Chapter Text
jos verstappen was dead.
the paddock had never been that quiet on a thursday. not even after fatal crashes or after scandals. the silence just felt… different. it wasn’t grief but it was relief dressed in politeness. mechanics who had once endured shouting fits stared at their phones and exhaled. engineers who had been publicly humiliated kept their faces carefully neutral. team principals offered tight statements to the media about “thoughts with the family,” but their eyes didn’t soften.
no one mourned jos verstappen except his son.
but max didn’t cry.
he hadn’t cried in years. not even when he lost championships, or when the media called him reckless, or even the first time he was booed on a podium but when the call came early that morning in barcelona, something in his chest hollowed out. jos verstappen was dead and the world moved on.
it was spanish grand prix weekend and the sun was unforgiving above the circuit de barcelona-catalunya with the air thick with heat and expectation and the garage felt smaller than usual. max sat in the car longer than necessary before FP1 with helmet resting against the cockpit, staring at nothing. he remembered cold mornings, the screamings, the smell of petrol and pressure, and the way his father’s voice could cut sharper than any journalist’s headline. he also remembered hands steadying his kart, a nod of approval so rare it felt like winning a title, the relentless push… and the obsession.
jos wasn’t the best father but he made max. he made max ruthless, untouchable, and a world champion.
by sunday, the paddock was walking on eggshells. no one dared say the wrong thing and most said nothing at all. except one… george russell. of course. max saw him in the driver’s parade with mercedes cap too clean and posture too proper as always, george approached him carefully.
“hey max, i’m sorry,” george said quietly and there were no cameras and no microphones. it’s just them.
sorry? for what? max thought if george was sorry for his father dying or for the years of bruises no one saw or for the shouting… or maybe for the man the paddock secretly celebrated losing? he stared at george and his expression didn’t waiver. there was no smirk or hint of rivalry, just something soft and sincere. and max hated it. he’d rather have indifference, tension, or even an insult. but sympathy from george russell? it felt wrong.
“save it,” max muttered, brushing past him without another glance. his shoulder clipping george’s who didn’t retaliate and just watched him walk away that somehow made it worse.
the race started under a burning spanish sky and max drive like a man possessed. he’s too aggressive on lap one, too late on the brakes, and too tight on every overtake. his engineer’s voice crackled through the radio, “max, focus. long race.” but max saw flashes instead and heard his father’s voice, you’re not good enough! again and again and again… and again.
the safety car lights went out and barcelona held its breath. max flexed his fingers against the steering wheel as the field snaked through the final sector. his tyres were cooling but his tempers weren’t. then the safety restart launched down the main straight like a slingshot and george was right there. turn 1 approached fast both of them diving in late, wheel to wheel, and inches apart. the crowd roared as they braked impossibly deep while george held the inside and max hung it around the outside. there wasn’t enough space that made max ran wide but kept his foot in it then rejoined still ahead.
the radio crackled, “max, can you let russell through please? let russell through.”
“no, i was ahead mate. motherfucker,” max snapped. he had been forced off but still rejoined ahead. this was racing.
“my advice is to let him through. you left the track and gained an advantage. give the position back, max.”
gained an advantage? max cried in his head like everything in his life had been handed to him or like he hadn’t clawed and bled for every inch of asphalt he owned. “i was ahead! he just ran me off the road!” he demanded.
“but that’s the rules,” his engineer insisted.
george stayed close behind and obviously waiting, so max slowed slightly on the exit of turn 4.
fine, you want it? take it. max thought.
the british edged alongside, moving ahead through the short straight that led into the following left-hander and then max saw red again. it wasn’t a snap decision or a racing miscalculation. it was a surge and an ugly impulsive flare of anger that had been simmering all weekend. his father was dead and the paddock had sighed in relief. and now this. so max pressed the throttle and the red bull car surged forward as they turned into the left. instead of tucking in behind, he held his line tighter than necessary.
