Chapter Text
Melbourne, Australia
April 2022
Denise Verstappen was, by most objective measures, a highly functioning adult.
She had, after all, won five World Badminton Championships. She had stood on Olympic podiums while national anthems played in languages she barely spoke. She had faced down opponents across the net who wanted nothing more than to destroy her, and she had won. She had retired at twenty-three because there was literally no one left to beat—a fact that sounded arrogant until you watched her play, at which point it became simply a statement of fact.
She could read an opponent's smash before they'd even shifted their weight. She could place a shuttlecock within a centimeter of the line, every single time. She had reflexes measured in milliseconds and a competitive drive that had terrified grown men twice her age.
She could not, however, hold onto a hotel key card for more than four hours.
"Four hours," she muttered to herself, peering into the Melbourne gutter where her key card had just vanished. "That's a new record. The old record was six. I'm improving."
The gutter did not respond. It had eaten her key card and felt no remorse.
Denise straightened up, brushing off her shorts. She was wearing her brother's old Red Bull hoodie—she'd stolen it years ago and he'd long since given up trying to get it back—and a pair of running shoes that had seen better days. Her hair was escaping from a messy ponytail. She'd lost her phone somewhere between the street artist painting a kangaroo in a Ferrari cap and the meat pie shop that had, to be fair, made a really good meat pie.
Her wallet? Gone. Possibly with the phone. Possibly with the key card. Possibly in another dimension. The universe had never been particularly careful with Denise's belongings, and she'd long since stopped expecting it to start.
"Right," she said to no one. "Plan."
Step one: find the hotel. She remembered the general direction. Sort of. The sun was setting, which meant west was... over there? Probably?
Step two: find Max. Her brother was definitely at the hotel.
Step three: find her belongings. Or don't. She'd survived without them before.
Note:
Earlier That Day
Max and Denise had arrived in Melbourne that morning. Denise was here for her first F1 race post-retirement, finally taking her brother up on the years of invitations she'd been too busy to accept.
Max, ever the responsible older brother, had given her strict instructions approximately thirty seconds after they'd checked in.
"Stay at the hotel. I have media all day. Don't lose the key card. Don't wander off. Don't talk to strangers. Don't—"
"Max." Denise held up a hand. "I'm twenty-three. I think I can handle a hotel."
Max eyed her suspiciously. "You lost your passport in Tokyo. For three days."
"The Japanese police found it! They gave me a little badge and everything."
"You lost your racket bag at the Olympics."
"I got it back!"
"After the semifinals."
"The point is, I got it back."
Max sighed, the weight of twenty-three years of sister-wrangling on his shoulders. He handed her the keys to his rental—a ridiculous Aston Martin, because Max Verstappen could not do anything simply.
"Take the car. Get lunch. Do not crash it. Do not lose it. Do not—"
"Let me stop you there." Denise took the keys. "I'm a rally driver, Max. On weekends. For fun. I think I can handle a straight line to a sandwich shop."
She paused at the door, turning back with a pointed look.
"You know, most people rent a Corolla. A sensible, normal car. But no. Max Verstappen needs a V12 engine to buy groceries."
Max threw a pillow at her. She caught it one-handed, grinning with mirth the entire time, and dropped the pillow on the floor, and left.
The Park Hyatt Melbourne was, Denise had to admit, a very nice hotel. The kind of nice where the doorman looked at you with polite concern if you showed up in a hoodie and running shoes after apparently losing everything you owned.
She'd found her way back eventually—not through navigation skill, but through sheer stubbornness and the distant memory of which direction the sun was setting when they'd arrived that morning.
She'd handed the Aston Martin to the valet with as much dignity as she could muster.
"Yes, it's mine. No, I didn't crash it. Yes, I know it's expensive. My brother has issues. No, I don't have the ticket. It's in my wallet. Which is lost. Yes, I know that's a problem. Can you just... park it? Please?"
The valet had looked at her for a long moment, then at the car, then back at her. Then he'd shrugged and driven away, presumably to consult with his manager about what to do with the crazy woman in the Red Bull hoodie.
Denise had taken that as permission to enter.
She walked through the lobby like she owned the place—because technically, she could, if she wanted to, which was a weird thing to realize about yourself—and headed for the elevators.
He was... well, he was a disaster of anonymity. Baseball cap pulled low. Sunglasses on, despite it being sunset and also indoors. A mask pulled up over his nose and mouth. Hands shoved in his pockets. Shoulders hunched.
