ghost

Kimi: no different one

Max immediately considered walking into traffic.

Max: what the FUCK are you talking about

Ollie: DAD YOURE HERE

Kimi: dad’s online 😭

Max: STOP CALLING ME DAD

Ollie: anyway we need ur advice dad

Kimi: the world is ending

Ollie: ghost apocalypse. zombie apocalypse. both at once.

Kimi: ZOMBIE GHOSTS

Doriane: undead spirits. seeking revenge.

Max had to close his eyes and breathe through the rising tide of secondhand stupidity radiating off his screen. It was like being trapped in a sealed room with three golden retrievers who had just discovered philosophy.

Max: WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT

Max: WHAT GHOSTS

Max: WHAT ZOMBIES

Max: IT'S 3AM

Ollie: we are PREPARING for survival

Kimi: contingency plans

Doriane: strategic outposts

Max: YOU LIVE IN MONACO

Ollie: SO

Kimi: ghosts are everywhere dad

Ollie: DAD

Ollie: THERE COULD BE ZOMBIE GHOSTS ON THE YACHTS

Max: STOP CALLING ME DAD

Doriane: anyway we made plans

Max: WHAT PLANS

Ollie: escape routes

Kimi: weapon gathering

Doriane: food storage. critical.

Max: YOU ARE 12 YEARS OLD. STOP TALKING ABOUT WEAPON GATHERING

Ollie: we can use the ferraris

Kimi: high speed escape

Doriane: logistics maximised

Max pinched the bridge of his nose so hard he saw colors.
Charles. This was Charles’ fault. This was Charles letting these dumbasses watch "The Walking Dead" at 2AM instead of doing something normal like sleeping or studying or reading a nice book about tax law.

Max: ferraris don’t work against zombies

Kimi: what about ghost ferraris

Max: WHAT THE FUCK IS A GHOST FERRARI

Ollie: bro imagine a ghost car

Doriane: actually plausible tbh

Max: NO

Max: NO IT IS NOT

Max: A GHOST CANNOT DRIVE A CAR

Max: THEY DON’T HAVE HANDS

Ollie: 🧍‍♂️

Max: STOP

Kimi: dad pls advise

Ollie: we made an ouija board

Max sat up in bed so fast Leo yelped and fell off the duvet.
Max’s heart rate doubled. Tripled.
He wasn’t religious. He wasn’t superstitious.
But Max believed in one absolute universal truth:
Charles’ kids were stupid enough to accidentally summon a real ghost and get haunted.

Max: YOU MADE A WHAT

Ollie: a ouija board

Kimi: homemade

Doriane: arts and crafts

Max: ARE YOU FUCKING INSANE

Max: YOU CAN’T JUST

Max: BUILD A OUIJA BOARD

Max: LIKE IT'S LEGO

Max: DO YOU WANT TO DIE

Max: DO YOU WANT TO GET HAUNTED

Max: IS THAT WHAT YOU WANT

Ollie: it’s fine dad

Kimi: it’s safe

Doriane: we watched tutorials

Max: FROM WHERE

Max: TIKTOK???

Ollie: maybe

Max threw his phone at the pillow and let out a sound so raw and animalistic Leo barked in alarm.

Max muttered under his breath in Dutch for a full minute.
He couldn’t believe this.
He was a world champion. A millionaire. A respected athlete.
And yet here he was, at three AM, screaming into a pillow because Charles’ children had built a haunted deathtrap out of printer paper and bad decisions.

Max: YOU ARE NOT ALLOWED TO PLAY WITH THAT

Max: I SWEAR TO GOD

Max: IF ONE OF YOU GETS POSSESSED I’M NOT SAVING YOU

Kimi: so if ollie becomes a ghost we just leave him?

Max: YES

Max: ABANDON HIM IMMEDIATELY

Ollie: DAD 😭

Doriane: ruthlessness. respect.

Ollie: what if the ghosts are nice tho

Max: THEY ARE NOT NICE

Max: IF THEY WERE NICE THEY WOULDN’T BE DEAD AND HAUNTING CHILDREN

Max: USE YOUR HEADS

Kimi: dad u sound like papa

Max stopped mid-rant.
Mid furious, blood-pressure-spiking rant.
He blinked at the screen.

He sounded like Charles.
He sounded like Charles when he got that stern face, the one he pulled when Ollie tried to microwave foil or Kimi tried to zipline off the balcony.

Max’s hands softened slightly on his phone.
He stared at the chat, at these three absolute menaces typing away like gremlins on crack, and thought,
Charles would laugh so hard if he saw this.

Max sighed deeply. Heavily. Like an old man looking back on a lifetime of bad choices.

Ollie: anyway we should def meet up

Kimi: discuss tactical positioning

Doriane: allocate resources

Max: NO

Max: YOU ARE NOT FORMING A ZOMBIE WAR CAMP IN MY HOUSE

Ollie: DAD PLS

Kimi: PLS

Doriane: pls dad

Max stared at Doriane’s "pls".
Something about it — calm, polite, simple — hit different.
Max didn’t even have the strength to yell at her for calling him dad.
He just. Accepted it. Like a man accepts the inevitability of rain.

Max: we are NOT summoning ghosts

Max: we are NOT starting a zombie war

Max: if you see a ghost you RUN

Max: if you see a zombie you RUN

Max: if you see anything weird you CALL CHARLES

Ollie: why charles

Max: because HE IS YOUR REAL DAD

Kimi: so ur like stepdad

Max: NO

Ollie: i’m telling charles ur our stepdad now

Max: I SWEAR TO GOD

Max: I WILL BLOCK ALL OF YOU

Kimi: dad pls

Ollie: stepdad pls

Doriane: father

Max: I’M MUTING THIS CHAT

Max: GOODNIGHT

Kimi: love you dad

Ollie: love u stepdad

Doriane: love you father

Max physically threw the phone across the bed.
He buried his head in the pillow and screamed into it, muffled and long and full of despair.
Leo jumped up beside him and lay dramatically across Max’s back like a mourning widow.

Max lay there, vibrating with rage and stupidity and love.
Because he would never say it — not to them, not even to Charles —
but secretly, secretly, he kind of loved these dumbass kids.
Even when they were trying to summon the apocalypse with printer paper.
Even when they called him dad like it was a goddamn government title.

Max smiled into the pillow.
Then immediately scowled when his phone buzzed again.

Ollie: hey if we get possessed can we still race??

Kimi: asking for a friend

Doriane: important tactical question

Max screamed louder.

Max hadn't meant to stay.
He really hadn't.
He'd told himself — promised himself — that after the last message (the final message) he would mute the chat, turn off the phone, and go to sleep like a normal, responsible adult.

And yet.
Here he was.
At 3:18AM, in bed, one arm flung dramatically across Leo, scrolling like some kind of exhausted single parent trying to babysit three nuclear disasters from miles away.

Zombie ghost invasion preparation

Max: listen up

Max: summoning ghosts is dangerous

Max: EVEN if ghosts don’t exist

Max: you don’t just call random things out into the universe

Ollie: but what if the ghosts are bored and wanna hang out

Max: YOU DON’T KNOW THAT

Max: you don’t know if it’s a nice ghost or a crazy one

Max: it’s like opening the door to a stranger who says they have free puppies

Kimi: depends if the puppies are cute tho

Max: NO IT DOESN'T

Max: YOU STILL DON’T OPEN THE DOOR

Ollie: but if the ghost has snacks?

Max: YOU'RE BOTH GROUNDED

Max: GO TO SLEEP

Doriane: i can’t find a coin

Max blinked, squinting at his screen.
Coin?
What coin?
What—

Max: what do you need a coin for

Doriane: to use the ouija board properly

Max had to physically lie down flat and count to ten.
Leo, sensing his inner breakdown, crawled up and gently sat on Max’s chest like a very concerned, very judgmental therapist.

Max: doriane are you doing this alone

Doriane: yeah

Doriane: kimi and ollie aren’t allowed in my room

Max: wait why

Doriane: prema principal is olliephobic

Max sat bolt upright.
What.
What.

Ollie: yeah 😔

Ollie: mr v told doriane that when i graduated i was NEVER allowed back into prema

Kimi: they blacklisted him dad

Ollie: said i’m a 'problem child'

Kimi: biggest L fr

Doriane: literally not allowed on prema property anymore

Max: WAIT WHAT

Max: WHAT DID YOU DO

Ollie: nothing that bad 😁

Kimi: define 'bad' for dad

Ollie: creative use of resources?

Kimi: fireworks?

Ollie: artistic expressions?

Kimi: scooter chase?

Max was massaging his temples so hard he was about to personally give himself a lobotomy.

Max: DORIANE DO NOT USE THE OUIJA BOARD ALONE. OR EVER.

Max: DON’T SUMMON ANYTHING

Max: I’M BEGGING YOU

Doriane: ok

Doriane: but if i find a coin it’s destiny

Max: IT IS NOT DESTINY IT IS BAD DECISION MAKING

Ollie: what if doriane summons a nice zombie tho

Kimi: like one that just wants a hug

Ollie: or snacks

Kimi: or vbucks

Max: ZOMBIES DON’T WANT HUGS

Max: THEY WANT YOUR BRAINS

Max: STOP TALKING

Ollie: jokes on them i have no brains

Kimi: SAME

Doriane: i have brains but I don't use em

Ollie: queen

Kimi: slay

Max was half-laughing, half-crying into his pillow.
Why. Why was this his life.
He was a champion. A legend.
A man who had stood on podiums, lifted trophies, stared down history.

And yet here he was, coaching a zombie task force made of a chaos gremlin, a tiny warlord, and a girl currently looking for a coin at 3AM so she could possibly get possessed by an angry dead shoe salesman.