“the fuck,” george muttered. the contact from front wing to sidepod was sharp and undeniable. his car twitched violently and for a heartbeat, it looked like they might both be in the gravel.
“contact with russell,” max’s engineer said tiredly but max didn’t answer because he knew. he had backed off to give the place and then he hadn’t. after a few moments, he lifted finally and conceded properly this time. he fell in behind the mercedes as if nothing had happened but something had.
“uhh… max, for info, you have been given a 10-second time penalty for causing a collision. i believe at turn 5. which drops you to p10 at the moment.”
max crossed the line fifth on the road but by the time the classification updated, he was tenth.
back in the paddock, the atmosphere was ice. stewards investigating, media buzzing, and max avoided everyone not until george found him while there were no cameras again.
“you did that deliberately,” george said as a matter of fact.
max shrugged, “maybe.”
a beat of silence then george surprised him again. “i meant what i said.”
“what?” max looked up at him.
“about your dad,” george said and there it was again, that softness and infuriating sincerity.
max’s jaw tightened. “you don’t get to pity me,” he said. “you don’t know anything.”
george’s expression flickered. “you’re right,” he said. “i dont. but…” another pause. “but i know what it’s like to carry someone’s expectations like a weight. and i know what it’s like when that weight suddenly disappears.”
max faltered because beneath the rivalry, the politics, press conferences, and wheel-to-wheel battles, george was a driver too… a son.. and a human being. and he wasn’t mocking him. that was the worst part. george was just being kind.
“i don’t need your sympathy,” max muttered but the edge had dulled.
“i’m not giving you sympathy,” george replied softly. “just… condolences.”
the dutch looked away. for years, anger had been his armor and fuel that made him unstoppable but grief… was different. it was heavy and for the first time all weekend, someone wasn’t afraid of him, or wasn’t relieved… or wasn’t pretending.
george stepped back, “take care of yourself, max.”
max stood there long after george walked away. the paddock noise slowly bled back in like nothing had shifted. his phone buzzed in his pocket. he saw dozens of messages with condolences that felt copy pasted, team statements, press requests, and family he hadn’t spoken to in years. he didn’t open any of them but instead, he leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes.
for years, jos had been a shadow behind him in every garage. he’s always pacing, watching, correcting, judging, and pushing max. even when he wasn’t physically there, he was there. in every braking zone and every radio message “you can do better, max”, and max always did because he had to and because that was the only way to earn something that looked like approval.
“there you are.”
max opened his eyes and saw his team principal.
“the media’s asking if you’ll make a statement.”
“no,” max replied.
“are you sure?”
“yes,” max said firmly.
his team principal studied him. “you know… you don’t have to be here next week.”
max’s eyes snapped up. “i’m racing,” he said immediately and came out sharper than intended. he almost sounded defensive that someone had questioned his legitimacy.
his team principal nodded, “okay,” then left.
max pushed off the wall and headed toward the hospitality exit. he needed air that didn’t smell like fuel or expectation. the sun was beginning to dip now and barcelona was painted gold instead of white hot. he’s walking straight ahead and good thing, there were only few people and minded their own business but what he didn’t expect was to see george again, leaning against a railing staring out toward the circuit pondering. for a second, max considered turning around but he was too tired to avoid him. george glance over and nodded.
“you shouldn’t have come,” george said softly.
“to what? the race?” max frowned. “why? because i might crash and dnf?” he scoffed.
“because your dad died,” george said quietly.
max leaned on the railing beside him, leaving enough space between them to make it clear this wasn’t closeness.
“if i went home,” max said as he stared at the empty track, “everyone would say i couldn’t handle it.”
“and?”
“and they’d be right.” the admission slipped out before he could stop it. he didn’t know why it had been so easy to say it, especially to george, his rival. the person he was supposed to keep his guard up.
“you don’t have to prove anything,” george said.
max let out a humorless laugh. “that’s not how this works.”
“maybe it should be,” george said.
silence stretched between them.