And the beard.
Even above the mask, Denise could see it. Thick. Dark. Untamed. The kind of beard that suggested the man had not seen a razor since approximately November of the previous year.
And then Denise shruggs and then interestingly enough Denise follows the person into the lift. Densie watches as the hobo presses level 7, coincidentally the same level that Max’s room was on. (so denise doesn’t need to press any floors, which caused Daniel (the hobo) to start becoming suspicious, he’s also sizing her up, analyzing her)
Denise's brain ran through its usual analysis:
Option A: Celebrity hiding from fans.
Option B: International spy.
Option C: Man avoiding his wife.
Option D: Hobo who snuck into a nice hotel.
She settled on Option D.
The hobo shifted slightly as she entered, pressing himself against the elevator wall.
Denise ignored him. She couldn't remember if Max's room was 712 or 713.
The hobo glanced at her.
He thinks I'm following him, Denise realized.
The elevator dinged. Floor seven.
The hobo exited quickly, practically power-walking down the hallway.
Denise followed.
The hobo glanced back. His pace increased.
Denise's pace also increased.
The hobo glanced back again. Now he was definitely suspicious.
They rounded the final corner together. Room 712 was ahead. So was Room 713, which was clearly where the hobo was heading.
Denise made a break for 712.
The hobo made a grab for her.
Later—much later—Daniel Ricciardo would describe this moment as "the fastest I've ever been owned by someone half my size."
At the time, he just knew that this fan had followed him from the elevator, matched his pace, matched his turns, and was now making a move toward Max's room. He'd dealt with stalkers before. His body moved before his brain caught up—one arm across her chest, pinning her against the wall.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa." His voice came out muffled behind the mask. "Fans are not allowed here."
Denise blinked at him. Took in the mask. The sunglasses. The beard.
"Fans?" She snorted. "Mate, I'm not a fan. I'm trying to get to my own room. You're the one who jumped me in a hallway." She paused, eyes narrowing. "Which, by the way, is very aggressive behavior for a hobo."
Daniel's brain short-circuited. "A—a what?"
"A hobo." Denise said it like it was obvious. "The mask. The sunglasses indoors. The hoodie. The lurking. Very hobo-coded. I thought you'd snuck in here for a shower."
Daniel stared at her. Through the mask, through the sunglasses, through the sheer absurdity.
"I'm not a—" He sputtered. "I'm not a hobo. I'm a Formula 1 driver."
"Sure you are." Denise's tone was deeply unimpressed. "And I'm Lewis Hamilton.Look, if you let go of me, I can probably find some cash. “
Daniel's grip loosened slightly as his brain tried to process this. She thought he was homeless. She was offering to give him money. She was being kind about it.
"I'm not a hobo," he said, enunciating clearly.
Denise's eyes flickered to his beard. Her expression said sure, mate louder than words ever could. She was also getting impatient. She rolled her eyes when the hobo said, “Look, if you're a fan, I get it—" which was honestly the most ridiculous things she’s ever heard.
“Dude, you’re crazy, now let go of me before I make you let go of me. "
Daniel didn't let go. This was a mistake.
Instead of moving, Daniel tightened his grip again. "Nice try. You're not going anywhere until security gets here."
Denise sighed. The sigh of someone who has dealt with incompetent opponents her entire career.
"Okay," she said calmly. "You asked for this."
Daniel didn't even see it coming. One second he had her pinned. The next, she'd dropped her center of gravity, twisted out of his grip, grabbed his arm, and spun him.
His face hit the wallpaper with an undignified "OOF." His arm was twisted behind his back. A knee pressed into his spine. Her voice came from somewhere above him.
"I'm not following you. I'm trying to get to my brother’s room. You’re the one who grabbed me. "
Daniel laughed. He couldn't help it. The situation was so absurd.
"Your—your brother?" he gasped, face still pressed to the wall. "Lady, I'm Daniel Ricciardo. Your brother is—wait, who's your brother?"
Denise grabbed the door handle to Room 712 with her free hand.
"Ha," she said flatly. "And I'm still Lewis Hamilton. Nice try, hobo."
At that exact moment, the door to Room 712 opened.
Max Verstappen stood there.
He was still in his team polo, his phone in his hand. He'd heard noise in the hallway. Voices. His sister's voice. A thump.