Max: do NOT use the board alone

Max: if you find a coin just

Max: idk

Max: throw it out the window

Doriane: what if the coin is haunted

Ollie: THEN THE WHOLE BUILDING IS HAUNTED

Kimi: it’s already haunted bro

Max: NO IT’S NOT

Max: STOP

Max: NO MORE TALKING ABOUT HAUNTED BUILDINGS

Ollie: dad what if we made like a containment team

Kimi: like a ghostbusters but cooler

Ollie: GHOSTBUSTERS X PREMA

Kimi: ghost chasing with scooters

Ollie: doriane could be the sniper

Kimi: i’ll do the driving

Ollie: i’ll be the bait

Max: NO

Max: NO TEAMS

Max: NO SCOOTER CHASES

Max: NO USING DORIANE AS A SNIPER

Max: JUST GO TO BED

Ollie: but what about the zombie plan

Max: THERE IS NO ZOMBIE PLAN

Kimi: this is why monaco will fall first

Max: GOOD

Max: LESS TRAFFIC FOR ME

Doriane: update: still no coin

Max let out a sigh so long and deep it might have registered on weather satellites.

Ollie: if you find one name the ghost kevin

Kimi: or bob

Ollie: or steve

Doriane: what about gregory

Kimi: strong name

Max: STOP NAMING IMAGINARY GHOSTS

Max: YOU’RE GIVING THEM POWER

Ollie: wow didn’t know you were a ghostologist

Max: I’M NOT

Max: I’M A TIRED MAN

Kimi: tired dad

Max: STOP CALLING ME DAD

Ollie: stepdad?

Max: NO

Doriane: father

Doriane: father the coin moved

Max sat up so violently Leo actually yapped and fell off the bed.
The phone shook in his hand as more messages exploded into the chat.

Ollie: LET’S GOOOOOO

Kimi: WELCOME GREGORY

Ollie: WHAT DOES HE WANT

Kimi: snacks?

Ollie: probably snacks

Max slammed his thumbs onto the screen like an enraged suburban dad trying to reset a broken thermostat.

Max: WHAT DO YOU MEAN IT MOVED

Max: WHO MOVED IT

Max: DID YOU MOVE IT

Max: WHO IS GREGORY

Max: STOP IT STOP IT RIGHT NOW

Doriane: i didn’t move it

Doriane: it slid to the letter G

Max made a noise like an ancient kettle giving up on life.
G.
G for Gregory.
Or G for Goodbye, Max Verstappen, your daughter is about to get possessed because two braincells named Ollie and Kimi think ghosts are funny.

Ollie: ask it questions ask it questions

Kimi: yeah like

Kimi: is it senna

Max: WHAT

Max: NO

Max: YOU CAN’T ASK IF IT’S SENNA

Max: WHY WOULD SENNA HAUNT A PREMA DORM ROOM

Ollie: u never know bro

Kimi: maybe he liked dorm vibes

Max: HE WAS A MULTIPLE WORLD CHAMPION

Max: HE DOESN'T WANT YOUR DORMS

Max: HE WANTS PEACE

Max was pacing the bedroom now, half-dressed, Leo trotting behind him like a concerned therapist with a tail.

He could not believe this.
He had won world championships.
He had survived title fights with Hamilton, Leclerc, and half the grid breathing down his neck.
He had even survived Lando Norris on Red Bull simulator days when Lando was hopped up on Monster energy drinks.

But this.
This.
This was how he was going to die.

Max had just sat down again when another message popped.

Doriane: im gonna ask it something

Max nearly screamed.

Max: NO

Max: NO ASKING

Max: NO TALKING

Max: PUT THE BOARD AWAY

Max: GO TO BED

Ollie: father u sound scared 😔

Kimi: he’s just worried

Ollie: he’s a caring dad

Kimi: father max

Ollie: papa max

Max: STOP

Max: I’M NOT YOUR DAD

Doriane: you’re my father

Max froze.

Sat there.
Thumbs hovering.
Heart beating stupidly fast like he had just taken Eau Rouge flat.

He didn’t respond.
Couldn’t.
Because the words filled the screen too much already.

Father.
Father.
His daughter.

And she was sitting alone in a dark room at Prema, hunched over a piece of cardboard and a missing coin, talking to some invisible maybe-Gregory while Kimi and Ollie were plotting world domination with paintball guns and nerf swords.

Max’s phone buzzed again.

Ollie: if doriane gets possessed do we have to like

Ollie: fight her

Kimi: depends

Ollie: on what

Kimi: if she gets cool powers

Ollie: fair

Max: YOU ARE NOT FIGHTING DORIANE

Max: SHE’S NOT GETTING POSSESSED

Max: THIS IS NOT A MARVEL MOVIE

Doriane: it’s moving again

Max dropped the phone.

Literally dropped it.

Bent over, picked it up, stared at the screen like it had personally insulted him.

Max: WHAT LETTER

Doriane: H

Ollie: H FOR HAPPY

Kimi: H FOR HUGS

Max: H FOR HAUNTED

Max: GET OUT OF THERE

Doriane: i live here

Max had a full mental breakdown in the privacy of his room while Leo softly headbutted his shin in sympathy.

Ollie: if it spells 'hi' does that mean the ghost is friendly

Kimi: or hungry

Ollie: we should prepare snacks anyway just in case

Kimi: survival first

Max: STOP FEEDING THE GHOSTS

Max: YOU DON’T FEED GHOSTS

Max: THEY ARE DEAD

Ollie: can ghosts eat jelly

Kimi: depends

Ollie: on what

Kimi: if it’s haunted jelly

Max had to sit down.
He was seeing black spots.
Or maybe that was just the agony of being too young to have heart problems and too old to understand Gen Z ghostbusting logic.

Another message.

Doriane: father

Max swallowed.

Doriane: if the ghost says hi does that mean i can ask what their favorite color is

Max gritted his teeth.

Max: NO

Max: GHOSTS DON’T HAVE FAVORITE COLORS

Max: THEY HAVE UNFINISHED BUSINESS AND MALICE

Ollie: and maybe favorite colors

Kimi: you never know bro

Max: I’M SENDING CHARLES TO PICK YOU UP

Max: YOU’RE GOING TO BOARDING SCHOOL

Max: ON THE MOON

Ollie: moon haunted tho

Kimi: true

Doriane: ghosts on the moon 😳

Doriane: i asked the ghost for their pronouns

Max made a noise like an overheating espresso machine.

Max: WHY ARE YOU ASKING THAT

Max: STOP TALKING TO IT

Doriane: its polite father

Max: IT'S A GHOST

Max: IT’S DEAD

Max: IT DOESN’T NEED POLITENESS

Ollie: respect the undead father

Kimi: yeah dad come on

Max was typing a reply that he was NOT their dad and NEVER WOULD BE when Doriane dropped the next bomb.

Doriane: the ghost said their pronouns are simply/lovely

Max blinked.
Max stopped breathing.
Max stared at the screen with a rising horror usually reserved for last-lap tire punctures.

Because.

Because Simply Lovely was his catchphrase.
HIS.
HIS STUPID, ACCIDENTAL, POST-RACE CATCHPHRASE.

Simply Lovely was what he said when a race went so perfectly he couldn't find words for it.
Simply Lovely was what he said when Charles won a kart race and grinned at him like the sun itself had fallen into his hands.
Simply Lovely was what he muttered when Leo finally, finally learned to sit on command.

Simply Lovely was Max.
Max Verstappen.

Max sat straight up, heart pounding in a way that had nothing to do with cardio and everything to do with existential dread.

Max: STOP STOP STOP

Max: GET OUT OF THERE

Max: PACK YOUR BAGS

Max: THE GHOST IS AFTER MY CHILDREN

Max: WE’RE MOVING TO THE ALPS

But the kids were not listening.
Of course they weren't.

More texts poured in like a plague of locusts.

Ollie: ask it if it wants snacks

Kimi: or weapons

Ollie: or wifi password

Kimi: ghosts get bored too bro

Max: NO SNACKS

Max: NO WIFI

Max: WE DO NOT NEGOTIATE WITH GHOSTS

Doriane: asking now

Max: NO

Max: STOP ASKING QUESTIONS

Max was halfway through drafting a new Will and Testament ("leave everything to Leo, burn the rest") when Doriane texted again.

Doriane: ghost says their name is

Max: NO

Max: DONT

Doriane: dun dun dun dun

Max: DORIANE PLEASE

Doriane: max verstappen

There was a silence.
A heavy, suffocating silence.
Max could feel it leaking out of the phone like smoke.

Leo, sensing the death of Max’s sanity, whimpered and crawled under the bed.

Max stared at the name.

Max Verstappen.

THE GHOST WAS CLAIMING TO BE HIM.

Which meant.
One conclusion.
Only one.

The ghost wasn’t here for the house.
Or Prema.
Or the food.

The ghost was here for his kids.
His.
Max Verstappen's.

Max squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose so hard it left dents.

Meanwhile, the idiots kept texting.

Ollie: brooooooo

Kimi: no way

Ollie: bro what if it’s max from the future

Kimi: or max from an alternate dimension

Ollie: or ghost max

Kimi: maybe he died in another timeline

Max: I AM NOT DEAD

Max: I AM RIGHT HERE

Max: ALIVE

Max: VERY MUCH ALIVE

Doriane: father ur ghost self is very polite

Max groaned out loud, leaning so hard against the headboard he might become part of it.

Max: GET AWAY FROM THE BOARD

Max: BURN IT

Max: BURN THE WHOLE ROOM

Ollie: but what if ghost max gets mad 😞

Kimi: yeah bro you gotta respect ghost max

Max: NO RESPECT FOR FAKE ME

Max: THIS IS AN IMPOSTER

Max: AN IDENTITY THEFT

Max: AND I AM CALLING THE GHOST POLICE

Leo barked.
Max barked back.
The phone buzzed again.

Doriane: ghost max says he loves us father

Max froze.
Fully, completely, totally.

He dropped the phone on his lap.
Rubbed his hands down his face.
Pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes so hard he saw stars.

Because he didn’t know which was worse:
The fact that a fake ghost version of him was saying I love you to his stupid, chaotic, perfect disaster children —
or the fact that some stupid, desperate part of him kind of hoped they believed it.

