Chapter Text
The problem with the Formula One paddock was not the speed.
It was the microphones.
Max Verstappen had always known this. Microphones had a habit of taking one mildly annoyed opinion and turning it into a weeklong international debate that involved former drivers, television panels and at least three retired engineers who suddenly appeared to explain aerodynamics on Twitter.
Unfortunately, knowing this did not stop Max from speaking.
The pre-season test for the 2026 cars had just finished and the atmosphere around the paddock was a strange mix of curiosity and quiet dread. The new regulations were bold, according to the FIA. Innovative, according to the marketing teams. Slightly terrifying, according to most of the drivers who had actually sat in the cars.
Max sat in the press conference chair with the relaxed posture of someone who had already decided he did not particularly care how this would go.
A journalist raised a hand.
“Max, what are your first impressions of the new car?”
Max considered the question for about half a second.
“It feels like Formula E.” he said thoughtfully. “But on steroids.”
The room went quiet.
A few reporters stared at their laptops as if hoping the words had not actually been recorded. One photographer lowered his camera very slowly.
Max continued, clearly not noticing that the quote had already begun its journey toward becoming a headline.
“It’s heavy.” he added, shrugging slightly. “And the feeling is strange. It’s not terrible, but it’s also not very fun.”
A reporter in the front row typed something at alarming speed.
Somewhere across the paddock, a social media manager’s phone vibrated with the force of an incoming disaster.
Max leaned back in his chair, perfectly calm.
As far as he was concerned, he had simply answered the question.
The paddock, however, had other plans.
A few hours later, in a different media session, Lando Norris was in an excellent mood.
McLaren had looked fast in testing, which always made Lando slightly more talkative than usual. He sat in front of a group of reporters with an easy smile, sipping from a bottle of water while someone inevitably asked about Max’s comments.
“Did you see what Max said about the cars?” a journalist asked.
Lando blinked.
“I mean, yes.” he said. “It’s been everywhere for the last two hours.”
“What do you think?”
Lando leaned back in his chair, clearly amused.
“Well…” he said lightly, “if he hates it that much, he can just retire.”
The reporters laughed.
Lando laughed.
It sounded like the harmless kind of joke that would live for about ten minutes before disappearing beneath the next piece of paddock gossip.
Unfortunately, the internet existed.
Within fifteen minutes, the quote had been clipped, posted, reposted and translated into approximately twelve languages.
Within thirty minutes, someone had written an article titled Is Max Verstappen Losing His Passion for Formula One?
Within an hour, the debate had reached a level of seriousness that no one involved had originally intended.
George Russell encountered the situation a little later that day.
Mercedes had just finished their debrief when George stepped into his own media session, looking as polished and composed as always. His hair was perfectly neat, his shirt sleeves rolled carefully to the elbows and he carried himself with the calm professionalism that Mercedes had spent years cultivating.
He sat down and offered a polite smile to the room.
The first question arrived almost immediately.
“George, what do you make of Max’s comments about the new cars?”
George blinked once.
Of course it was that question.
He folded his hands neatly on the table, considering his answer with the careful precision of someone who had spent most of his career navigating the politics of Formula One.
“Well…” he began thoughtfully, “everyone is entitled to their opinion.”
The journalists waited.
George continued.
“If Max does not enjoy the direction of the sport…” he said, his tone perfectly reasonable, “he has achieved everything there is to achieve. He could retire tomorrow and still be remembered as one of the greatest drivers in Formula One history.”
Someone in the second row leaned forward slightly.
George added, almost casually, “Or he could go drive the Nürburgring for fun. I imagine he would enjoy that.”
The room erupted with quiet laughter.
George smiled politely, unaware that he had just poured an entire barrel of fuel onto an already enthusiastic fire.
By the time the sun began to set over the paddock, the situation had become slightly ridiculous.
Clips of Max’s original comment circulated everywhere.
Clips of Lando’s joke circulated right beside them.
George’s calm suggestion about retirement and the Nürburgring appeared in several highly dramatic headlines.
Television analysts debated the future of the sport.
Fans argued online.
Someone created a poll asking whether Max Verstappen would retire before the first race of the season.
Max Verstappen, meanwhile, was sitting quietly in the Red Bull motorhome eating pasta and scrolling through his phone.
He stared at the headlines for a moment.
Then he sighed.
“This is fucking stupid.” he muttered.
Across the room, Laurent Mekies glanced up from the tablet he had been studying. The Red Bull Racing team principal had already spent most of the afternoon dealing with questions from journalists who sounded far too excited about a story that had originally been one slightly grumpy comment about car handling.