“you think i’m like him,” max said suddenly.
george turned to him full now, “what?”
“my dad,” max swallowed. “you think i’m angry and impossible and just… waiting to explode.”
“i think,” george said carefully and held his gaze. “you're carrying a lot of things that were never yours to carry,” he said and that landed somewhere deep.
max looked away first. “i crashed into you,” he muttered.
“yeah.”
“on purpose,” max added.
“yeah,” george repeated.
max exhaled slowly, “sorry.”
the word felt foreign and george studied him and deciding whether to push or let it rest. “thank you,” he said instead.
the sun dipped lower and casted shadows across the circuit. for the first time all weekend, max didn't feel like he was being watched. he didn't feel like he had to win something to be allowed to exist. jos verstappen was dead and maybe… max didn't have to be the sharpest thing in the room anymore. he stood there beside george not as friends or rivals at that moment, but just two drivers looking at an empty track.
“he would’ve hated that,” max said suddenly.
george glanced at him, “what?”
“the penalty.” max’s mouth twitched. “he would’ve said i went soft.”
“did you?” george asked carefully.
max frowned. “did i what?”
“go soft.”
with an automatic scoff, max said “no.” but it didn’t sound convincing. jos would have told him never to give the place back in the first place. his father would have called the team weak and would have told max to stand his ground always.
max swallowed. “he never liked when i apologized,” he admitted quietly.
george didn’t react dramatically. “apologizing doesn’t make you weak,” he said.
“yeah?” max let out a breath through his nose. “tell that to my childhood,” he immediately said and that was the first time he’d said something that naked.
“you know,” george said slowly and looked at max not as a rival or the guy who had just torpedoed him at turn 5, but as something else… something more human. “you’re allowed to be angry,” he continued and noticed max stiffened slightly. “but you’re also allowed to be… something else.”
“like what?”
“grieving.”
the word settled between them. “i don’t know how to do that,” he said honestly.
george stayed quiet.
“i don’t even know if i’m sad,” max smiled bitterly. the confession lingered in the cooling air. “he was…” he stopped and exhaled slowly, weighing the risk of saying more. he didn’t even know why he was talking or why the words were spilling now. here, of all places, with george, of all people. all he knew was that something inside him had been pressing against his ribs all weekend that demanded to be let out. this was just all coincidence that george was there.
max looked at george and all he saw was patience. he sighed, “dad… he was hard. all the time.” he continued, “there was no off switch… no ‘good job’ or ‘i’m proud of you’. it was always ‘you could’ve done better.’”
george’s jaw tightened slightly, remembering something quite similar. “that doesn’t mean you’re not allowed to miss him,” he said carefully.
“miss what?” max laughed. “the shouting? pressure? or the part where i was twelve and already terrified to come second?”
“i didn’t say you have to miss the bad parts,” george swallowed.
“there weren’t good parts,” max snapped and then he paused. “or maybe there were. i just don’t know which ones were real.”
george shifted his weight and turning toward max fully now. “you don’t have to rewrite your childhood,” he said.
“i’m not rewriting it.”
“you’re trying to erase it.”
max’s head turned sharply. “don’t,” he warned.
“don’t what?”
“don’t psychoanalyze me.”
“i’m not,” george held his ground. “i’m just trying to understand you.”
“why do you care?” max frowned.
“because you are not your father,” george said firmly.
max went still. “you don’t know my dad,” he continued with his voice rising. “you think crashing into you today wasn’t him? you think that wasn’t exactly what he would’ve done?”
“no,” george said. “that wasn’t jos,” he added. “that was you hurting.” the words landed like a punch.
“stop,” max whispered.
“you wanted to feel in control,” george continued. “you wanted something to hit back at and i just happened to be there.”
max’s chest rose and fell faster. “i didn’t want control,” he muttered.
“then what did you want?”
max didn’t answer because the truth was ugly. he wanted someone else to feel what he was feeling. he wanted the world to crack the way his chest had cracked that morning. and he wanted the paddock to stop pretending everything was fine.