Another ping.

Ollie: we love you too ghost max

Kimi: luv u dad ghost

Max laid back on the bed, phone balanced on his chest, staring blankly at the ceiling.

"I’m gonna kill Charlie," he muttered to no one.

Leo licked his hand in sympathy.

Another buzz.

Doriane: father can we keep him

Doriane: also father there's something moving in my room

Max didn’t think.
Max didn’t blink.
Max didn't breathe.

He grabbed his keys off the dresser, scooped Leo under one arm like a football, and barreled down the hallway in nothing but a pair of crumpled black sweatpants, his bare chest glowing faintly under the moonlight like some deranged Dutch cryptid.

The front door banged open.
The night air hit him like a slap, but Max didn’t even flinch.
He threw himself into Charles' Ferrari — because obviously he had stolen Charles' keys a week ago for “emergency reasons” (this counted) — and slammed the door behind Leo.

Seatbelt for Leo.
Seatbelt for himself.
Leo was already sitting upright like a proper copilot, tail thumping anxiously against the leather seat.

Max jammed the keys into the ignition with hands that were practically vibrating.

Doriane: it's moving towards me

Max, in pure panic, yanked Charles' spare white T-shirt from the glovebox and struggled it over his head while speeding out of the driveway at what could only be described as a criminal velocity.

"Hold on, Leo," Max muttered, half-dressed, half-feral, steering with one knee as he fought his way into the shirt.

Ollie: what does it look like

Doriane: like a vampire but also like a werewolf

Max nearly drove into a lamppost.

Leo barked sharply, probably telling Max to get it together.

Max swiped open the chat and hit the voice-to-text feature because he couldn’t possibly type and drive and also prepare a funeral at the same time.

"WHAT KIND OF VAMPIRE-WEREWOLF HYBRID IS IN YOUR ROOM?" Max barked at the phone, teeth clenched.

Kimi: maybe it’s like a twilight werewolf

Ollie: or a dracula werewolf hybrid

Kimi: is that a thing

Ollie: i think it is bro it makes sense

Max (voice-to-text): Doriane, VIDEO CALL ME NOW. I SWEAR TO GOD. I NEED EYES ON THE THING. VIDEO. NOW.

The car engine screamed down the dark coastal roads, headlights carving wild slices across the trees.

No reply.

Max's fingers tightened around the steering wheel.
He pressed the pedal down harder.
Leo growled in solidarity.

His heart was battering his ribs like a wild animal.
Because no. No, no, no.
If anything, anything touched his daughter, he would personally punch a ghost to death. He would suplex a vampire-werewolf hybrid into the sun.

The phone buzzed again.

Doriane: its on the ceiling now

Max howled.

"VIDEO CALL ME, DORIANE!" he shouted into the mic, swerving past an empty roundabout like he was running from death itself.

Kimi: if it’s crawling on the ceiling, maybe it’s just spiderman

Ollie: yeah bro maybe it’s a superhero not a ghost

Kimi: heyyy upside down physics is a thing

Max's hands were white-knuckled on the steering wheel.

Charles’ stupid white shirt was half-choking him.
His hair was plastered to his forehead.
He was one bad text away from driving straight into the ocean.

Then.

Doriane: April fools father

Max blinked so hard he almost passed out behind the wheel.

"What?"

Ollie: april fools papa

Kimi: april fools dad

Ollie: we got you so bad HAHAHAHA

Max screeched the car to a stop so hard Leo yelped.

He stared at the phone screen like it had personally betrayed him.

He tapped voice-to-text with a trembling thumb.

"IT'S SEPTEMBER," Max said, voice a low, guttural, broken thing.

Ollie: yeah but it’s got april vibes tho

Kimi: energy is what matters dad not the calendar

Max dropped his forehead onto the steering wheel.

Dead.
He was dead.
This was what death felt like.
He was going to haunt these kids for the rest of eternity.
He was going to be the Max Verstappen ghost they deserved.

He forced himself upright again.
Drove — slower, shaky — down toward the harbour side.
Parked.
Put the car in neutral.
Sat there, breathing.

Leo put a gentle paw on his thigh.

"It's okay, Leo," Max muttered. "It's okay. We’re just raising feral goblins, not children."

Another buzz.

Doriane: we are at the park now
Doriane: we didnt even ouija
Doriane: it was all a prank lol

Max stared.

Max: WHICH PARK

Doriane: the one by the harbour.

Max’s brain, still adrenaline-scorched, immediately knew which one.

Two minutes away.

Max put the Ferrari in gear.

He found them easily.

Three tiny, chaotic shapes in the half-light, spinning and yapping like drunk pigeons.
4:12 AM.
No shame.
No survival instincts.

Max threw the Ferrari door open like it personally owed him money.

The night air slapped him in the face — cold and damp and full of the very specific scent of chaotic child crime — and Leo, cradled in one arm like a judgmental loaf of bread, sneezed grumpily as if to say, "Let's end this, Father."

The streetlights buzzed above like dying insects.
The world was quiet.
Too quiet.

And then — there they were.

Three gremlins at the park at 4:14 AM.
Spinning. Cackling. Probably plotting to burn something down.
Reality TV couldn't script it better.

Ollie Bearman was hanging upside down off the monkey bars like an idiot bat, swinging back and forth with the unhinged grace of someone who had never faced real consequences in his entire life. His hoodie had fallen up to his armpits, exposing about six feet of lanky stomach and absolutely zero brain cells.

Max, shirt wrinkled, hair wild, eyes black as a shark's, began stalking toward them.

Each barefoot step across the damp grass was a death knell.

None of them noticed him at first — because obviously, the idiots were still giggling like goblins who’d just lit their school on fire.

Ollie, hanging upside down like a moron, was the first to spot him.

It was slow.
Tragic, even.

Ollie’s swinging slowed.
He blinked.
He squinted.

Max kept walking.
Unstoppable. Immoveable. Fatherhood’s final boss.

Ollie’s mouth opened in slow, dawning horror.
Like he was seeing a mirage.
Or a vengeful ghost.
Or the reason for his future community service hours.

Ollie dropped — plop — straight onto his feet, hoodie still around his armpits, and stood there blinking at Max like a traumatized meerkat.

He didn’t move.
Didn’t breathe.
Just stared, as if the act of being still enough might save him.

Bad news, Ollie:
Max had already locked onto him like a heat-seeking missile.

Meanwhile, Doriane — sweet, smart, doomed Doriane — was busy filming Ollie’s upside-down antics with her phone, snickering to herself like someone who definitely thought she was getting a funny TikTok out of this.

Until.

She panned the camera slightly —
Saw Max —
And froze.

Absolutely froze.

Her eyes went comically wide, mouth opening in a perfect, silent little "oh fuck," phone still raised in front of her face.

She slowly lowered the phone like a soldier surrendering a weapon.

Then it was Kimi’s turn.

Kimi was kicking pebbles at a trash can and humming to himself — pure gremlin energy — until the vibes shifted.

He looked up lazily.
Saw Ollie standing rigid.
Saw Doriane pale like she just saw the final boss.
Followed their gaze.

And then —
Kimi grinned.

Grinned.
Like a chaotic little maniac.

Like somehow, he might be the one to survive this.

Max finally stopped a few feet away.

The air crackled with pure, concentrated guilt.

Leo, still tucked under Max’s arm, gave a low, judgmental huff.

Max raised one eyebrow.

The three idiots immediately scrambled into position like badly trained boy scouts.

Ollie coughed awkwardly into his sleeve.
Doriane tucked her hands behind her back and beamed up at Max like a golden retriever who had definitely just eaten the couch.
Kimi put his hands in his pockets and did puppy eyes so intense he looked like he was about to be adopted from a shelter.

Max let the silence stretch.
Made it hurt.

Then — very, very calmly — he said:

"You are grounded."

Immediate chaos.

"Wait, wait, wait, wait," Ollie started, raising his hands like he was at gunpoint. "Listen, in my defence, I didn't know Doriane was gonna do the whole ceiling ghost thing—"

"Excuse me??" Doriane squeaked. "YOU were the one who told me to say it looked like a vampire!"

"Yeah but that was AFTER you said it was moving!!" Ollie shot back, stepping dramatically away from her like she was radioactive. "I was just SUPPORTING the narrative!! I'm a SUPPORTIVE friend!!"

Max watched this with the weariness of a man who had lived through fifteen years of media drama and still thought this was somehow worse.

Meanwhile, Kimi leaned forward slightly and blinked up at Max with the saddest, most innocent eyes to ever grace this earth.

Max looked directly at him.

Kimi blinked slower.
Sadder.

Pure betrayal.

Leo whined softly in Max's arm, possibly trying to cover his own face.

Max sighed — long and loud and full of the kind of grief that only came from raising certified dumbasses.

"You are ALL grounded," he repeated, voice flat as asphalt.

"But—" Doriane started, puppy eyes at full, nuclear strength.

"No."

"But—" Ollie tried, gesturing wildly. "Technically it’s not even ILLEGAL to be at a park—"

"You organised a fake haunting at 4 AM."

"We bonded!" Ollie cried, clutching his chest like a martyr. "Family bonding! Papa always says family is important!!"

"And I say you’re grounded," Max said, moving forward with the inevitable doom of a horror movie villain. "Cleaning duty. Charles' house. All month."

"ALL month??" Ollie squeaked, voice cracking like glass. "That's unconstitutional."

Max ignored him.
He turned to Doriane.

"You’re writing an apology essay," Max said.

Doriane made a noise like a dying cat.

"Two thousand words," Max added, because he could.

"Noooooooooo," Doriane whined dramatically, tipping backward like she was going to faint.

"And Kimi," Max said, turning his laser focus.

Kimi straightened.
Beamed.
Hopeful.
Stupid.

"You’re writing one too," Max said.

"But I didn't even—" Kimi started.

"Three thousand words," Max said.