“What is?” Laurent asked.
Max turned the phone around so he could see.
Laurent leaned closer and squinted at the screen.
“Figures.” he said after a moment.
He paused, then exhaled softly.
“Well. That escalated quickly.”
Max set the phone down on the table with a look of mild irritation.
“I said the car feels strange.” he said. “That is all.”
“Yes, Max.” Laurent replied patiently. “Unfortunately you said it in front of journalists.”
Max frowned.
“That should not be my problem.”
Laurent studied him for a moment with the calm expression of someone who had spent many years working in Formula One and had therefore developed a healthy tolerance for chaos.
“Max…” he said gently, “everything you say becomes everyone’s problem.”
Max opened his mouth, clearly preparing a response that would not improve the situation.
Before he could speak, the door opened and Gianpiero Lambiase stepped into the room.
GP looked between them with the weary patience of a man who had spent years explaining complicated race strategies to someone who preferred simple ones.
“I assume you have both seen the internet.” he said.
Max groaned quietly.
“Yes.”
GP folded his arms.
“You should stop reading it.”
Max considered that advice for a moment.
“That might be the smartest thing anyone has said today.” he admitted.
For a brief moment, the room was calm again.
None of them knew that in a week the situation would become far stranger than a few dramatic headlines.
The last day of Bahrain testing had begun like any other. Sun rising over the desert, engines roaring and journalists already queuing for inevitable quotes about tire degradation and cornering balance. Max Verstappen, however, had woken up feeling… off.
Not off in a “I stayed up too late playing iRacing” kind of way. Off in a very specific, internal sense: nausea, sudden fatigue and a persistent tightness in his stomach that was impossible to ignore.
He tried to ignore it. He really did. A champion could handle this. Champions did not complain. Champions pushed through. Max’s philosophy had always been simple: the car, the track and never letting anyone see weakness.
By mid-morning, however, the Red Bull team staff including Laurent and GP were starting to notice the subtle signs. Max was paler than usual. His smile looked a little too tight. And every now and then, he would pause mid-sentence, blinking at nothing, before shaking his head and continuing as if nothing had happened.
Laurent leaned over during a short break. “Max, are you feeling… okay?”
Max waved a hand dismissively. “I am fine. Absolutely fine. Really. Just need some Red Bull, that’s all.”
GP, clipboard in hand, gave him a skeptical look. “Red Bull?” he asked slowly. “You do realize that Red Bull is not going to fix nausea, right?”
Max smirked. “It’ll keep me awake while I do a thousand laps. No problem at all.”
By noon, the desert sun was high and the Red Bull garage had turned into a mild panic zone. Max’s teammate, Isack, hovered near the timing screens like a very worried duckling, glancing anxiously at Max every few minutes.
“Do you think he should slow down?” Isack asked, voice uncertain.
“Max never slows down.” GP muttered under his breath. “Ever.”
And, of course, Max kept proving the point. By mid-afternoon, he had completed sixty-five laps of Bahrain, pushing the car as if his own life depended on it. Engineers monitored data with clenched teeth, Laurent repeatedly told him to take a break and GP muttered about the wisdom of letting someone run themselves into the ground.
Finally, the day came to the team debrief, where Max stood in front of a screen full of telemetry, gesturing with authority as he explained the nuances of gearbox shifting.
“And here…” Max said, pointing at a graph, “you can see that the sequential ratio changes slightly when—”
Then without warning, his hand went to his mouth and his eyes widened.
“Oh no.” Laurent muttered.
Max’s composure evaporated in an instant. His stomach rebelled violently and before anyone could react, he vomited on the floor.
The room went silent for a heartbeat. Then chaos erupted.
Isack froze, eyes wide like he had just witnessed a rare desert animal perform a ritual.
“Oh my god, Max!” GP shouted, grabbing a stack of towels. “Get a doctor, quick!”
Laurent rushed forward, voice low but panicked. “Max, it’s okay, just breathe! Everyone, back away!”
Max, standing there dripping and mortified, tried to raise a hand. “I… I’m fine! Really! Don’t—don’t worry about it!”
“You are not fine!” Laurent snapped, though his tone softened slightly. “You just drove sixty-five laps in the desert while feeling like this and now you’ve thrown up on the floor!”
Max groaned, pressing a hand to his forehead. “It’s nothing. It’s… just… temporary. And the car feels perfect with these shifts, so… worth it.”
