Chapter Text
"Max! Max Verstappen! Can we get a word?" the reporter chased after him.
Max, still catching his breath, removed his helmet and ran a hand through his sweat-dampened hair. "Make it quick."
"That was a dominant performance out there. Did you ever doubt you'd take this championship?" the reporter asked, microphone thrust forward.
"No." His deadpan reply was immediate. "Why would I doubt? We're the best team. We proved it."
"Some critics said Apex was too aggressive this season—"
Max's gaze turned cold, his blue eyes narrowing slightly. "And? We won, didn't we? I don't play for critics. I play to win."
"What about the Dutch netizens' thoughts about you playing for a Canadian team instead of your own country—"
Max's jaw tightened, his grip on his helmet visibly tensing. "I play for Apex because they gave me the opportunity when others didn't. That's it." His Dutch accent thickened with irritation.
"My country? I represent the Netherlands every time I step on the ice. The jersey doesn't change that." He shifted his weight, already turning away. "Besides, hockey is hockey. The puck doesn't care what language you speak. Are we done?"
"What's next for you? NHL scouts have been watching—"
"What's next is celebrating with my team. I don't think about 'what ifs.' I think about now."
The reporter opened his mouth to continue, but Max was already walking toward the locker room, his shoulders cutting through the crowd.
CHARLES
It was April 12, 2014.
Today was orientation day, and nothing could describe how I was feeling. I was so nervous that I had, in fact, thrown up three times this morning.
The reason for my nerves was simple: this was new. I wasn't from here—I was from Monaco, back where my family currently lived. Mamma and Papa sent me here because they said something was happening there, and they wanted me somewhere safe.
I had no idea what they meant by that. But they'd sent me and my two brothers to different countries, and I'd been sent to Canada.
I remembered begging my mother to choose another country, because Canada was nothing like Monaco, especially during winter.
But Mamma mentioned that I'd have a higher chance of playing ice hockey here—which changed my perspective immediately.
While my brother Arthur had always been a fan of Formula 1, and Lorenzo a fan of tennis, I was a fan of hockey.
And what Mamma said was true. I could actually train properly in Canada—where they prioritized hockey training and teams the most.
They'd chosen a college that had won multiple NCAA tournaments, with one of the best hockey clubs in Canada currently—Apex College.
A lavish, elite, high-class institution with massive funding and top-of-the-range facilities—all coming from the fat brown envelopes of wealthy parents who were hellbent on making sure their children received the best education money could buy.
Smoothing down the outfit I'd chosen to wear—a simple black puffer jacket and jeans—I stared at my reflection in the small mirror of my dorm room.
Yep, I'll be fine.
I will be fine.
***
When I climbed off the bus, I was relieved to discover that the gates of Apex College opened to students at 7 in the morning—obviously to accommodate the different schedules of the boarders and day students.
I stood for a second, admiring the building upon me. I came here for a few reasons, because mamma and papa sent me here, and because of my three goals:
make friends, graduate, and join the hockey team.
I hurried into the building to escape the weather.
Cazzo, che freddo.
It was freezing cold outside.
Even though it was already April, where winter was transitioning to spring, it was still vastly different from what I'd experienced in Monaco. Canada had the kind of cold that seeped into your bones and stayed there, no matter how much you tried to warm up.
When I walked in, I discovered that I wasn't the only early bird to arrive before class hours. Several students were already wandering through the halls and lounging in the cafeteria and common areas, their voices echoing off the high ceilings.
Yes, common areas.
Apex College had what I could only describe as spacious living rooms for each year group.
The college was huge—the hallways could fit around four to five rows of people walking side by side, even with all the locker space lining the walls.
Each locker was a few feet taller than me, offering such ridiculous storage space that I couldn't imagine what students would even fill them with.
There were different buildings, all connected by a huge park in the middle, complete with fields and a fountain. It was way bigger than the pictures I'd seen online.
I took the time to explore the common area closest to me.
It was a large, bright room with floor-to-ceiling windows on one side that looked out onto a courtyard surrounded by other buildings. Everything looked clean, pristine, expensive.