Kimi let out the softest, most pitiful gasp in human history.

Leo wagged his tail once.

"Now," Max said, jerking his head toward the Ferrari, "march."

They shuffled toward the car like prisoners, dragging their feet across the grass.

Ollie whisper-shouted, "Do you think if we fake cry we can get out of it?"

Doriane whisper-shouted back, "I'm already fake crying, it’s not working!!"

Kimi just sniffled once and looked up at the sky like he was asking for divine intervention.

Max, behind them with Leo, allowed himself one tiny, savage, victorious smile.

Maybe fatherhood was a battlefield.

But tonight?

He had won.

Three defeated, shuffling goblins followed him across the grass, grumbling and whispering like a chain gang.

Max smiled to himself — just a little.
The smile of a man who would make them regret every second of their stupid fake September-April Fools prank.

Fatherhood.

It was simply lovely.

Chapter Text

Max Verstappen was sitting in the Red Bull motorhome, in a brief and rare moment of silence. The air conditioning was doing its noble duty, humming softly like a lullaby for a war-hardened gladiator. His fireproofs were half-zipped, cap pulled low, legs stretched out across the plush bench, and his phone glowed in his hand with the kind of peace he only found in one place these days: texting Charles.

Charles ❤️: don’t forget to drink water babe 😘
Max 🧠: Already did. Didn’t forget. Hydration king.
Charles ❤️: ur not a hydration king ur a dehydration goblin. i saw you sip espresso and call it a meal.
Max 🧠: that’s rich coming from you mr. “i didn’t eat because the energy of the sun nourished me”

Max snorted, warmth bleeding into his chest, thumb hovering over the keyboard to send a dumb meme—something about married life and espresso-fueled chaos—when—

BANG.

The motorhome door SLAMMED open with the ferocity of a tornado who had just downed a Monster Energy and mainlined three lines of enthusiasm.

“MAX!” screeched a voice.

“PAPA MAX!” screeched another.

Max didn’t even flinch. He closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, and exhaled like a man who had fought too many wars, both literal and emotional. He looked up just in time to see Pepe Martí and Nikola Tsolov barrel into the lounge like human lightning bolts.

“Why is the door never locked,” Max muttered, dryly.

“We’re Red Bull Juniors!” Nikola announced proudly, like that was a viable excuse for breaking and entering. He was vibrating. Vibrating. Like his atoms were unstable. He might ascend.

“Yeah! Family access!” Pepe chimed in, already rifling through the snack drawer like a raccoon. “Unlimited snacks and limited trauma, right? That’s the Red Bull way!”

“I—what—no,” Max started, pointing a finger with all the commanding energy of a confused dad who had too many children and not enough sanity. “I am not adopting more kids.”

Nikola threw himself dramatically across the couch next to Max, nearly landing on his lap.

“But you already did!” he wailed, flinging an arm over Max’s shoulder. “You adopted everyone! Look!”

Pepe produced a PowerPoint.

A REAL, ACTUAL, PHYSICAL POWERPOINT.

Max blinked.

It was printed. Stapled. Color-coded.

“THE REASONS WHY MAX VERSTAPPEN IS OUR FATHER: A BRIEF (47-page) MANIFESTO” was the cover.

“We were very thorough,” Pepe said, sliding into the other side of Max like a well-trained leech. “We used bullet points. And bar graphs.”

“There’s an interactive QR code in the appendix,” Nikola added. “It links to a song we wrote. A rap. You’re in the chorus.”

Max, who had seen some shit in his thirty years of life, had never been so aggressively accosted by teenaged ambition.

“You are not my kids,” he said firmly.

“You said that to Lando,” Pepe shot back.

“That was different. He’s my—” Max faltered. “—he’s my best friend.”

Nikola narrowed his eyes. “Didn’t you say that after he moved in and drank all your orange juice for the third time and Charles threatened to divorce you if you didn’t lock the fridge?”

Max’s left eye twitched. “...yes.”

“And Oscar?” Pepe asked, raising an eyebrow. “He’s Charles’ best friend but you call him ‘the emotional support tree frog’ and drive him to therapy.”

“That is unrelated.”

“And Ollie?” Nikola said, eyes wide and sparkling with evil. “You literally call him ‘my son.’ You posted a photo on Instagram captioned ‘he did a race and didn’t die, proud dad moment’ with three heart emojis.”

“He’s Charles’ baby. It’s by association,” Max snapped.

“Aurelia?”

“She made me a keychain. I didn’t ask for that.”

“Doriane?”

“She existed. You said it yourself.” Max floundered.

“Maya beat up Ollie in arm wrestling and you cheered,” Pepe said.

“She deserved it.”

“Gabriel annoyed you until you taught him how to brake properly.”

“I did that so he would stop talking.”

“Isack and Liam?” Nikola grinned. “They drive for Red Bull, and you let them ride in your golf cart.”

“I didn’t want to walk back to the garage!”

“Jack Doohan?”

Max looked haunted. “He keeps showing me conspiracy theories. He thinks tire blankets are an illuminati plot.”

“And Kimi Antonelli?” Pepe pressed.

Max looked tired. “He carries a cat everywhere. And he does this thing where he stares at you until you confess your deepest fears.”

“So,” Nikola concluded, arms crossed, chest puffed out like a defiant chicken, “you’ve adopted all of them. Which means adopting us is just a formality.”

Max opened his mouth.

Then closed it.

Then looked down at the PowerPoint in his lap.

Slide 3 was titled "We Have Excellent Stats." There was a pie chart showing their win percentages, a flowchart detailing their friendship with other Junior Drivers, and a venn diagram titled “Why Max Verstappen Should Love Us.”

One of the intersecting circles was labeled “We’re cool.” The other was labeled “Charles would approve.” The intersection was labeled “Dad potential.”

Pepe clapped his hands. “We can even help around the paddock! Nikola can do backflips!”

“I can do TWO backflips,” Nikola corrected.

“And I can charm journalists,” Pepe added proudly. “I once convinced a Sky reporter I was Enzo Fittipaldi in sunglasses.”

Max put his face in his hands. “This is a nightmare.”

“No, this is family,” Nikola whispered solemnly, putting a hand on Max’s shoulder.

Pepe joined in. “Found family, Max.”

Max turned his phone over to check his texts again. One unread message from Charles.

Charles ❤️: r u ok? i just saw pepe and nikola marching into your motorhome with a binder labeled “fatherhood.”

He sighed, defeated.

Max 🧠: they have a PowerPoint and bar graphs. i think i’m losing this war.

“Alright,” Max finally muttered, standing up with the posture of a man who had aged seventy years in seven minutes. “Let’s go to the garage.”

Pepe and Nikola high-fived so aggressively they knocked over a can of Red Bull.

“YES!”

“Wait,” Max added, grimly. “One condition.”

Both boys froze.

“No calling me Dad in front of the press.”

Pepe paused. “What about Pops?”

Nikola wiggled his eyebrows. “Or Father Supreme?”

Max stared at them, stone-faced.

They grinned.

They were already his.

Max sighed and opened the door.

Pepe and Nikola marched out like royal heirs of chaos. As Max followed them out, his phone buzzed again.

Max 🧠: can we trade? i’ll take leo full-time instead. he listens to me.

Charles ❤️: leo bit your sock yesterday and you cried.

Max didn’t reply.

He was too busy watching Nikola do a backflip in front of Christian Horner while Pepe explained how being “Red Bull’s future weapon” meant he should be allowed to use the team’s private espresso machine.

He didn’t want more kids.

And yet…

He was already calculating which snack drawer to restock for them.

Found family was a disease. And he was terminal.

There was no vaccine. No cure. No brief, miraculous remission. Just a slow, creeping descent into affection, responsibility, and being repeatedly tackled by children he didn’t technically raise but who all, somehow, treated him like he was the last line of defense between them and a chaotic universe that smelled like burnt Pirellis and sugar-free Red Bull.

He watched Nikola attempt another backflip—his third in under five minutes—this time narrowly missing a Red Bull intern carrying three coffees and a clipboard. The intern screeched, the clipboard flew, the coffees exploded like tactical grenades against the side of the pit wall, and Nikola landed with his arms spread like he’d just won Olympic gold.

“Did you see that?!” he yelled at Max, eyes blazing.

Pepe was right beside him, waving a stopwatch he’d absolutely stolen from a mechanics’ toolbox. “0.87 seconds of air-time, Max! That’s elite athleticism! Charles is gonna be so proud!”

Max squinted. “You stole that stopwatch.”

“I borrowed it for science,” Pepe corrected. “Science and performance data. Also… okay yes, I did steal it.”

A crewmember walked by, muttering in Dutch, glaring at Max with the tired look of someone who wanted to know why the team principal’s favorite asset was currently being followed around by two giggling junior drivers who were documenting his every step like he was a David Attenborough wildlife subject.

Max felt the familiar itch in his brain. The one that always came before disaster. Or love. Often both.

“Okay,” he said, already regretting everything. “Let’s get this over with.”

Pepe’s head snapped around. “Wait. You mean—”

“You get one pitch. One. I’m timing it.”

Nikola pulled a literal slide clicker out of his pocket.

Max stared. “Why do you have that on you?”

“I carry it everywhere,” Nikola said earnestly. “Just in case someone challenges me to a TED Talk.”

Pepe cleared his throat with the drama of a dying Shakespearean prince. “Ladies, gentlemen, and paddock civilians—”

“There’s no one else here.”

“—we humbly present: ‘The Case for VerstappDad: The Next Generation.’”

Nikola clicked the remote. A slide popped up on the screen in the Red Bull debrief room. Max did not ask how they’d hacked into it. He was afraid of the answer.

Slide 1: “What Makes a Dad?”

Underneath were bullet points:

• Has the ability to open jars ✅

• Drives better than 99.9% of Earthlings ✅

• Can make a grumpy face that ends with a reluctant hug ✅

• Does not run away when emotionally attacked ✅

• Secretly buys everyone matching helmets for Christmas ❓

Max frowned. “I do not do that.”