“Temporary?” GP repeated incredulously. “Max, you are literally standing in your own vomit and trying to explain gearbox ratios!”
At that moment, Isack quietly muttered, “I think… I think we need some water.”
Max, ignoring all of them, attempted to straighten up, still gesturing at the screen. “See? Perfect ratios. Very smooth. Nothing to worry about—”
Then he vomited again and everyone groaned.
It was going to be a very long day for Red Bull. And somehow, Max was still smiling.
Red Bull had tried every polite suggestion in the book.
“Max, you really should go see Medical.” Laurent Mekies had said calmly, though there was a sharp edge in his voice now.
“I’m fine.” Max had replied, lounging in the motorhome chair like a king in his own chaos kingdom.
GP, arms crossed and clipboard clutched like a shield, had tried the gentle approach. “Max, just for a quick check. You’ve been pale, nauseous and vomiting all over the garage. That’s… unusual, even for you.”
“I said I’m fine.” Max repeated, flicking a hand dismissively. “Literally fine.”
Laurent pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re impossible.”
After twenty minutes of polite but completely ignored reasoning, both Laurent and GP had realized it was time to escalate. Time to bring in the big guns.
“Fine.” Laurent muttered. “Call Hannah.”
GP’s eyes widened. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. You think he’s going to walk willingly? No. But he will walk willingly if Hannah Schmitz tells him to. Trust me.”
And so, Hannah Schmitz arrived like a storm, phone in hand and glare sharp enough to carve the desert sand.
“Max Emilian Verstappen.” she said, voice dripping with deadly calm. “You are going to Medical. Now.”
Max stared at her. “I—uh—no, I’m fine.”
Hannah took one step closer. “No. You are not fine. You are about thirty seconds away from convincing yourself that vomiting on the floor is an Olympic sport and I will not allow it. Move.”
Max, staring at her for what felt like a solid eternity, realized he had no choice. With a groan that could shatter glass, he finally stood up, muttering something about “absolute dictatorship of the paddock.”
The medical center was quiet. Too quiet.
The doctor looked professional. Calm. Reasonable. And completely unprepared for Max Verstappen.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Verstappen.” she said, clipboard in hand. “We’ll do a quick checkup. Standard procedure. Blood pressure, vitals and a few basic tests.”
Max nodded, trying to look cooperative while still radiating annoyance.
“First, we’ll need you to pee in this cup.” the doctor said politely.
Max froze. “Can we skip that? Maybe just… draw some blood instead?”
The doctor blinked. Slowly. Once. Then she let out a long, exasperated sigh. “No. Max, just pee in the cup. That is how this works. Please.”
Max groaned like someone had just suggested he personally dismantle a tire wall with his bare hands.
Thirty minutes later, after muttered complaints, dramatic sighs and more eye rolls than a Belgian waffle factory, Max finally handed over the cup like it was the end of the world.
Finally, the results came back.
The doctor’s expression was calm but firm. “Mr. Verstappen… you are pregnant.”
Max stared at the paper, blinked once, then twice. Then, somehow, the tension of the last two months broke into laughter.
“Haha Okay. Thumbs up. Cool.” He handed the paper back. “Thank you!”
Before anyone could stop him, Max bolted out of the medical center like he had just stolen the Mona Lisa.
Back at his hotel room, Max stood at the sink, splashing cold water on his face, trying to process the impossibility of it all.
He stared at his reflection. “Alright, Maxy.” he said to himself. “You did not see this coming. None of this was in the schedule.”
He grabbed a towel and wiped his face, exhaling slowly.
For a moment he just looked at himself in the mirror. Same messy hair. Same tired blue eyes. Same expression he usually wore after a race weekend where something had gone very wrong.
Except this time the mistake had happened two months ago.
Max groaned softly.
“Stupid Gin and Tonic.” he muttered.
And suddenly the memory came back far too clearly.
Two months earlier, Monaco had been loud.
Winter break loud. The kind of loud that happened when half the Formula One grid suddenly had free time, too much money and absolutely no adult supervision.
Someone had thrown a party in one of those ridiculous harbor apartments where the balcony looked straight out over the yachts. Max couldn’t remember whose place it was. It might have belonged to a driver. Or a friend of a driver. Or some billionaire who liked hosting athletes the way other people collected vintage wine.
The details were fuzzy.
What he remembered clearly was the music, the crowd and the suspiciously endless supply of gin and tonics.
Max had escaped to the balcony at some point, leaning against the railing and staring out at the harbor lights reflecting on the water.
Monaco at night always looked fake. Like the whole city had been designed specifically for Instagram.
