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Max’s thumb hovered over his phone screen. The glow was the only light in his dark hotel room. A message from Charles had just popped up. It was a simple thing. A reaction to a meme Max had sent hours ago. Charles had finally seen it. He had replied with a string of laughing emojis. That was all it took. Max felt that familiar, stupid jump in his chest. He swallowed. His fingers started typing before his brain could counsel caution.
Max: You’re awake late.
He hit send. He immediately regretted it. It sounded stupid. Of course Charles was awake. He had just texted. Max groaned and dropped his head back against the headboard. His phone buzzed again.
Charles: Could not sleep. The car today… it was not good. My head is too full.
Max’s chest tightened. He hated hearing that tone from Charles. Even through text, he could feel the frustration. He wanted to fix it. He knew he couldn’t fix the car. But maybe he could distract him.
Max: Forget the car. It’s just Friday. Think about something else.
Charles: Easy for you to say. Your car works.
Max: My car is not here. My phone is. And I am telling you to think of something else. Like why that meme was funny.
He was trying to be light. He hoped it worked. A pause. Then three dots appeared. They disappeared. Then appeared again. Max held his breath.
Charles: It was funny because it was you. You would actually do that. Get into an argument with a street sign.
A real laugh burst out of Max. It sounded loud in the quiet room. Charles got it. He always got Max’s weird, specific sense of humor. It was one of the things Max adored about him. The thought made his face feel warm.
Max: I would win the argument, too.
Charles: No doubt. The sign would retire, defeated.
Max grinned. He rolled onto his stomach. The sheets were cool. He propped himself up on his elbows. The conversation was flowing now. The tense edge from Charles was gone. They bounced from topic to topic. They talked about a new restaurant in Monaco. They argued about a movie. They reminisced about something stupid from their karting days. Max felt loose and happy. This was rare. This was easy. This was everything.
Charles sent a voice note. Max tapped it immediately. Charles’s voice filled the room. It was warm and a little sleep-roughened. He was imitating a commentator from years ago. It was terribly done. Max laughed again. He saved the voice note. He had a small, secret collection of them. He would never admit it.
Max: That was the worst impression I have ever heard. You have no talent.
Charles: You are just jealous. My impression of you is better.
Max: Prove it.
He waited. Another voice note arrived. Max pressed play. “No, no, no, this is completely unacceptable!” Charles’s voice was a high-pitched, grumpy parody. It was nothing like Max’s voice. But it was also weirdly accurate in spirit. Max was laughing so hard he had to stifle the sound in his pillow. Tears pricked his eyes. This was perfect. Charles was perfect.
He needed to save this one too. But he wanted to tease him back. He remembered a photo. It was from years ago. A group of them at some event. Charles had been caught mid-sneeze. His face was all scrunched up. It was hilarious and endearing. Max had kept it for emergencies. This felt like an emergency. An emergency of needing to make Charles laugh more.
Max: You think that’s good? I have photographic evidence of your lack of grace. Prepare to be defeated.
He typed the message. He navigated to his photo gallery. He found the folder. It was discreetly named. He scrolled. He found the image. He needed to screenshot it to draw a silly arrow on Charles’s face. He opened the photo full screen. His finger moved to the screenshot combination. He pressed the buttons. At that exact millisecond, his phone buzzed. A new message from Charles slid onto the screen. Max’s finger completed the press. The screen flashed. The screenshot was taken. Max looked at the preview in the corner. His blood ran cold. Then it rushed to his face in a scalding wave of pure horror.
There was the photo of Charles mid-sneeze. Overlaid on top was the new text notification. It read: Charles: I am always graceful. This is a lie. But that wasn’t the problem. The problem was at the very top of the screen. The contact name. The name Max saw every day. The name he had carefully, secretly chosen. It was right there, clear as day in the screenshot preview. My Green-Eyed Wonder.
Time stopped. Max’s brain short-circuited. No. No, no, no, no. This was not happening. This was a bad dream. He must have fallen asleep. But the phone was cold and real in his trembling hand. He stared at the preview. The nickname glared back at him. It was mortifying. It was the most intimate thing he owned. And he had just captured it in an image. An image he was about to send. To the person it was about. His thumb, cursed and traitorous, was already hovering over the ‘send’ button. It was the natural next step. He had been about to send the screenshot. He jerked his hand away like the phone was on fire. It clattered onto the mattress. He stared at it as if it were a venomous snake. His heart was trying to hammer its way out of his ribs. Breathe. He needed to breathe. He could fix this. He just wouldn’t send it. He would delete the screenshot. He would take another one, carefully, without the new message. He would carry on. Charles would never know. Max snatched the phone back. His hands were slick with sweat. He fumbled. He opened his gallery. He found the new screenshot. His finger pressed down on it to select it for deletion. A menu popped up. His eyes scanned for the delete option. In his panic, his thumb slipped. It hit the wrong button. The screen changed. It was the sharing menu. His most recent chat was at the top. Charles Leclerc. Before Max’s brain could scream a warning, his panic-drunk thumb jabbed at the icon. A tiny ‘sent’ tick appeared. Then two ticks. It was done. The screenshot. The incriminating, horrible, beautiful screenshot. Was now in Charles’s WhatsApp.