“Check your closet,” Nikola whispered.

Slide 2: “Why We Qualify”

Two columns. Pepe on one side. Nikola on the other.

Pepe’s list included:

• “Spicy Spanish temperament”

• “Can do a shoey with chocolate milk”

• “Plays the long game emotionally (ask Ollie)”

• “Knew Charles before he was dadfied”

• “Has excellent bone structure (helpful in photos)”

Nikola’s list was more unhinged:

• “Got kicked out of an FIA meeting for saying ‘eat my dust’ to a steward”

• “Once did 300 push-ups because Doriane called me ‘soft’”

• “Knows where Mr Horner hides the good pens”

• “Trained in emotional manipulation by Isack Hadjar”

• “Can do backflips. This is important.”

Max didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He checked the time. Three minutes into the pitch. He was doomed.

Slide 3: “The VerstappFamily Tree (Illustrated)”

There was a full-on diagram.

• At the root: Max and Charles. Labeled “Parental Core.”

• Branching out: Lando (Best Friend He Accidentally Adopted), Oscar (Emotional Mascot), Ollie (Charles’ Baby, Therefore His Baby), Aurelia (Also Charles’ Baby, Also His Baby), Maya (The Enforcer), Doriane (The Ghost), Gabriel (The Nuisance That Grew On Him), Isack & Liam (Team Sons), Jack (The Chaos Oracle), and Kimi (The Ferret Whisperer).

Max stared at it.

They’d drawn Leo in a crown at the top like a royal familiar.

“Where are you two on this chart?” Max asked, cautiously.

Pepe clicked.

Slide 4: “Where We Fit In: The Next Generation”

Two stick figures were scribbled at the base with text boxes.

Pepe - The Strategist: Uses unhinged logic for good. Would fight Sky Sports if they misquoted Dad.

Nikola - The Acrobat: Dangerous. Loud. Would jump into an F1 car and immediately win or crash into Christian Horner’s office, no in-between.

“And,” Pepe added reverently, “we bring something the others don’t.”

Max raised an eyebrow. “Which is?”

“Unfiltered, unrelenting junior program energy. We’re the chaos. The adrenaline. The reason Red Bull can’t sleep at night.”

“We are,” Nikola said solemnly, “your legacy.”

Max opened his mouth. Then closed it. Then opened it again and said, “You realize you’re both lunatics.”

“We know,” Pepe said proudly.

“But we’re your lunatics,” Nikola grinned.

Max opened his mouth, perhaps to object, or scream, or fake a heart attack. He hadn't decided yet. He just knew something uncooked and feral had been let loose in the Red Bull motorhome and was now squatting in his emotional basement, chewing on the last remains of his peace and quiet.

But before a sound could leave him—

The door banged open. Violently. Like it owed someone money.

Arvid Lindblad staggered in, looking like he’d just come from a fight with a rogue pitboard and lost. His cheeks were red, his curls were sticking out in a direction Max didn’t know hair could stick, and he was rubbing his face with both palms like a man either about to cry or confess to vehicular manslaughter.

He stopped. Froze.

Spotted the PowerPoint.

Then blinked.

Once.

Twice.

And promptly burst into tears.

“WHY DOES EVERYONE GET TO BE MAX’S SON EXCEPT ME?!”

Max recoiled like someone had screamed directly into his ear canal. Which, actually, Arvid had just done. He stumbled back into the Red Bull-branded water cooler and hissed in Dutch.

“Why are you crying?!” Max snapped.

Pepe let out a long, scandalized gasp. “Arvid, no! You were scheduled for next week! This isn’t your PowerPoint yet!”

Arvid sniffled dramatically. “I—I walked in and saw the family tree, and I’m not on it! Not even as like... a cousin! Or the weird neighbor who shows up uninvited!”

Nikola gave Max the most insufferable “see what you’ve done” look ever gifted to mankind. “You’ve broken him. This is why we planned a rollout schedule.”

“YOU PLANNED A—?!” Max wheezed. “There’s a rollout schedule?!”

Pepe whipped out the laminated binder again and threw it at the table.

“Of course,” Pepe said, flipping to a tab labeled ‘Adoption Timeline – VerstappYear 2025.’ “Next week was ‘Phase Two: Emotional Expansion.’ Arvid, Chloe, and maybe whoever manages Red Bull TikTok depending on if they retweet Charles’ selfie.”

Arvid, still crying, pointed a shaking hand at Slide 3. “You even drew a tree! There’s a crown on the dog!”

“Leo is very important,” Nikola said gravely.

Pepe handed Arvid a tissue from his sock. Max didn’t ask. He no longer had the energy.

“I just want to belong,” Arvid sniffled. “I’ve been a Red Bull junior since I had baby teeth. I once tried to beat up Kimi for looking at Bomboclat weird during karting—”

“That’s true,” Nikola whispered. “It was hot.”

“—and I’ve only been suspended twice this season!”

Max’s brain had officially left the chat.

His soul was hovering somewhere above the Red Bull motorhome, observing his body from a safe distance while sipping a Red Bull and screaming silently into the void.

He sat down. Or rather, collapsed into a chair.

“Okay,” he said, hands dragging down his face. “Fine. You want to be my son?”

Arvid’s breath hitched.

Max pointed at the board. “Make me a PowerPoint.”

Arvid gasped. “REALLY?!”

“Not just any PowerPoint,” Max growled. “I want data. I want charts. I want metrics. I want psychological warfare. You better present that thing like it’s getting you into Harvard and the admission officer is Satan.”

Pepe clapped. “YES! I told you he liked presentations!”

Nikola was already dragging Arvid into a corner. “We’ll do a mock draft. Power stance. Eye contact drills. You cry on cue, I’ll bring snacks—”

Arvid hugged Pepe and whispered, “I’m going to call you brother now.”

Pepe nodded solemnly. “We all do, eventually.”

Nikola cracked his knuckles and muttered, “Time to make history.”

And Max—sweet, fast, chaos-tired Max—sat back in his chair and stared at the ceiling.

He had three races in a row coming up. He had media. Strategy meetings. Tyre allocations.

And now, apparently, a growing pack of emotionally unstable, PowerPoint-wielding children building a found family army around him whether he liked it or not.

Which he didn’t.

(He absolutely did.)

Found family was a disease.

And at this point, Max Verstappen was patient zero.

Chapter Text

There were moments in a racing driver’s life where the world slowed down, curled up at your feet, and licked your boots like a goddamn kitten. Max Verstappen, standing atop the Imola podium with his arms outstretched like a 21st-century Roman emperor, was having one of those moments.

The Italian crowd—yes, the tifosi, who twelve months ago had practically hissed at him like he’d kicked Enzo Ferrari’s ghost in the balls—were now chanting his name.

“Du du du du, Max Verstappen!” they roared, flags flying, airhorns blaring, faces red and sweaty and bellissimo with unhinged adoration. Someone was waving a massive MONEGASQUE FLAG that had a picture of Charles' face on it, surrounded by little hearts and what looked like clipart of pasta.

Max blinked down at them from the podium, champagne bottle still gripped in one hand like a missile.

Was this real life?

Was this Italy?

The last time he’d been on the Imola podium, the tifosi had booed him so hard it shook the scaffolding. Some guy in Ferrari merch had actually thrown a tomato. A full, juicy, projectile-worthy tomato. Max had felt like a medieval court jester escaping execution.

But this year?

They were chanting. Chanting.

All because he had done the unthinkable.

He had won, and more importantly: he had beaten the McLarens.

Lando P2. Oscar P3. Double podium. Glittering orange happiness.

And still, still, the crowd had chosen him.

Max Verstappen. Dutch menace. Tire whisperer. Chronically married man.

The crowd had finally accepted what Charles had always insisted with lethal, Monegasque stubbornness:

Max Verstappen was one of them now.

Never mind the fact that he was born in Belgium, raced under the Dutch flag, and had once said pasta was “fine.” What mattered was that Charles had married him when they were 21, wore his wedding ring on a chain around his neck, and had once been filmed sleep-talking, “My Max wins today, or I riot.”

The tifosi knew. They had always known. They were slow to forgive, but they loved hard.

And today, as the podium confetti rained down, they had chosen him.

Max had barely managed to do his post-race interviews without bursting into delighted cackles. He’d smiled through the cooldown room. He’d done his usual polite nodding while Oscar said something deeply humble and Australian, and Lando said something British and petty.

It was as he was leaving the paddock pen that Lando finally caught up to him, flanked by Oscar, who looked like he’d rather be in a coma.

“Oh, look who it is,” Lando grinned, skipping slightly to keep up with Max’s long, purposeful stride. “The man of the hour. The crowd's new boyfriend.”

Max snorted. “Jealous?”

“Of you?” Lando gasped, scandalized. “I’ve never been jealous a day in my life. But I am concerned. They were singing. They were clapping. Someone handed you a baby.”

“That did happen,” Oscar mumbled. “He kissed it on the forehead.”

“It was weirdly paternal,” Lando said. “I almost cried.”

“I did cry,” Oscar added.

“I think I’m Italian now,” Max muttered.

“Don’t say that out loud,” Lando said immediately. “You’ll summon Charles.”

Max narrowed his eyes. “I want to summon Charles.”

“You’re disgusting,” Lando said, but his voice was half-laugh, half-hiss.

Max ignored him and kept walking, nodding at the team staff, the Red Bull hospitality workers, a guy carrying approximately fifty tubs of gelato, and a small mob of drunk Ferrari fans who had taken to chanting “Il marito! Il marito!” every time they saw him.

“Is that husband in Italian?” Oscar whispered.

Lando wheezed. “They’re calling you the husband. That’s it. It’s over. You’ve become Charles' trophy spouse.”

Max grinned like the smug bastard he was. “As I should.”

“You didn’t even take his last name,” Lando said dramatically.

“He didn’t offer,” Max shrugged. “And Verstappen is more marketable.”