Plaques and photographs of previous students lined the walls—students whose futures had been guaranteed the moment they walked through these doors.
Plush couches and comfortable chairs filled the large space, along with a few round tables and matching oak chairs that looked like they belonged in a fancy café rather than a school.
There was even a small kitchenette area in the corner with a kettle, toaster, and microwave.
I slipped back out into the hallway, looking around and trying to get familiar with the rooms and corridors.
Everything was labeled, at least—room numbers on neat plaques beside each door, signs pointing toward different departments. I soon found the ice hockey building.
Looking at the time, I still had an hour until orientation started, so I decided to pay it a visit.
***
The moment I walked through the doors, a wave of cold air hit me—though it was still warmer than the bitter temperature outside.
The sharp sounds of whistles pierced the air, mixed with the echoes of players calling out to each other. The rhythmic clank, clank, clank of pucks hitting sticks and boards created an almost musical backdrop.
The ice rink itself was massive, much bigger than I'd expected—even from what I'd seen on TV screens. The smooth, pristine surface reflected the overhead lights like a giant mirror.
Around the edges, a handful of players in practice gear glided effortlessly across the ice, their movements fluid and graceful despite their speed. I watched in fascination as the team ran through drills—quick passes, tight turns, sudden stops that sent ice shavings spraying into the air.
There was something mesmerizing about the way they moved, the coordination required, the trust between teammates.
Don't get me wrong, I loved every sport. But there was something about ice hockey that was different.
Back in Monaco, I'd tried field hockey—thinking that maybe it would give me the same feeling—but there was something about skating across the ice and the rush of adrenaline from just watching ice hockey players play.
I'd watched this team play in the NCAA tournaments, and God, they were even better to watch in real life.
A whistle blew sharply, and the coach—a stocky man with a clipboard named Mr. Vettel, one of my top three favorite coaches—began calling out instructions. The team gathered around him in a semicircle, steam rising from their bodies despite the cold.
Then suddenly, Mr. Vettel's eyes shot right toward me. I froze in panic.
Shit, I totally forgot to check whether we could watch them practice!
I'm not in trouble, am I?
It's just my first day—I HAVEN'T EVEN STARTED!
Mr. Vettel spoke to his students, then they all skated off the rink, probably dismissed. I was about to take this as my chance to leave and run away, never showing my face in front of Mr. Vettel ever again.
Then he called out to me. "Hey, you! Kid!" He skated over to the edge of the rink, surprisingly graceful for his build. "Could you come down for a second?"
I wanted to say no.
And maybe, I don't know, run away and never come back to this building?
But I walked down, trying not to limp or stumble. Because that would be embarrassing.
I approached Coach Vettel, hands nervously gripping the railing. Then it hit me. I realized that I was currently standing in front of one of the coaches I'd loved watching on TV, and he was standing right in front of me.
"Are you new here? Speak English?" he asked, his voice much gentler than I'd expected.
"Yes."
"Amazing." He paused, looking down at me as if analyzing my physical form. I was starting to feel awkward and uneasy, not knowing what to do, so I just looked around the stadium, hands fidgeting.
"You have a good physical build, good posture, and you're tall too. Do you play any sports?" he asked casually, finally looking back up at me.
"Yes, sir. Tennis, mostly. Some rugby, football, and field hockey."
"Field hockey, huh?" Mr. Vettel rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "The coordination and stick work translate pretty well to ice hockey. Similar concepts, different surfaces."
Then he looked right at me with a smile. "Interested in trying out for our hockey team?"
Holy shit.
"Wh—uh," I couldn't even form a word.
This was my dream.
I'd dreamt about this moment every night after watching an NHL or NCAA match, and it was ACTUALLY happening on my first day of college.
Am I fucking dreaming right now?
"I... I never tried ice hockey once, sir."
"That can be taught. Natural athletic ability and team sense? Those are harder to develop." He tapped his clipboard against the railing. "Think about it. We've got tryouts for new students after all the orientation sessions if you're interested. No pressure, just an option."