Behind him, the party roared on. Music, laughter and someone shouting something in Italian.
A voice behind him interrupted his thoughts.
“Enjoying the view?”
Max didn’t even need to turn around.
“Oh great…” he said dryly. “It’s you.”
George Russell stepped onto the balcony beside him, looking entirely too well put together for someone who had clearly been drinking.
“I could say the same.” George replied calmly.
Max took a sip from his glass.
“Don’t you have somewhere else to be? A camera to smile at? A microphone to politely charm?”
George laughed quietly.
“I’m off duty tonight.”
“Shocking.”
For a few minutes they simply stood there, the tension between them as familiar as it was complicated. Rivalry had a strange way of lingering even when neither of them was inside a car.
George glanced at Max’s drink.
“Another gin and tonic?”
Max shrugged.
“Maybe.”
George leaned back against the railing.
“You know…” he said thoughtfully, “for someone who complains as much as you do, you seem very relaxed tonight.”
Max turned his head.
“I do not complain.”
“You absolutely complain.”
“I make observations.”
George smiled.
“That’s a generous description.”
Max narrowed his eyes.
“You’re very smug tonight.”
“And you’re very defensive tonight.”
The argument started like most of their arguments did. Casual, petty and slightly ridiculous.
Max accused George of driving like a cautious accountant.
George accused Max of thinking every corner was a personal challenge to physics.
Max pointed out that George took himself far too seriously.
George pointed out that Max enjoyed provoking people far too much.
At some point, another drink appeared in Max’s hand.
Then another.
The music inside the apartment grew louder. Someone laughed loudly. A group of people spilled out onto the balcony and then disappeared again.
But somehow Max and George stayed exactly where they were.
The argument never quite stopped.
It just… changed.
“You’re insane.” George said at one point.
“You’re fucking annoying.” Max replied.
“You know you started this, Verstappen.”
“You walked over here, dipshit.”
George stepped closer without really thinking about it.
Something shifted in the air then. Subtle but undeniable.
The conversation slowed.
Their voices dropped.
George’s hand rested on the balcony railing just inches from Max’s.
“For someone…” George said after a moment, “who claims to dislike me so much…”
Max glanced sideways.
“…you talk to me a lot.”
Max snorted.
“That’s because you keep sprouting like a fucking mushroom.”
George leaned a bit closer.
“Perhaps you’re secretly fond of me.”
Max looked at him.
“Don’t push it, Russell”
George smiled.
“You’re very defensive tonight.”
Max opened his mouth to reply.
But George caught his wrist.
Max looked back.
Their faces were suddenly much closer than either of them remembered deciding.
“This is a terrible idea.” George said.
“Probably.” Max agreed.
Neither of them stepped away.
The first kiss felt like the continuation of an argument. Sharp, stubborn and full of tension that had been building for far too long.
Max’s fingers caught in George’s shirt as George pulled him closer. The movement knocked lightly into the balcony door, the sound swallowed by the music inside.
There was nothing soft about it at first. It felt like rivalry translated into touch. Every movement carried the same stubborn energy they brought to the track.
George’s hand slid to the back of Max’s neck, steadying him.
Max pushed him against the wall a second later.
“Very aggressive aren’t you.” George murmured.
“You started it, prick.” Max replied.
Their laughter was quiet, breathless.
The tension between them shifted again. The sharp edge of the argument softening into something warmer and far more reckless.
Hands moved without hesitation. Fingers curled into fabric, pulling closer rather than pushing away. Every touch felt like a challenge answered.
At some point they stumbled inside, away from the balcony and the noise of the party. The hallway was quieter, dimmer, the music distant now.
Max’s heart was racing.
George looked just as breathless.
“You realize…” George said softly, “this makes absolutely no sense.”
Max shrugged.
“Most fun things don’t.”
George laughed under his breath before pulling him close again.
The night blurred after that.
Sleep had never been Max Verstappen’s strong suit. Between jet lag, pre-season adrenaline and the constant hum of F1 chaos, restful nights were rare. But tonight, sleep was impossible for a completely different reason.
He tried. He really did. He turned the lights off, turned them back on, flipped his pillow over approximately fourteen times and stared at the ceiling of his Bahrain hotel room like the answers to life were written there in invisible ink.
Unfortunately, the only thing his brain kept replaying was the sentence the doctor had said earlier.
You are pregnant.
Max pressed his hands over his face.
“Noooo.” he said to the empty room. “Absolutely not. That is… no.”
The room remained very unhelpfully quiet.