“Charles Leclerc-Verstappen is poetry,” Oscar offered softly.

“You’re poetry,” Max shot back with no context or purpose.

Oscar blinked. “Thanks?”

They reached the Red Bull motorhome and Max paused outside the door. The noise behind him began to fade. The chants softened. The cheers echoed somewhere far behind his skull, still bouncing off the Italian hills like a love song.

He exhaled.

Lando poked him in the ribs. “Go on then. Back to your lair. I’m sure Charles already lit the candles and put on that playlist he made of you winning things.”

Max rolled his eyes, but his ears were red.

Oscar sighed dreamily. “Do you think they have matching robes?”

“I know they have matching robes,” Lando said. “I walked in on Charles wearing one. It had ‘Mrs. Verstappen’ embroidered on the back.”

Max did not deny it.

“Goodbye,” he said instead, stepping into the motorhome like a man walking into both war and sanctuary.

The door barely clicked shut behind him before a streak of brown fur launched at his shins.

“Leo!” Max gasped, catching the tiny missile that was his miniature dachshund mid-leap like a seasoned outfielder catching a baseball, arms already primed. He scooped Leo up like he was the most precious trophy of the day—fuck the winner’s plaque—and pressed a kiss to his soft little head.

“Daddy got a win today,” Max whispered, beaming like a lunatic as Leo licked the side of his face with the intensity of a dog that hadn’t seen his father in twenty-seven years, despite it having only been like… three hours.

“I know, buddy,” Max laughed, cradling Leo against his chest like a furry baguette of love and emotional stability. “I overtook Oscar. Did you see that? Did you see the move?”

Leo sneezed dramatically in his face.

“Exactly. I agree.”

But before Max could disappear into the comforting quiet of his post-race haven and maybe text Charles something mildly unholy (and then delete it because he knew Charles would be reading it on a public screen in the Ferrari motorhome), Rosie Hernández, Red Bull’s long-suffering PR manager and certified Max Wrangler™, emerged from around the corner like a sleep-deprived specter of doom.

“Max,” she said flatly, without even blinking. “They’re upstairs.”

Max blinked back, Leo still tucked under one arm like a furry football. “...Who?”

“You know who.”

“No, but see, that’s the thing, Rosie. I actually don’t. It’s race day. My brain is empty. I’m running entirely on espresso and Charles’ approval.”

She pointed a single, perfectly manicured finger at the ceiling. “Top floor.”

Max frowned, following her finger like it might morph into an answer if he stared long enough.

“Is it Pepe again?” he asked warily.

Rosie shook her head, her expression turning into something that might’ve been pity. Or maybe mild disgust. It was hard to tell. “Worse.”

Max blinked. “Worse than Pepe Marti? Who rewired the team coffee machine to serve Monster instead of cappuccino, with Tsolov?”

Rosie smiled grimly. “It’s the Mercedes and Ferrari spawns.”

Max’s entire soul left his body.

“No.”

“Yes.”

Max groaned, head tipping back against the wall like he was waiting for the sweet release of death. “I just won a race. I deserve peace.”

Rosie raised one brow. “You married a Leclerc. You’ll never know peace again.”

“That’s not fair,” Max whined, already defeated.

“Also,” Rosie added, scrolling through something on her tablet, “you’ve apparently ‘already adopted’ twelve of them, so I’m not sure why you’re acting surprised.”

“That was an accident!” Max shouted. “It just happened! One minute I was having a Red Bull, the next minute Charles started talking to Gabriel and then the rest of them and it was against my will and my better judgement and if anything, you should be blaming Charles—”

Rosie waved a dismissive hand. “Save it for the tax forms, Verstappen. They’re upstairs. Handle it.”

Max looked down at Leo, who stared back at him with eyes full of judgment and also, somehow, empathy.

“I’m going in,” Max whispered, setting the dog down like a man placing a sacred relic on holy ground. “Protect the kitchen. If anyone tries to microwave the espresso beans again, bite them.”

Leo barked once, solemn and brave, and then immediately trotted after him with the enthusiasm of a foot soldier charging into battle.

Max sighed. “Okay. Fine. It’s fine. I can handle this. They’re just kids. What could possibly go wrong?”

And with that, Max Verstappen—the freshly crowned Imola victor, the tifosi’s begrudging sweetheart, the accidental father of half the baby paddock—started climbing the stairs toward doom.

Leo followed.

And so did destiny.

Max reached the top step.

And immediately regretted everything.

The upstairs lounge—once a tranquil haven of beige upholstery, overpriced ergonomic chairs, and a tragically underused espresso bar—had been turned into something between a war bunker and a pre-school for emotionally unstable geniuses.

The couch was overturned like it had committed treason. One of the pillows had been stabbed with a fork.

The whiteboard, normally used for team strategy and Rosie's scribbled threats about brand consistency, was absolutely obliterated with marker ink—half chaos, half cryptic symbols, and all unhinged.

Standing on the coffee table, like a general leading an army of wild raccoons, was Kimi Antonelli, arms folded, chin up, eyes blazing like a tiny Italian Caesar mid-coup. His race suit was half unzipped, tied around his waist, revealing a Ferrari-themed T-shirt (why?) with the sleeves aggressively rolled. He was holding a marker like it was a sword and pointing it dramatically at the whiteboard.

Beside him, Ollie Bearman—Mercedes hoodie half-on (WHY?), socks mismatched, hair full of static—was scribbling furiously, tongue poking out in deep concentration. He’d drawn a cartoon version of the FIA logo with devil horns and the words “THROTTLE CONSPIRACY???” circled nine times in red.

Above the chaos, written in proud, slightly crooked block letters, was the title:

“FIA TAKEDOWN: OPERATION STICK IT TO THE SYSTEM”

Max stopped dead in his tracks. Leo, for once, also stopped dead in his tracks.

“…What the actual hell,” Max breathed.

Kimi spun dramatically on the coffee table, his socks squeaking against the wood.

“HE LIVES!” he declared, pointing at Max like he was the next victim in a courtroom drama. “The complicit one has arrived!”

Max blinked. “Kimi.”

“Maximilian.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Why not? You are a winner now. The victor of Imola. The gladiator who survived the coliseum of the tifosi.”

“I—”

“You stand atop the ruins of McLaren’s podium dreams, and yet,” Kimi said, jumping off the table with the energy of a caffeinated goat, “you do nothing about this corrupt institution!”

“Kimi, you DNFed. Everyone DNFs. You have to learn to take it with grace. DNFing is essential for growth.”

“I DNFED IN MY HOME RACE.” Kimi screamed.

“And I got seventeenth!” Ollie added from the whiteboard, spinning around with manic eyes and a red marker mustache. “Seventeenth, Max. Spiritually offensive.”

“You qualified nineteenth!” Max shouted.

“Because of a red flag,” Ollie growled, as if Max himself had waved it. “It was sabotage. Probably by the FIA. Or Pirelli. Or—Kimi, who else are we blaming?”

Kimi turned to the whiteboard and jabbed the marker at a bullet point that read:

The FIA

Stewards

The clouds

Totorner maybe

The guy who waved the yellow flag in FP3

That weird vibe in Sector 2

“We are leaving no stone unturned,” Kimi announced. “This is the resistance.”

“This is a felony,” Max muttered.

Leo barked in agreement.

Max staggered into the room like a man aged thirty years in ten seconds. He ran a hand down his face and sighed like someone whose mortgage just tripled.

“You can’t plan a coup against the FIA in my motorhome.”

“Why not?” Kimi asked sweetly, eyes twinkling with menace.

“Because there are cameras. And microphones. And probably spies. And—Kimi, is that a blueprint for detonating a digital timing loop?”

“Hypothetically,” Kimi said.

“Kimi!”

“I DNFed.”

“Oh my god.”

“And I,” Ollie added solemnly, placing a hand on his chest like a knight reciting a death poem, “was nearly beaten by Gabriel. AGAIN. My soul is in tatters. My will to live is held together by Charles' Sunday pasta and my vengeance.”

Max closed his eyes and whispered something in Dutch that sounded a lot like “I’m going to commit a noise complaint with my fists.”

Leo barked again. Loudly.

Max pointed at him. “Exactly, Leo. This is what I get. This is what I get for winning. This is what I get for loving a man so Monegasque that he speaks four languages and only uses them to gossip. This is what I get for letting children in my home.”

“We’re not children,” Kimi said, now balancing precariously on the arm of the couch like a French Revolutionary ballerina.

“I’m twenty,” Ollie chimed.

“That’s literally a child,” Max shot back.

“In FIA years,” Kimi corrected, “we are seasoned veterans. Emotionally ancient. Do you know how many penalties I’ve suffered this season? I’ve aged. I creak when I walk.”

“You haven't received a single penalty. And, you creaked because you tried to do lunges in the pit lane wearing flip-flops!” Max exploded.

“They were team-issued!”

“Oh my god—”

“Max,” Ollie said gravely, turning the whiteboard around like it was a scroll of divine scripture. “We need justice. And we need your help.”

Max stared. Dead in the eyes. Right into the red-inked chaos.

There were flowcharts.

There were names.

There was a doodle of Christian Horner with laser eyes and the label: “POSSIBLE DOUBLE AGENT.”

There was a box titled “IS THE TRACK CURSED?” with bullet points including:

• Seagull Incident 2023

• Kimi's throttle 2025

• Ollie’s entire life

“I’m leaving,” Max said immediately.

“You can’t,” Kimi replied, standing in front of the door like a boss battle. “You won. That means you have authority now.”

“What do you want me to do? March into the FIA trailer and declare war?”

“Yes,” Kimi and Ollie said in unison.

Max opened his mouth.

Max closed his mouth.

Max whispered, “I miss Charles.”

Leo whimpered in solidarity.

From the corner of the room, the whiteboard trembled slightly in the air conditioning. The phrase “FIA MUST PAY” stared at him in thick red lines.