His expression, as he took in the scene before him, cycled through about fifteen emotions in two seconds.
His baby sister—twenty-three years old, five-time world champion, recently retired—had his teammate pressed against the wall.
Daniel's face was literally against the wallpaper. His sunglasses were hanging off one ear. His mask had slipped down to his chin. His beard was fully visible now, wild and untamed.
Denise looked up at Max with wide eyes.
Daniel turned his head slightly, saw Max, and made a sound like a dying whale.
The three of them stared at each other.
The hallway was very, very quiet.
Max opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
Max: "...Denise?
Denise: "Max! This man grabbed me!"
Daniel: "Max! This woman followed me from the elevator!"
Both, simultaneously: "Who is this?!"
Max pinched the bridge of his nose.
He was going to need so much alcohol for this week.
"Denise." Max's voice was tired. Very, very tired. "That's Daniel. "
Denise blinked.
Then blinked again.
She looked at the man she had pinned to the wall.
Daniel Ricciardo.
The Daniel Ricciardo.
Honey Badger. Shoey king. Eight-time Grand Prix winner. The subject of Denise’s obsession.
Max's Daniel Ricciardo.
An important part of the MAXIEL equation.
This man.
This hobo.
With the beard.
Denise did not relinquish her hold, there was no way this hobo was daniel ricciardo, absolutely no way,
"No," she said flatly.
Max stared at her. "No?"
"No." She shook her head. "This is not Daniel Ricciardo. Daniel Ricciardo does not look like a yeti who lost a fight with a hedge trimmer. Daniel Ricciardo is clean. Daniel Ricciardo has grooming standards. I have seen approximately thousands of photos of Daniel Ricciardo—" She paused. "On the internet. In articles. And this man"—she jostled Daniel slightly against the wall—"is not in them."
Daniel, face still pressed to the wallpaper, let out a strangled sound that might have been a laugh.
Max's eye twitched. "You've seen four thousand photos of my teammate on the internet?"
"That's—that's not—they're just there. On social media. In race coverage. It's not like I saved them." (This was a lie. She had saved them. Many of them. In a folder. But Max didn't need to know that.)
Daniel spoke up, voice muffled by the wallpaper. "For the record, I'm very flattered you've seen four thousand photos of me. Also still on the wall."
Max pinched the bridge of his nose harder. "Denise. Let him go. Now."
Denise hesitated. Then, slowly, she released her hold.
Daniel turned around, rubbing his shoulder, adjusting his sunglasses (why was he still wearing the sunglasses?), and looked at her with an expression that cycled through about twelve emotions in three seconds.
"The beard," he said flatly. "You don't recognize me because of the beard."
Denise's eyes flickered to it. Then away. Then back. Then away again.
"It's... very committed."
"I grew it over the winter."
"It's April."
"I like it."
"It makes you look like you live in the woods and have strong opinions about foraging."
Daniel gasped, offended. "Foraging is a legitimate life skill!"
"Daniel." Max's voice was strained. "Inside. Both of you. Now."
He turned and walked back into his room, leaving the door open.
Denise and Daniel looked at each other.
"After you, hobo," Denise said.
"Ladies first, Lewis," Daniel replied.
They walked inside.
Ten Minutes Later
Max's suite was nice. Not as nice as the ones Denise usually booked for herself—she preferred the penthouse, with the good view and the bathtub that fit two people—but nice enough. She curled up in an armchair, still in her Red Bull hoodie, watching as Max made tea with the precise, methodical movements of someone who needed to calm down immediately.
Daniel had finally removed his sunglasses and mask. His beard was, objectively, a lot. It was thick and dark and framed his face in a way that was either "rugged" or "unfortunately lost a bet," depending on who you asked.
Denise kept stealing glances at it.
Daniel caught her. "You're staring at the beard again."
"I'm not staring. I'm... assessing."
"Assessing what?"
"Whether you lost a bet or this was a conscious choice."
Daniel touched his beard protectively. "It was a conscious choice. For comfort."
"Mmhmm." Denise's tone was deeply skeptical. "And how do you feel about it now? After being called a hobo and a yeti and being put on a wall?"
Daniel considered this. "Honestly? Still pretty good. It's soft."
Max set down the teapot with a pointed look. "We're not discussing the beard. We're discussing how my sister ended up putting my teammate on a wall."
"She grabbed me first."
"You followed me first."