“i wanted it to stop,” he admitted hoarsely.
george’s expression softened. “stop what?”
“all of it.” max gestured vaguely. “the noise. the expectations. the… pressure.” he swallowed hard. “i thought when he died it would get quieter… but it didn’t.” if anything, it was louder, he cried in his head because now the voice wasn’t external, it was inside him.
“max,” george said gently.
“don’t say my name like that.”
“like what?”
“like i’m fragile.”
george’s eyes flashed slightly. “you are.”
max stiffened. “i’m not.”
“you are,” george repeated. “and that’s not an insult.”
“where i come from, it is.”
“well maybe where you come from is wrong.”
max’s throat tightened. “you think i wanted him dead?” he asked suddenly.
george’s eyes widened slightly. “no.”
“be honest.”
“i am,” george said firmly.
max laughed weakly. “sometimes i used to think about what it would be like if he just… stopped. if the pressure stopped. if the voice stopped.” his fingers tightened on the railing. “and now it has.” his voice cracked. “and i feel like that makes me a horrible son.”
george stepped closer this time. close enough that max could feel the heat of him. “that makes you human,” he said quietly.
max shook his head. “you don’t understand. he made me. everything i am on track that’s him. the aggression… ruthlessness. the refusal to back down. if i take that away… what’s left?”
george didn’t hesitate. “you.”
“that’s not enough.”
“it is.”
“i don’t know who i am without him,” max admitted, barely above a whisper.
george didn’t hesitate this time. “you’re still you.”
max swallowed. “what if that’s worse?”
“then we figure it out,” george said.
“i don’t know how to be anything else,” max admitted.
“then learn,” george said softly.
“how?”
“start by not crashing into me when you’re angry,” george teased.
despite everything, a weak, broken huff escaped max. “can’t promise that,” he smiled then cleared his throat. “i don’t want to be him,” he said quietly.
“you’re not.”
“how do you know?”
george’s answer was immediate. “because you said sorry.”
max stared at him and the wind moved between them again, but the space didn’t feel cold anymore. his phone buzzed.
“when’s the funeral?” george asked.
“as soon as i get back home.”
george hummed and nodded. “i guess, i’ll see you next week?” he reached out and gave max’s shoulder a brief grounding tap before stepping away. max nodded once and watched him go.
george didn’t expect anything to change between him and max after that day. max was grieving and george knew that. and everything he’d said had been sincere. he was sorry max had lost his father but he also understood pressure.
his father, steve, wasn’t the easiest man to grow up either. steve always pushed him to be great. it was only when he got older that he fully understood the weight his father had been carrying. of course anyone would be upset if you’re working from seven in the morning until nine at night with every pound you earned that week went straight into racing that weekend and then watched your son mess around or make a silly mistake.
steve put everything on the line.
they were comfortable growing up but they were not wealthy enough to fund a racing career. his father spent over a million pounds just to keep the dream alive. and in motorsport, that still doesn’t get you halfway to formula 1. steve sold his business and for that, george was grateful but sometimes he just wants a father. during the week, steve would leave before george woke up and return long after he was asleep. they barely saw each other except on race weekends and if the weekend went badly, the van ride home would be filled with shouting, lectures, and pressure.
as a boy, george used to think: “i don’t see my dad and when i do, he’s disappointed in me.” and that does something to a child.
there was no data analysis back then. it was just steve with a stopwatch at the side of the track and after a few years, george realized something strange. his lap times always seemed slow in practice and steve would read them out loud and george would believe he wasn’t good enough. then race day would come, he wins. he’s stand at the podium confused and thinking how can he be so slow in practice and still win. years later, he realized the truth. his father had been timing him late on purpose not to sabotage him but to stop him from being complacent to keep him hungry and to make sure confidence never turned into arrogance.