Max slumped onto the couch—which was still upside down, so it wasn’t comfortable at all—and buried his face in his hands.

He stayed like that for a long second. Maybe two. Maybe three. Somewhere in the walls, an air vent groaned like it, too, had suffered enough.

Leo let out a soft whimper and sat by Max’s feet in quiet solidarity, like a loyal little dachshund war general awaiting orders from his commander, even though the commander was clearly out of commission.

Eventually, from above his palms, Max muttered, deadpan, voice muffled by sheer despair:

“Why don’t you go talk to Charles instead?”

There was a beat of silence.

Then:

“I tried,” Kimi said, like Max had just told him to negotiate with a vending machine during a power outage. “I knocked on his room door three times. And said I had gifts. He didn’t open it.”

Ollie spun around, uncapping another marker like he was about to write an angry essay. “Charles got P6 because Ferrari gave him no tyres. No mediums. No hards. Nothing. They put him on inters in dry conditions, Max. I saw the tyre sheets. They were just... gone.”

“Gone?” Max repeated. “Like—lost?”

“No,” Kimi said, eyes narrowing. “Used.”

Max blinked. “They used all their dry tyres before the race?”

“They used all their dry tyres before lap 20,” Ollie corrected. “They sent Charles out in FP3 on four separate qualifying sims. Then they did two race sims on softs in FP3 again. Who the hell does that? Why would you practice tyre degradation when you don’t even have tyres left?!”

Max sighed and rubbed his eyes. That sounded about right. He hadn’t seen Charles since the end of the race, because Charles had left in a cloud of pure Monegasque rage. Even in the brief seconds they’d stood next to each other, Charles' mouth had been set in a grim, almost aristocratic line, like someone had personally insulted both his race strategy and his carbonara recipe in the same breath.

“Yeah,” Max said softly, “that explains it.”

Ollie plopped down on the floor like a floppy ghost. “I saw Kimi try to talk to him after. Charles just shut the door. Didn’t even make eye contact.”

“He threw a banana at me,” Kimi said. “A whole banana. Unpeeled.”

“I think it was organic,” Ollie added solemnly.

“I offered him a chocolate milk,” Kimi added solemnly. “He didn’t even take it.”

Max nodded again. “That’s valid.”

Because see, Max didn’t usually get Charles’ Ferrari-induced post-race lash-outs. Oh no. Whenever Charles was in pain—when Ferrari did something so unholy it could only be explained by voodoo or incompetence or a personal vendetta from God—Charles didn’t yell at him. Charles climbed him. Charles clung to him like a koala on a tree made of therapy. Charles muttered in angry French and shoved his cold toes into Max’s shins and demanded forehead kisses like emotional currency.

Max liked Ferrari fuck-ups, secretly.

But apparently, other people got banana-based violence.

“And I’m not helping you two,” Max said flatly, gesturing at their stupid, chaos-riddled whiteboard. “Because whatever this is—this little insurrection of yours—it’s illegal. And unhinged. And you’re both going to end up banned from three continents if I let it go any further.”

Kimi and Ollie looked at each other.

Then Kimi took a step forward and said solemnly, “We need adult supervision.”

“Then get Charles—”

“Banana, Max.”

“Okay, fine, then get—get Sebastian or something—”

“He’s still at the track planting flowers with Mick,” Ollie said, rolling his eyes. “Kimi asked him and he said he doesn’t support rebellion, only sustainable resistance through grassroots activism.”

“Which was fair,” Kimi mumbled.

“Okay, then Lewis—”

“Sent me a link to a mindfulness app and blocked me for twelve minutes,” Kimi said.

“Lando—”

“He told me to ‘be so fucking fr’ and then hung up.”

“Lando lives for drama,” Max muttered.

“We tried Oscar,” Ollie offered.

“AND HE SAID WE’D DIE IN TWO DAYS,” Kimi shouted. “HE LAUGHED. AND THEN HE WROTE OUR NAMES IN A LITTLE NOTEBOOK.”

“He has a notebook?” Max asked, horrified.

“It has flames on the cover,” Ollie whispered.

“Oh god.”

“If you don't say yes, we’ll go to Fernando,” Ollie announced with terrifying finality.

Max froze.

The silence in the room became nuclear.

“No,” Max said instantly, eyes widening. “No. No, no, no, no—absolutely not.”

“You’re forcing our hand, Max,” Kimi said, tapping the side of his head like he’d just outsmarted the simulation.

“Fernando is our Plan B,” Ollie said. “We call him Papa Oppenheimer.”

“Because he builds bombs?” Max hissed.

“Because he is a bomb,” Kimi whispered. “You should have seen what he did in the stewards' office in Jeddah. They’re still recovering from the psychological damage.”

“He taught us how to lie with confidence,” Ollie nodded.

Max grabbed the back of the ruined couch for support, because he was genuinely dizzy now.

“Fernando?” he said, like the name itself was poisonous.

“He’s already interested,” Ollie said brightly. “I sent him the PDF. He called it a ‘glorious revolution.’ He said the FIA has wronged him since 2007 and he’s been waiting for someone with the balls to fight.”

“He also asked if we had access to firecrackers,” Kimi added.

Max’s soul left his body.

“No,” Max said immediately. “Absolutely not. I will not let Fernando Alonso lead a rebellion against motorsport’s governing body using you two as foot soldiers. He’ll turn it into a pyrotechnic interpretive dance and no one will survive.”

“Then you have to help us,” Ollie said smugly.

“Adult supervision or Fernando,” Kimi added.

Leo whined in betrayal. Even he knew this was extortion.

Max stared at the ceiling. Then at the floor. Then at the table with marker stains and a ripped McLaren sticker that had been violently X’d out.

“I—no. No Fernando. That’s a nightmare.”

“Then help us,” Ollie said, holding out a marker like it was a sacred relic. “We’ll go quietly. We’ll make a powerpoint. We’ll only crash one server.”

“You just said—”

“One. Server.”

Kimi sat criss-cross applesauce on the upside-down couch like a child awaiting story time. Leo crawled onto Max’s feet like a weighted anxiety blanket.

“You know you’re going to do it,” Kimi said, almost kindly. “You’re already planning it in your head. I can see the brain cell turning on.”

“I hate you both,” Max muttered, and took the marker.

And then—like a man possessed by the spirit of every retired primary school teacher who ever swore they were done with chalkboards and bad children—he turned to the whiteboard and wiped it clean in one singular motion.

SCRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRTCHHHH.

The sound was horrific. The velocity? Inhuman. The fury? Biblical.

Ollie let out an actual shriek, lunging forward in slow motion like he’d just seen someone slap a baby penguin.
“NOOOOOO—”

Kimi was too stunned to move. He just stood there on the table, mouth agape, marker still clenched in one tiny fist, as the sacred, fragile chaos of ‘FIA TAKEDOWN’ got Thanos-snapped off the board like it never existed.

“MAX,” Ollie wailed. “YOU ERASED THE STRATEGY!”

“IT WAS A TRIANGLE-BASED SYSTEM,” Kimi gasped. “WE HAD VECTORS!”

Max turned slowly, calm as the eye of a hurricane, marker in one hand, cleaning cloth in the other, his expression deadpan like a man who had just pulled the emergency brake on a train full of gremlins.

“You were spelling 'FIA' wrong.”

Ollie’s jaw dropped. “That’s not—how dare you—”

“You made it stand for ‘Failure Is Absolute,’” Max said. “That’s not even a takedown plan. That’s just... a sad quote. From a bad motivational poster.”

“It was acronym-based warfare!” Kimi defended, offended on a molecular level.

Max held up the cloth like a peace offering. “No. It was dumb.”

Ollie turned around, crossed his arms, and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “dictator energy.” Kimi nodded solemnly like he’d just watched his home country be annexed.

Max exhaled through his nose, rolled his eyes, and pointed at the floor like a tired kindergarten teacher whose lunch break had been taken hostage.

“Both of you,” he barked. “Sit.”

To his complete shock, they obeyed. Kimi folded himself onto the floor like a polite little mushroom, while Ollie sat with his legs out like he was ready to be dragged away by security.

Leo curled up in Kimi’s lap with a soft huff, because even Leo knew something tragic was happening.

Max clicked the marker like it was a gavel, turned back to the board, and began scribbling.

“REALISTIC STRATEGY (WORKING TITLE).”

Below it, he added:

1. Complain Politely

2. Send Emails That Sound Friendly But Are Not

3. Gain Public Support via Memes

4. Blackmail (Kimi’s idea, not Max’s)

5. Destroy From Within (Ollie’s idea, also not Max’s)

6. Be Hot and Subtle

7. Bribery (Max’s idea, unfortunately)

8. Leave No Digital Trail

When he turned back around, both Ollie and Kimi were staring with wide-eyed reverence.

Kimi looked like Max had just revealed a conspiracy wall. Ollie looked like he’d just seen an angel—but one wearing Red Bull merch and compression socks.

“Okay,” Max said, pacing now, entering full TED Talk mode. “Lesson one. If you want to take down an international motorsport governing body, you need more than rage and vibes.”

“Are you saying rage and vibes aren’t enough?” Ollie asked, scandalised.

“No. I’m saying rage and vibes are the fuel, not the strategy.”

Kimi nodded, absorbing wisdom like a child in a forest hut learning ancient spells.

“Second,” Max said, stopping dramatically, “you don’t write ‘FIA TAKEDOWN’ in massive red letters on a whiteboard in a motorhome sponsored by the FIA. Are you insane?”

“Yes,” Kimi said.

“Also yes,” Ollie agreed. “But we’re charismatic.”

“No, you’re loud,” Max corrected. “Loud and tiny. Like two espresso-fuelled squirrels in heat.”

Leo barked once in approval.

“You’re forgetting the golden rule,” Max went on, drawing a star next to point 3. “Public image is everything. If you want people to rally to your cause, you don’t throw zip ties at the problem. You throw propaganda.”

Ollie raised his hand. “Memes?”