Max made a sound. It was a choked, desperate gasp. He threw the phone across the bed. It hit the pillows and lay there, silent. He stared at it. He expected it to explode. Maybe he wished it would. He had just sent Charles Leclerc a screenshot that called him ‘My Green-Eyed Wonder’. Max fell onto his back. He covered his face with his hands. He wanted to disappear. He wanted the hotel bed to swallow him whole. How? How could he be so stupid? He was a world champion. He executed complex strategies at over 300 kilometers per hour. And he had been defeated by a screenshot. His phone buzzed. The vibration was a physical shock. Max froze. He didn’t move. It buzzed again. And again. Charles was typing. Max’s lungs burned. He realized he was holding his breath. He forced himself to suck in air. It was shaky. He had to look. He had to face this. He crawled across the bed, movements heavy with dread. He picked up the phone. The screen was a beacon of doom.
Charles: …Max?
That was it. Just his name. A question. Max’s mind raced. He could play dumb. He could say it was a joke. A stupid, tasteless joke. He could claim his friend had changed the name as a prank. He could say anything. But the idea of lying to Charles made his stomach turn. He had already been exposed as a… a whatever this made him. A secret admirer. A fool. Adding lies to it seemed worse.
Max: I can explain.
He typed the words. They were the weakest words in the English language. He knew it. Charles would know it.
Charles: I am waiting.
No emojis. No teasing tone. Just a simple statement. It was worse than anger. Max felt sick. He sat up. He put his head between his knees. He needed to think. But his brain was just a screaming void of embarrassment. His phone buzzed again.
Charles: Max. The screenshot.
He was pushing. Max straightened up. His fingers were clumsy.
Max: It was a mistake. I was trying to send the photo. I took the screenshot when your text came in. I didn’t mean to send that one. I’m sorry.
It was all true. It just wasn’t the whole truth. The silence that followed was agonizing. It stretched for a full minute. Max watched the clock on his phone change. Each second was a torture.
Charles: The photo is very funny. I look ridiculous.
Max blinked. That’s what he focused on? The sneeze photo?
Max: You do.
Charles: But, Max… The name.
There it was. Max closed his eyes. He couldn’t avoid it.
Charles: ‘My Green-Eyed Wonder’?
Max felt his entire body flush. He was grateful for the darkness. If Charles could see him now… He had to say something.
Max: It’s just a nickname.
Charles: It is a very specific nickname.
Max: Your eyes are green.
He was stating the obvious. He was an idiot.
Charles: And the ‘wonder’ part? And the ‘my’ part?
Max had no answer. Or he had too many answers. None of them were safe. He loved the way Charles’s eyes lit up when he was genuinely happy. He loved how they darkened with concentration. He loved the little green flecks in the sunlight. He was in constant wonder of him. Of his strength, his resilience, his stupid, beautiful face. And the ‘my’… That was pure, unadulterated hope. A hope he never dared to voice. His silence was another answer. Charles was quiet again. Then the three dots appeared. They stayed for a long time.
Charles: How long have I been that in your phone?
A direct hit. Max couldn’t evade.
Max: A while.
Charles: A year?
Max: Longer.
The admission felt like pulling teeth. But it also felt like a release. The secret was out. The sky hadn’t fallen. Not yet, anyway.
Charles: Oh.
Just ‘oh’. What did that mean? Was it disgust? Was it pity? Max couldn’t stand it.
Max: Forget it. It’s nothing. It’s just a name. Don’t make it weird.
He was pushing back. Defensive. He hated it. He hated how vulnerable he felt.
Charles: It is not nothing, Max. It is not ‘just a name’. If it was nothing, you would not have had a heart attack sending it.
He saw right through him. Of course he did. Charles was perceptive. It was one of his most annoying and wonderful qualities.
Max: What do you want me to say, Charles?
He was almost pleading. He didn’t know for what.
Charles: I want you to say what it means.
Max’s courage failed him. He couldn’t do it. Not like this. Not over text, in the middle of the night, after a monumental blunder. He needed to see him. He needed to read his face.
Max: I can’t. Not like this.
He sent the message. He waited for the rejection. For Charles to tell him to stop. To leave him alone. The three dots appeared.
Charles: Then how?
Max’s breath hitched. Was that… an opening? It wasn’t a no. It was a question.
Max: In person.
Charles: When?
Max: Tomorrow. After the debriefs. Your motorhome.
He was being bold. He had nothing left to lose. The secret was already on Charles’s phone. Charles could screenshot it and send it to the whole paddock if he wanted. Max had to trust that he wouldn’t. He had to trust Charles. He always had.
Charles: Okay. Tomorrow.
Max: Okay.
Charles: Goodnight, Max.
Max: Night, Charles.
The conversation was over. Max put his phone down. He didn’t sleep. He stared at the ceiling. He replayed every word. He imagined every possible way tomorrow could go. Most of them ended with Charles looking at him with polite, distant pity. He hoped for one where that didn’t happen. The hope was a small, fragile flame in his chest. It was terrifying.