it was manipulation… strategy… and love, just not the gentle kind. steve fostered toughness and george fought through it with no excuses and no comforting pats on the head. if he falls, he gets up and if he fails, he needs to do better.
when george was seventeen and signed with the mercedes junior team, something shifted. for the first time, his father stepped back. they had a long conversation about it. george told him he didn’t want a manager anymore, or a mechanic or investor. he wanted a dad. steve agreed and eventually when george reached formula 1, he paid back every estimated 1.5 million pounds his parents had invested in him not because they asked but because he could and he understood now. he was no longer a boy in the van feeling like he wasn’t enough.
george can’t say he and max went through the same thing. sure, steve was hard but he wasn’t jos verstappen. jos was something else entirely. the whole paddock had seen it: the shouting, public criticism, and the fear.
there was that infamous karting race, the one where teenage max didn’t win after making a mistake. on the drive home, jos stopped at a gas station and told him to get out. later, jos claimed he hadn’t abandoned him but just refused to speak to him for a week as if silence wasn’t its own punishment. other stories were darker like stories of violence of kicks and punches and of a boy keeping his helmet on for hours because he was too afraid to take it off.
jos admitted he was hard on max but he refused to call it abuse. he said talent wouldn’t be enough in formula 1 and maybe that was him speaking to himself. jos had once been good. quick enough to stand on podiums beside schumacher but he had never been enough and some fathers don’t know how to live with that. so they build their second chance in their sons.
max verstappen was raised hungry, emotionally guarded and error-averse. mistakes were punishable offenses and it worked. it made him ruthless, precise and untouchable but it also made him distant. and now jos verstappen was dead. so what happens to a son who was built in survival mode? what happened when the voice that pushed you, hurt you… and shaped you disappears? who are you without the man you were trying to impress… or outrun? he had said he didn’t even know if he was sad. maybe grief isn’t always tears… maybe sometimes it’s just silence and for the first time in his life, max didn’t have anyone standing at the side of the track with a stopwatch. no one to tell him he was slow and wasn’t enough.
so what now? who does he become when there’s no one left to prove wrong?
canadian grand prix weekend felt different. not to max but to everyone else. the podium line-up had the paddock buzzing.
george russell p1
max verstappen p2
kimi antonelli p3
the cameras were ready. after spain, everyone expected a fallout. everyone knew about max and george’s beef. so when they took the podium, they expected stiff smiles and passive-aggressive champagne sprays. but what everyone got instead was laughter. max stepped onto the podium like nothing had happened. george was already there, grinning in that polished way of his. and when they smiled at each other, it wasn’t forced. they bumped shoulders lightly and shared a few quiet words. when kimi stood between them, both of them looked at him like proud older brothers.
“it’s probably for kimi,” the commentators said later.
“out of respect,” fans cried.
“they both adored the kid,” the paddock whispered.
maybe that was true but what they didn’t know was that something had shifted the week before and george felt it instantly in the canada paddock that friday.
“hi,” max had said casually when their paths crossed near hospitality.
at first george thought it was just for him until he saw max doing it with others too. a friendly nod to leclerc, a small joke with lando, fist bump with hamilton, and even quiet exchange with someone from haas. sure he interacted before with the drivers on the paddock, but this version of max was too open… he wasn’t cold or defensive. and the grid didn’t know what to do with it. it was unsettling and george found himself watching him more closely than usual. max looked to happy and light. he didn’t look like someone who had buried his father a few days ago but george dismissed the thought immediately. it wasn’t his business anyway.
mercedes announced an after party for kimi’s first podium. technically, kimi was allowed to drink at this particular venue in canada, and the team was more than ready to celebrate. kimi immediately invited max.