Max's glare silenced them both. "And we're also discussing how you've apparently seen four thousand photos of him online."
Denise's face went pink. "That's—that's not—they're just there. When you follow F1. Which I do. Because you're in it. The photos just... appear."
Daniel raised an eyebrow. "Four thousand photos just... appeared?"
"The internet is a vast place."
"Four thousand is a very specific number."
Denise's brain scrambled for an exit. "It's—it's an expression. A figure of speech. I didn't actually count."
Max eyed her suspiciously. "You've never used figures of speech before."
"There's a first time for everything."
Daniel was watching this exchange with clear amusement. "So you're saying you haven't been secretly collecting photos of me?"
"Of course not. Why would I do that?" Denise's voice was slightly too high. "That would be weird. I'm not weird. I'm normal. This is normal."
Max and Daniel exchanged a look.
Denise wanted to die.
"Okay," Max said slowly. "Ground rules. For the weekend."
Denise latched onto the change of subject gratefully. "Yes. Ground rules. Good."
"One: no more physical assault of my teammates."
"She grabbed me first."
"You followed me first."
Max's glare silenced them both. "Two: no more discussing how many photos you've seen of my teammate on the internet."
"Agreed," Denise said quickly.
"And three"—Max pointed at Daniel—"you. Stop looking at my sister like that."
Daniel's expression shifted to exaggerated innocence. "Like what?"
"Like you're figuring her out."
"Isn't that the point of meeting new people?"
Max opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
Denise watched this exchange with growing interest. Her brother was flustered. Not about the photos—although that had clearly thrown him—but about Daniel looking at her.
Interesting.
She filed that away for later.
Later That Night
Denise was in her room—finally, after Max had personally escorted her to the correct door and watched her go inside like she was a toddler who might wander off—when her phone buzzed.
She'd found her phone, by the way. It was in the Aston Martin. The valet had brought it up with a note that said "You left this in the cupholder. Also, nice car. —The Valet."
Her wallet was still missing. But one thing at a time.
The buzz was from an unknown number.
Unknown: hey it's daniel. the hobo. max gave me your number. hope that's okay.
Denise stared at the screen.
Daniel Ricciardo was texting her.
Daniel Ricciardo, who she'd put on a wall. Daniel Ricciardo, who she'd called a hobo. Daniel Ricciardo, whom she had approximately four thousand photos of with Max in a carefully curated folder on her laptop.
Content, her brain supplied. This is content.
Denise: you're really leaning into the hobo thing huh
Daniel: you called me a yeti first. i'm reclaiming the narrative
Denise: fair. also sorry again. about the wall.
Daniel: don't apologize. Best thing that’s happened to me all week.
Denise: 😂
Daniel: for real though. you're max's sister. he never talks about you
Denise: he's protective. it's annoying
Daniel: i noticed. the key card thing?
Denise: i have a system
Daniel: losing everything is a system?
Denise: a very consistent system
Daniel: 😂
Daniel: so. five world championships. that's insane
Denise: it's just badminton
Daniel: it's not "just" anything. you're incredible
Denise stared at that message.
He's nice, she thought. For content.
Denise: thanks
Daniel: max ever watch you play?
Denise: he tries. his schedule's crazy
Daniel: he should make time. you're his sister
Denise: he's busy being a world champion
Daniel: doesn't matter. family matters more
Denise felt something. A small flicker. She pushed it down.
Content, she reminded herself. He's content. Maxiel content. That's all.
Denise: you're surprisingly thoughtful for a hobo
Daniel: 😊
Daniel: goodnight ninja. don't lose your key card
Denise: 😑
Daniel: 😴
She set her phone down and immediately opened her messages with Mysterious Best Friend.
Denise: daniel ricciardo just called me "ninja"
Mysterious Best friend: 👀👀👀👀
Mysterious Best Friend: and?
Denise: and nothing. just thought you should know. for the archives
Mysterious Best Friend: the archives
Denise: the maxiel archives. obviously
Mysterious Best Friend: 🙄
Mysterious Best Friend: denise. he's a real person
Denise: i know that
Mysterious Best Friend: do you
Denise: yes. he's also really good maxiel content. the beard alone is going to break the internet
Mysterious Best Friend: you're impossible
Denise: 😇
Mysterious Best Friend: goodnight disaster
Denise: goodnight Mysterious Best Friend
She saved the conversation with Daniel anyway. For research.