He sat up in bed, heart racing again.
“Okay.” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “Let’s not panic. Panicking is for people who spin at Turn 1. I do not panic. I am very calm. Extremely calm.”
His brain immediately replayed the moment again.
You are pregnant.
Max groaned loudly and flopped backward into the mattress.
“This is ridiculous.” he mumbled into the pillow. “I drive cars at three hundred kilometers per hour for a living. I win championships. I do not… deal with this.”
Silence.
More staring at the ceiling.
Five more minutes passed before Max did the worst possible thing someone in his situation could do.
He grabbed his phone.
“Fine.” he muttered. “Internet. Distract me.”
Doomscrolling began immediately.
The first headline that appeared made him snort.
Max Verstappen Says 2026 Cars Feel Like “Formula E on Steroids.”
“Still true.” Max said out loud.
He scrolled.
Then came the next headline.
Lando Norris Responds: If Max Hates It That Much, He Can Just Retire.
Max sat up straighter.
“Oh really?” he said, eyebrows lifting. “As if I’m going to retire. You’re just scared I’m going to beat you all this year.”
He jabbed at the screen like the article had personally insulted him.
“Honestly…” he continued, ranting to the empty room, “I say one thing about the car and suddenly everyone thinks I’m going to disappear into the mountains and start knitting sweaters. I am not retiring. I am going to win again. Possibly out of spite.”
He kept scrolling.
Unfortunately, the internet had more opinions.
Somewhere in the chaos of quotes and reposts, another clip appeared.
This time it was George Russell during a media interview.
“If Max doesn’t enjoy the direction of the sport.” George said politely in the clip, “he’s achieved everything. He could retire. Or go drive the Nürburgring for fun.”
Max stared at the screen.
“Oh, thank you, George.” he said flatly. “That’s very helpful advice. I hadn’t considered that option before. Retire! Why didn’t I think of that?”
He flopped back against the headboard.
“Retire! Right after I finish baking a souffle and reorganize the Red Bull engine room alphabetically. Yeah, real priorities. Don’t worry, Russell, I hear your concern. Very touching.”
He kept scrolling.
More headlines. More debate threads. More journalists writing essays about the “future of Verstappen.”
Max rubbed his eyes.
Then he stopped.
“Wait a minute…” he said slowly.
He stared at the phone again.
Then he looked at the ceiling.
Then back at the phone.
“…Yes.” he said.
He sat up.
“Yes.”
A slow, slightly unhinged grin spread across his face.
“I’m just going to retire.”
The room remained silent.
Max nodded to himself.
“Yes, that’s perfect.”
He started pacing around the room now, phone still in hand.
“No annoying reporters asking stupid questions. No media obligations. No early morning interviews. No microphones shoved in my face asking how I feel about Turn 7 tire degradation.”
He waved his hand dramatically.
“And no PR sending emails about marketing events.”
Max paused, thinking.
“And no George Russell with his stupid good looks standing there giving interviews like some kind of… posh British news anchor.”
He nodded again.
“Yes. Retirement.”
He flopped back onto the bed.
“Yes, yes, retirement solves everything. I’ll just… buy a farm on the moon and raise my little parasite there. Herd some sheeps. Teach it the fine art of sleeping past 6 a.m. Never show it a gearbox diagram until it’s eighteen. Perfect. Solved. Absolute perfection.”
Max sat up suddenly, eyes wide, phone still in hand. “Yes! That’s brilliant! Simply Lovely! I’ll sold the yacht and the jet and build a rocket. Name it something ridiculous like Moon Farm 1. Or maybe ‘Little Verstappen Headquarters.’ Yeah, that’s good. And I’ll teach it racing on the moon tracks. No gravity, no stress. Perfect environment. Nothing can go wrong.”
He paused. “Except… maybe the alien sheep. Do they bite?”
He blinked.
Then pointed again.
“Very quiet life. Very peaceful. The child will grow up learning useful things. Like racing lines. And how to avoid British drivers.”
He collapsed back onto the pillow again.
For a few seconds, he just stared at the ceiling, breathing slowly.
The grin slowly faded.
“…Okay.” he said quietly.
His hand drifted to his stomach unconsciously.
“This is… insane.”
Another long pause.
He was trapped in a loop of what ifs and oh noes. What if the baby has my hair? My eyes? What if it looks like Russell? Oh god, it’s going to look like Russell…
Then he sighed.
“You better not grow up looking like George fucking Russell.”
The room stayed quiet.
And for the first time all night, Max laughed.