Before I could respond, he was already skating back toward the center of the rink.
This can't be real.
No way this is real.
Ain't no fucking way.
***
I couldn't focus on the orientation.
Whatever Principal Button was saying—well, nothing was getting into my brain because all I could think about were two things.
First was how huge this auditorium was. It could fit almost an entire arena's worth of fans watching their favorite singer perform or attending a concert.
It was beautifully designed, and the chairs were as soft as pillows that could send me into slumber if I wasn't thinking about what Mr. Vettel had just said a few minutes ago.
Should I really go?
If Mamma, Papa, and my brothers were here, they would have begged me to go, joking about how they used to suffer listening to me talk for hours about wanting to play ice hockey.
It would be crazy if I didn't go to the tryouts, right? I mean, I did agree to be sent here just for the chance to play hockey.
"And not to mention, congratulations to our hockey team on winning the NCAA championship!" My head shot right up at Principal Button's enthusiastic voice. "Could you please come up to the stage?"
The hockey players walked up from backstage, some of whom I recognized from the ice rink this morning and some from the television broadcasts I'd watched.
Lando, whom I recognized from miles away, held the trophy in his hands, a bright grin splitting his face. Then Mr. Vettel walked to the middle where Principal Button was standing.
"Congratulations, team. Especially to your coach—got a quick word, Seb?" Principal Button asked, gesturing to the microphone.
Mr. Vettel stepped forward, and the auditorium erupted in applause. He waited for the noise to die down before speaking, his voice calm and measured.
"Thank you, Principal Button. Thank you, everyone." He glanced back at his team, a rare smile crossing his face. "This championship wasn't just about one game or one season. It was about years of dedication, discipline, and trust. These young men worked harder than anyone will ever see—early morning practices, late-night film sessions, pushing through injuries and exhaustion."
He paused, letting his words sink in.
“But more than that, they played for each other. Hockey isn’t an individual sport. You can have the best player in the world, but if the team doesn’t work together, you’ll lose every time. That’s what makes this team special—truly special. They understand sacrifice. They understand what it means to put the team first. They understand brotherhood.”
Another round of applause filled the auditorium, louder this time.
“And I want to say,” Mr. Vettel continued, his tone shifting slightly, becoming more personal, “that we wouldn’t have made it this far without our team captain.” He paused for effect, then grinned. “Max.”
The auditorium erupted—screams from both girls and boys echoing off the walls. Mr. Vettel’s grin widened, as if he knew exactly what he’d unleashed by mentioning that name.
It was obvious, really.
No matter what team you supported in the NCAA, no matter what college rivalry you claimed—everybody liked Max Verstappen.
Whether you loved him or hated him, nobody could ever dare to deny that the Dutch kid had skills—because he did. Max had that mentality people needed when it came to competitive sports.
Mad Max, they called him.
“We would usually invite our dear captain up to say a few words, but I hate to break the news—Max is currently in another city meeting with some NHL scouts.”
The students all groaned in unison.
Principal Button laughed, stepping forward to clap Mr. Vettel on the shoulder. “Alright, alright, calm down,” he said with a smile. “Well said, Seb.”
“Shit—” a whisper came from beside me. I turned to see two students sneaking into the seats next to mine, trying not to draw attention.
One of them scolded the other softly, “I told you we’d be late!”
“Well I’m sorry, dude, I needed to take a dump. You can’t expect me to hold it in, right? What if I farted during the assembly? Do you want everyone smelling the meat and eggs I ate this morning?”
“Pierre! God! Someone’s going to hear you!” They looked around nervously, and their eyes landed right on me.
I tried to stay quiet, but I ended up laughing despite myself, keeping it as soft as I could. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to eavesdrop,” I said, turning to apologize. “I’m Charles Leclerc.”
“Aye! Italy?”
“Monaco.”
“Damn! I’m Pierre Gasly. France.”
Then another boy peeked around from Pierre’s other side. “Yuki! Japan,” he said with a bright smile. “Are you new here?”