The next day was a haze. Max went through the motions. He did his engineering meetings. He talked to his team. He did his media duties. He was on autopilot. His mind was a thousand miles away. It was in Charles’s motorhome. He saw Charles only from a distance. Charles was surrounded by his own people. He looked focused. He looked beautiful. He didn’t look at Max. Max didn’t know if that was good or bad. The final debrief ended. The sun was starting to dip. Max’s heart began its relentless thumping again. He washed his face. He changed into a simple t-shirt and jeans. He didn’t want to look like he was trying too hard. He was trying harder than he ever had for a pole position. He walked to the Ferrari motorhome. His legs felt like lead. Most of the team was gone. It was quieter. He knocked on the door of Charles’s private room. “Come in.” Charles’s voice. Max took a final breath. He opened the door. Charles was sitting on a small sofa. He was also in casual clothes. A soft grey sweater. He looked up. His green eyes met Max’s blue ones. Max stepped inside and closed the door. The room was small. They were close. Too close. Max could smell Charles’s cologne. Something light and citrusy.
“Hi,” Max said. His voice was rough.
“Hi,” Charles replied. He didn’t smile. He wasn’t frowning either. His expression was unreadable. He gestured to the space beside him. “Sit.”
Max sat. He left a careful distance between them. He didn’t know where to put his hands. He clasped them in his lap. He stared at the floor.
“You wanted to talk in person,” Charles said softly. “Here we are.”
Max nodded. He still couldn’t look at him. “Yeah.”
“Look at me, Max.” Charles’s voice was gentle but firm. Max forced his head up. He met Charles’s gaze. Those green eyes were searching his face. They were so close. Max could see every detail.
“The name,” Charles prompted. “Tell me.”
Max’s throat was dry. “It’s… it’s what I think of when I think of you.”
“A wonder?”
“Yes.” The word was a whisper. “Everything about you. How you drive. How you fight. How you… are. It amazes me. It always has.”
Charles’s expression softened. Just a fraction. “And the ‘my’?”
This was the hardest part. Max’s heart was a frantic drum. “That’s the part that’s not true. It’s what I… want. It’s stupid. I know it’s stupid.”
“Why is it stupid?” Charles’s voice was barely audible.
“Because you’re you. And I’m me. We’re rivals. We fight. We’re… not that.”
“What if I wanted to be?” Charles asked. He said it so quietly Max thought he imagined it. He stared. Charles held his gaze. His cheeks had a faint pink tinge. He wasn’t joking. He was serious. Max’s brain stalled. “What?”
“What if I wanted to be… yours?” Charles repeated. He sounded more confident this time. “What if I have thought about it, too? For a ‘while’?” He echoed Max’s words from last night. Max couldn’t breathe. “You… have?”
“You are not the only one who notices things, Max,” Charles said. He leaned forward slightly. The distance between them shrank. “I notice how you look at me when you think I am not watching. I notice how your voice changes sometimes when we talk. Like last night. Before the… screenshot.”
Max was reeling. “Why didn’t you ever say anything?”
Charles gave a small, elegant shrug. “For the same reasons you did not, I think. It is complicated. It is scary. What if it ruins everything?”
“And now?” Max asked. He was leaning in now, too. Their knees were almost touching.
“Now you sent me a screenshot with a very embarrassing nickname,” Charles said. A real smile touched his lips. It was beautiful. It made Max’s chest ache. “And I cannot stop thinking about it. About you. So, maybe we are already ruined. Or maybe…” He trailed off. His eyes flicked down to Max’s lips. Then back up. The meaning was clear. The air in the room was charged. Max felt it like static on his skin. He threw caution to the wind. It was already gone anyway.
“Can I…” he started, his voice gravelly. “Can I just…?”
He didn’t finish the sentence. He just moved. He closed the last bit of space between them. He cupped Charles’s face in his hands. He was gentle. He gave him time to pull away. Charles didn’t. He leaned into the touch. His eyes fluttered shut. Max pressed his lips to Charles’s. It was soft. A question. A first, tentative touch. Charles answered immediately. He kissed back. His lips were softer than Max had ever dreamed. He brought his own hand up, tangling his fingers in the hair at the nape of Max’s neck. The kiss deepened. It was slow and sweet and full of years of pent-up longing. It was perfect. When they finally broke apart, they stayed close. Foreheads touching. Breaths mingling.
“So,” Max murmured. “Does this mean I get to keep the name?”
Charles laughed. It was a real, joyful sound. “It was always yours to keep, Max. You just had to ask.”
“I’m asking now.” Max said. He kissed him again. Quickly. “Charles Leclerc, can I call you mine?”
Charles pretended to think about it. He tapped his chin. “Only if I can change your name in my phone.”
Max pulled back, alarmed. “To what?”
A mischievous glint lit Charles’s green eyes. “I am still thinking. ‘Grumpy Dutchman’ is a contender.” Max groaned and leaned in to kiss him again, to shut him up. Charles laughed against his lips. He wrapped his arms around Max’s shoulders. He held him tight. The screenshot had been an accident. A moment of clumsiness. But it had revealed a truth too big to stay hidden.