“Memes,” Max confirmed.

“TikToks?” Kimi asked.

“Only if they’re funny,” Max said, stabbing the air. “I don’t want another ‘I AM THE DARKNESS I AM THE NIGHT’ compilation set to sad violin music. No one takes that seriously.”

Ollie looked away, whistling like he hadn’t spent three hours last week editing exactly that.

“Okay,” Max continued. “Now, what’s the number one thing you do when you’re mad at a race result?”

“Yell at someone in a paddock corridor,” Ollie tried.

“Break something plastic but expensive,” Kimi offered.

“No,” Max snapped. “You text Charles.”

They both looked baffled.

“You complain to Charles,” Max said, enunciating like it was obvious. “He’s got that... diplomatic baby face. The UN loves him. If Charles says something was unfair, the whole grid starts listening. He says it with that accent. With his hands. It’s hypnotic.”

Ollie raised an eyebrow. “That sounds like cheating.”

“Life is cheating,” Max said, which was absolutely not advice he was supposed to be giving to almost minors. “You use what you have. And what you have—” he poked each of their foreheads “—is chaos, and a Ferrari-battered Monegasque who will not rest until every regulation has been rewritten into the style of a tragic French poem.”

Kimi blinked. “So we... get Charles to file the complaint?”

Max smiled, slow and feral. “You get Charles to start the revolution.”

There was a pause. Ollie stared at Kimi. Kimi stared at Max. Leo stared at the whiteboard like he was mentally drafting the memo.

“Max,” Ollie whispered, breathless. “Are you joining our rebellion?”

Max paused, glanced at the board, and said:

“No.”

Both kids deflated.

Max grinned. “I’m leading it.”

And then Leo barked again, loud and proud like a war horn, and Max flipped the whiteboard around and wrote in massive blue letters:

PROJECT TYRE APOCALYPSE.

Underneath, Kimi drew a fire emoji.
Ollie added the outline of a flaming FIA logo.
Leo peed a little in excitement.

The revolution had begun.

Max Verstappen—four-time Imola GP winner, several-time World Champion, professional menace, and reluctant den father to an entire orphanage of motorsport delinquents—stood before a whiteboard titled Project Tyre Apocalypse, with two baby drivers at his feet, a miniature dachshund acting as their guard dog, and absolutely no idea how he ended up here.

Well, okay. He knew exactly how. He'd erased the original ‘FIA Takedown’ manifesto Kimi and Ollie had drawn in rage. He had meant to shut it down. He really had. But then… something primal took over. Something ancient. Something buried deep within every race driver who had ever gotten a bullshit penalty for “unsafe release” while half the pit lane was on fire.

And now he was... emotionally invested.

And pretending not to be.

“Just to be clear,” Max said, arms crossed, voice totally deadpan, “I don’t care about this.”

“Sure,” Ollie replied, actively colour-coding their attack plan on the whiteboard.

“Absolutely,” Kimi nodded, labelling the three phases of destruction as Smoke, Chaos, and Charles.

Leo barked like a maniac and chewed on one of the Expo markers.

Max pointed at Leo. “He’s more qualified to run the FIA than what we’ve got.”

It was true. Leo was small, stubborn, and had never once messed up a race strategy. Unlike, say, Ferrari.

“Anyway,” Max said, walking over to get water, “none of this happens without Charles’ blessing. We don’t start any motorsport rebellion without the go-ahead from—”

Ollie had already opened his phone. “I’m calling him.”

“NO!” Max snapped, turning back fast enough to throw a vertebra. “DO NOT—”

Ollie was already on it. FaceTime. Ringing. The name “PAPA CHARLIE” popped up on the screen like a glowing altar of bad timing.

“Put it down,” Max warned, looking vaguely like a hostage negotiator.

“Too late,” Ollie said.

The screen rang. Rang again. And then—

“He didn’t pick up!” Ollie pouted dramatically.

Max rubbed his face, groaning into his palms. “Good. That means he’s sane. Unlike the rest of us.”

“But we need his strategic vision!” Ollie moaned. “He has the notes app rants, the ✨presentation skills✨—”

Max sighed, yanked his own phone out of his pocket, and shoved it at Ollie.

“Try him on mine. He always picks up when I call. But don't talk about this on the call. Just ask him to come over if he can.”

Ollie tapped the screen. Ring. Ring. And then—click.

Charles’ slightly sleepy voice filtered through the speaker.

“Maxou? Tu veux que je passe te prendre un jus—”

“WE’RE TAKING DOWN THE FIA,” Ollie said immediately, beaming.

Max physically lunged for the phone. “No! No! That’s the OPPOSITE of leaving no digital trail! That’s—Ollie, that’s exhibit A in court!”

Ollie held the phone out of reach. “It’s a family call! Family has immunity!”

“That’s not how this works!”

“Hi, Charles!” Kimi waved at the phone. “We made a PowerPoint!”

“…Pardon?”

Max groaned, snatching the phone back. “Charlie, I’m supervising. I swear.”

There was a pause on the other end. He didn’t sound convinced. 

“…Where are you all?” Charles asked, voice calm, dangerous, and laced with the exact kind of dread that suggested he could already feel the situation.

“Red Bull motorhome kitchen,” Ollie said proudly.

“I’m coming over,” Charles replied immediately.
Click.

Max stood still, processing. He looked at Ollie. Looked at Kimi. Looked at Leo, who stared back innocently.

“See?” Ollie said smugly. “He still loves me.”

Kimi folded his arms and nodded. “Papa always shows up for the cause.”

Max pointed a finger at both of them. “When he gets here, I am not taking the blame. This was your idea. I was a hostage.”

“You gave us the whiteboard back,” Kimi said.

“You love us,” Ollie added.

“You didn't object to the three phases of destruction,” Kimi said.

Max held up a hand. “Okay, let’s not snitch on each other this early into the rebellion.”

Kimi sat back down on the floor, Leo now curled up against his shins. He looked thoughtful, as if planning a hostile takeover of a kindergarten PTA board. “We should start at the top,” he mused. “The only way to fix FIA is to change the president.”

Ollie gasped like someone had whispered the secret to immortality.

“Who do we know who can be FIA president?” he whispered.

Kimi stood, one arm raised to the sky. “Carlos Sainz Senior.”

Max blinked. “You mean Carlos’ dad?”

“He’s a rally legend,” Kimi said firmly. “And Spanish. And fast. And wise. I saw him once in the Ferrari garage. He looked like a war general who could win a lawsuit by glaring.”

“He’s not running,” Max said. “He has... like... ranches. Or cows. Or Spain things.”

“Okay,” Kimi shrugged. “Then make him run.”

Ollie’s eyes lit up. “YES. Like a political campaign. Posters. Stickers. A jingle.”

Max looked skyward, praying Charles would arrive soon. “You want to start a presidential campaign for someone who doesn’t know they’re running?”

“Isn’t that what America does all the time?” Kimi asked.

Ollie nodded solemnly. “Exactly.”

“Wait,” Kimi said suddenly. “What about Susie Wolff?”

Ollie clutched his imaginary pearls. “Oh my god. Susie and Carlos Senior. A power duo. A joint campaign. A bipartisan government!”

“Susie is Mercedes,” Max pointed out.

“Susie is above brands,” Kimi shot back. “She transcends. She is conceptual. She gave birth to Toto's PR sanity. She is the mother of balance.”

Ollie scribbled onto the whiteboard:

CANDIDATES:

• Carlos Sainz Senior (must convince)

• Susie Wolff (must persuade)

• Lando Norris (if desperate)

Max blinked. “Why is Lando on the list?”

“In case we need a puppet leader,” Kimi said simply. “He’s distractible. He’s soft. He’ll do whatever Oscar tells him.”

Max couldn’t argue with that logic.

“Okay,” Ollie said, rolling up his sleeves like someone about to enter a knife fight with a spreadsheet. “We need campaign slogans.”

“‘Make FIA Not Stupid,’” Kimi suggested.

“‘Susie the Savior,’” Max said before he could stop himself.

Ollie beamed. “You’re helping again!”

“No, I’m suffering,” Max corrected.

The whiteboard began to fill with slogans, icons, and a bizarre bar graph that Kimi insisted measured emotional credibility across team principals. (Christian had a 3. Fred had a 7. Toto’s bar was just the word “father.” Zak's read McLaren=evil.)

And just as Kimi was drawing a very anatomically incorrect horse to represent Ferrari’s chaos, the motorhome door creaked open.

All three of them froze.

Footsteps echoed.

The sound of very expensive trainers stepping in very angry rhythm.

And then, at the top of the stairs—

Charles Leclerc appeared, hair messy, race suit half undone, eyes glowing with post-race frustration and that specific brand of wrath reserved for Ferrari’s strategy team.

“Okay,” Charles said, scanning the room. “Who started this?”

Ollie pointed at Kimi.
Kimi pointed at Ollie.
Max pointed at Leo.

Leo barked, betraying everyone.

Charles sighed so hard the kitchen lights flickered.

“We are not taking down the FIA,” he said, rubbing his temples like he could already hear the fines being drafted.

“Agreed,” Max nodded too quickly, putting his own children under the bus. “I told them that.”

“But he led the whiteboard session!” Ollie protested.

“He named the operation!” Kimi pointed.

Charles held up a single, elegant finger. “No.”

And then—his voice dropped.

His accent sharpened.

His eyes glinted like a man with a 300-slide backup plan already prepped in his mental vault.

“Unless,” Charles said softly, “we do it in 2028. And only if it becomes absolutely necessary.”

Ollie gasped.

Kimi clutched his chest.

Max blinked. “Schatje. You’re not supposed to out-feral the ferals.”

Charles shrugged. “I am a Ferrari driver. My rage is historical.”

Leo barked like a gavel.

And just like that, the kitchen fell silent. Not with defeat. But with awe.

Because Charles Leclerc had spoken.

The plan would be shelved. Temporarily. For now.

But in 2028?

The FIA would never see it coming.