I nodded. He beamed, practically shoving Pierre aside to get closer, making him press back against his chair. “Me too! Pierre’s in his second year, though. He’s old and nasty.”
“Dude!” Pierre complained, pushing Yuki off him.
I couldn’t help but smile.
They seemed close—really close.
If I had to guess, they’d been friends for more than a year, or maybe went to high school together.
“You guys seem close,” I whispered.
“Been stuck with this garden gnome for two years,” Pierre said with mock exasperation.
“Watch who you’re calling a gnome. I can take you in a fight,” Yuki threatened, then leaned closer to me. “Did we miss anything important?”
I shook my head and leaned in as well. “I wasn’t paying full attention either, honestly. But the principal called the hockey team up on stage, and Mr. Vettel gave a speech about the championship.”
Yuki’s mouth formed an ‘o’ and he nodded. “Oh, where’s the captain?”
“Out of the city for NHL scouts.”
“Right. He’s almost eighteen. I bet the teams are already fighting over him.” Pierre paused, then mumbled under his breath, “Unlike the rest.”
“Hm?” I raised my eyebrows. Why would he say that?
“Don’t mind him,” Yuki said quickly, flashing another smile.
I decided to shrug it off and turned my attention back to Principal Button, who was wrapping up his speech.
After the orientation ended, students began filtering out of the auditorium in waves, chattering excitedly about classes, clubs, and the championship win. The energy was infectious.
“Psst, James—”
“It’s Charles, idiot!” Yuki smacked Pierre’s arm, then turned to me. “Charles, what are you doing after this?”
A thought crossed my mind—the try outs.
Fuck it man.
I’m going to the try outs.
I’m checking that off my list.
The worst thing that could happen was I’d get rejected, and that would be fine. There were other clubs I could join.
“I’m going to try out for the hockey team.”
They both raised their eyebrows in shock. “You play ice hockey?” Yuki gasped.
“Field hockey, actually… but I’ve always wanted to try ice hockey. And I’ve done some ice skating a few times back home, so… worth a shot, right?”
“Oh man, good luck,” Pierre said, reaching over to tap my shoulder. “Alright then, we’ll get going. Oh wait—can we get your number first?”
“Sure,” I said, scrambling to pull my phone out of my pocket. Pierre took him out to exchange our phone numbers, and for a moment, college doesn’t feel so hard anymore.
***
I genuinely couldn’t feel my legs.
Nobody had ever warned me that tryouts would be this brutal. Maybe every tryout was like this, or maybe it was just this team, this school. Either way, I was screwed.
All I could manage right now was a slow, pathetic descent down the stairs, one hand white-knuckling the railing while my other hand gripped my thigh like that would somehow make the burning stop.
Every single step felt like I was walking into hell wearing lead boots.
— A few hours ago.
Mr. Vettel clapped his hands together, the sharp sound cutting through the exhausted silence and grabbing everyone’s attention.
“Alright, listen up. First things first—I don’t give a damn where you came from, what team you played for before, or what your high school coach promised you about your future. Here, everyone starts from zero. You want a spot on this team? You earn it.”
He pushed himself off the railing and scanned the crowd of sweaty, nervous freshmen. “We’re looking for three things: skill, effort, and coachability. Skill can be taught. Effort is non-negotiable. And if you can’t take feedback without your ego getting in the way, the door’s right behind you. Feel free to use it.”
“Unless you’re Max, though,” Lando muttered from somewhere in the back, earning a scattered wave of snickers from his teammates.
Mr. Vettel shot him a look that could have frozen the ice rink colder. “Funny. Remember, this isn’t some rec league you signed up for to impress your friends. This is NCAA-level hockey. We train four to five days a week, sometimes twice a day. We have film sessions, strength conditioning, team meetings. If you’re here thinking this is just for fun and games, you’re in the wrong place.”
A spike of panic shot through my chest.
Was this really what I wanted?
I glanced around, hoping to spot Pierre or Yuki—maybe they’d decided to try out too and I just hadn’t noticed them yet. But no.