“youre coming,” kimi grinned.
max glanced over at george instinctively and george shrugged.
max smiled, “yeah, okay.”
the after party was loud but max was louder. not in volume but in presence. he laughed easily, clinked glasses with everyone, let someone take a picture with him, and let someone pull him into a group photo.
george watched from across the room for half an hour and thought max didn’t look like he was grieving. he looked like he was performing happiness and george hated that he could tell the difference. they haven’t interacted since the party began and his head started pounding so he used it as an excuse. he said goodbyes and congratulated kimi again then slipped out quietly. he didn’t tell max because he didn’t think he had the right to.
an hour later, george had just finished brushing his teeth and skincare routine when someone knocked on his hotel door. he frowned when another knock followed then checked the peephole.
it’s max.
george opened the door and whatever he was about to say died in his throat when he looked at max who definitely not looked like the max earlier. “max–”
“you left,” max cut in immediately.
george blinked. “huh?”
“at the party.”
“oh,” george shifted. “i wasn’t feeling–”
max walked past him into the room without waiting for permission.
george stared at the back of his head. “come in, i guess.” he muttered dryly.
max stopped near the middle of the room, looking suddenly unsure of where to stand.
“i wasn’t feeling well,” george clarified gently.
“are you okay now?” max asked.
“wait,” george raised both hands slightly. “what are you doing here? the party is not here.”
“i know.”
“okay? do you need something?” george raised a brow.
“well, you left the party.”
“like i said, i wasn’t–”
“yeah,” max cut him off. “i know now.”
george crossed his arms, leaning slightly against the doorframe. “so?”
max looked at the carpet with full concentration. his jaw tightened. “i don’t want to smile the whole night.”
there it was and george’s expression softened. “no one asked you to.”
“but you said i need to learn how to be something else.”
“i didn’t say you had to fake it.”
max finally looked up. “you said we’d figure it out.”
we.
george blinked. he hadn’t expected max to hold onto those words like they meant something. he studied max and suddenly, max looked younger. not a world champion or the driver everyone on the grid measured themselves against.. or the rival george has spent years fighting on track. this is just max, standing awkwardly in front of him. for a fleeting second, he didn’t look dangerous or untouchable. max looked lost like a kid who had no idea where to go next.
“max,” george said carefully.
“i’m trying not to be him,” max said softly.
“and you think acting like the opposite of your father makes you not be him?”
“yes.”
george dragged a hand down his face. “no.”
max frowned. “what?”
“that’s not how it works.”
“then how does it work?”
“you just… be you.”
max’s voice dropped. “i don’t know how.”
“start by knowing what you want.”
“i don’t know what i want,” max admitted.
george exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. max saw it and his walls went up instantly.
“forget it,” max muttered and turned toward the door. he thought he shouldn’t have come or shouldn’t have needed anything from anyone, especially not from george. he had been doing just fine pretending all night.
“wait,” george grabbed his arm and pulled max to turn to him. “what is this?” he asked quietly. “what do you actually want?”
max swallowed. “you said we’d–”
“figure it out, yes. i know what i said,” george stepped closer. “but are you sure you want to do that?”
max didn’t answer.
“technically, we’re not friends,” george clarified and silence stretched between them. “well?”
max glanced away. “you’re best friends with albon. you still compete,” he said finally.
“and?”
“you’re close with lando.”
“uh-huh.”
“you manage to be friends with everyone,” max added and sounded almost defensive. “even though we’re all rivals.”
“what about it?” george’s voice softened.
max hesitated. “can we…” he paused. “can we do that too?” it was barely audible and george had to fight a smile. max noticed it immediately. “i can’t promise i won’t crash into you,” he added quickly.
george laughed under his breath. “then that makes two of us,” he said as he sat at the edge of his bed. “so what now?”
max cleared his throat. “i should go. you said you weren’t feeling well.”
“i took medicine. it’s just a headache,” george said and watched max nodded and stood there awkwardly. “have you eaten?” he asked and max shook his head.
“me neither,” george lied. he’d already eaten before going to the party but when he looked at max and found out that the dutch hadn't eaten yet, something tugged quietly inside his chest so he dialed room service. “hello?” he said into the receiver. “food, whatever’s fastest. like my usual. thank you.”
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