Nothing.
Just a sea of unfamiliar, equally terrified faces.
“Take over,” Mr. Vettel said, nodding toward the upperclassmen.
George stepped forward first. “We’re going to assess you on several things over the next few days. Skating ability, puck handling, game sense, physical conditioning, and attitude. Don’t try to do everything yourself just to impress us. Hockey’s a team sport. We’d rather see you make a smart pass than watch you try some flashy move and lose the puck.” His tone was firm but not unkind.
“Tryouts run for three days,” he continued. “Day one is basics—skating drills, puck handling, conditioning tests. Day two is small-sided games so we can see how you perform under pressure. Day three is a full scrimmage against our current roster.” He gestured to himself and the guys standing beside him. “Us.”
Carlos took over then, crossing his arms over his chest. “Don’t panic—we’re not expecting you to dominate any of us. We just want to see how you handle pressure, how you adapt, and whether you give up when things get tough.” He flashed a smile, but it didn’t exactly help. Everyone still looked like they were about to pass out.
“Results will be posted Friday evening,” George added. “If you make the team, congratulations. If you don’t, that doesn’t mean you’re done. We have a development squad for players who show potential but need more time.”
Oscar stepped in next. “Safety is paramount. If you don’t have proper gear, see our equipment manager—we’ve got loaners. Helmets must be worn at all times on the ice. No exceptions. If you get injured during tryouts, tell one of us immediately. Playing through a minor injury and making it worse doesn’t help anyone—especially not you.”
Then Lando spoke last. “I’m going to be real with all of you. Most of you won’t make the main roster. We’ve got twenty spots and over fifty of you trying out. The math isn’t in your favor.” He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “But here’s the thing—we’ve seen underdogs prove everyone wrong before. We’ve seen walk-ons become captains. I’ve seen the ‘impossible’ happen more times than I can count. So don’t count yourself out before you even start.”
He grinned. “Give us everything you’ve got for these three days. Leave it all on the ice. That’s all we’re asking. Any questions?” Silence. “No? Alright then. Let’s get started.”
Lando walked off. I could see from my peripheral vision that Carlos had nudged Lando, making him roll his eyes jokingly.
“What a speech there, tell me what AI you use please.” Carlos teased.
“I’m so going to beat your ass,” Lando muttered back. “Tch, c’mon Osc. Let’s go grab the sticks.” Lando grabs Oscar by his uniform, dragging him away.
I’ve never seen all of them interact outside of matches, it was fascinating—sometimes I forget that they are all still young adults, and not some hockey player machine—and that they have their own life outside hockey.
I shook my thoughts away.
I have to focus if I want in.
First was skating ability.
Lando had us demonstrate different techniques—forwards, backwards, crossovers, edge work—while Mr. Vettel timed us. He didn’t tell anyone their speeds, which somehow made it worse.
You had no idea if you were doing well or completely bombing.
But I could tell there were two freshmen who were fast. Really fast—Logan and Alex, if I remembered their names right.
Second was puck handling.
Mr. Vettel had Carlos—first-line left wing, known for his precision—shoot pucks at us, and we had to intercept them in time.
I failed at least three times before I even started to get the hang of it.
It was ridiculously difficult.
It felt like Carlos could read our minds—where our eyes were looking, how our legs shifted, everything.
And to make it worse, Mr. Vettel had apparently told Carlos not to go easy on us, or the whole team would pay for it later.
“Hey, mate. Focus,” Carlos whispered when Mr. Vettel turned away to talk to another freshman.
I blinked up at him, surprised.
“Yeah, hi. Focus, okay? I can’t go easy on you or I won’t have feet left after practice. Don’t overthink where I’m going to shoot. Just wait until I actually shoot.”
He gave me a quick smile. I nodded.
And somehow, that helped.
Knowing that someone who actually knew what he was doing was giving me advice made the whole thing feel a little less impossible.
After the first day of tryouts, even though I couldn’t breathe without feeling like my ribs were bruised, if someone offered me a chance to go back in time and change my decision, I wouldn’t take it.
Ice hockey was different from field hockey in every way—the adrenaline rush when I skated after the puck, the sharp scrape of my blades against the ice, the weight of the stick in my hands, the satisfying thwack when I finally made contact.
I loved every second of it.
Every moment I spent sitting on the sidelines watching the upperclassmen demonstrate, or waiting for my turn—I was itching to get back out there.
I wanted to be on the ice.
I wanted to hit the puck.
I wanted to chase it.
I wanted to skate.
It felt like freedom.
I took another agonizing step down the staircase. These stairs had to be cursed. There was no other explanation. My legs were staging a full rebellion at this point. “For fuck’s sake,” I muttered under my breath, wincing with every step.
“You’ll get used to it,” a voice said from behind me.
I jumped, turning around too fast and nearly losing my balance. It was the two boys from earlier—the fast ones—who also looked like they were in pain, but like they’d made peace with it.
“Oops, sorry. Did I scare you?” Logan asked, wincing in sympathy when I landed hard on the next step.
“It’s fine,” I said, offering a weak smile as I gripped the railing tighter. “You two don’t look nearly as destroyed as I feel.”
“Oh, trust me, we’re dying just as much as you are,” Logan said with a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “We’re just used to it. Our coach back at our old hockey club was strict too—okay, maybe not as completely insane as whatever Mr. Vettel just put us through, but still.”
Alex nodded, his face still flushed. “Yeah, that conditioning circuit was brutal. I think I’m going to be feeling this for at least a week.”
I let out a breathless laugh. “Only a week? I’m pretty sure I’m going to feel this for the rest of my life.”
We finally reached the bottom of the stairs, and I’d never been more grateful to see flat ground in my entire existence.
“Oh, right—we didn’t actually introduce ourselves earlier,” Logan said, extending his hand. “I’m Logan.”
I shook it with a tired grin. “Charles.”
The boy beside him offered his hand next. “Alex.”
“Nice to meet you both,” I said, shaking Alex’s hand as well. “What are you guys studying?”
We started walking together toward the center of campus, where the park, athletic fields, and food court were all clustered.
The evening air was cool against my overheated skin, and honestly, it felt heavenly.
“Marine Biology,” Alex said, adjusting the strap of his gym bag on his shoulder.
“Finance,” Logan added. “What about you?”
“Communications,” I replied.
“You’re not from around here, are you?” Alex asked, tilting his head slightly. “Your accent—French?”
I nodded and explained my situation—how my family was from Monaco, how my parents had decided to send me and my brothers to different countries for reasons I still didn’t entirely understand, and how I’d ended up here in Canada of all places.
Alex and Logan shared their stories too.
Alex had moved to Canada when he was in third grade from Thailand, and he’d met Logan, who’d grown up here, back in elementary school. They’d been friends ever since and started playing hockey together in tenth grade.
I wanted to ask—badly—whether they were together or not, but it felt way too personal for a first conversation.
Maybe it was just me, but it really seemed like Logan had a crush on Alex.
We decided to grab dinner together at one of the campus restaurants—a casual spot that served burgers and pasta. While we ate, Alex started talking about how he’d gotten into ice hockey.
His whole face lit up as he described his first time on the ice, how terrified he’d been, how his coach had believed in him when nobody else did.
And I swear, Logan’s eyes practically turned into hearts as he listened, his chin resting on his hand, completely absorbed in every single word Alex said.
It was kind of sweet, actually.
We exchanged numbers before heading our separate ways after dinner, and I walked back to my dorm with a weird sense of accomplishment that had nothing to do with surviving tryouts.
I’d made friends today—Pierre, Yuki, Alex, and Logan.
Four friends on my first orientation day at Apex College.
Maybe, just maybe, I was going to be okay here. I’d been terrified I’d feel homesick immediately, but right now, things didn’t seem so bad.
My legs still screamed in protest with every step, but I was smiling as I climbed the stairs to my dorm room.
One day down.
Two more days of tryouts to go.
I could do this.