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The paddock always sounded different after a race.
Not immediately after – not during the chaos of podium celebrations and camera shutters and engineers talking over one another too loudly, flushed with adrenaline and relief. In those moments, everything still felt alive. Electric. Like the circuit itself hadn’t realized the race was over yet.
No, the strange part came later.
Hours later, when the floodlights cast everything in sterile white and the motorhomes glowed softly against the dark sky. When the garages began emptying one by one, equipment packed away into neat silver cases, mechanics speaking in quieter voices now that there was nothing left to fix tonight.
The noise faded gradually.
Air guns stopped whining.
Generators hummed low in the background.
Someone laughed somewhere down the paddock, distant enough to sound almost hollow.
George sat alone in the Mercedes garage and listened to all of it disappear.
He was still wearing the bottom half of his race suit, tied around his waist, the black fireproof top clinging damply to his skin beneath his half-unzipped undershirt. His hair was still flattened from sweat and the balaclava he’d ripped off nearly an hour ago. There was dried champagne on the sleeve of his suit from the podium celebrations. He hadn’t bothered changing.
The room around him was too bright.
Cold overhead lights reflected off polished flooring and exposed carbon fibre, making everything look clinical. Artificial. The giant monitors mounted above the garage had gone dark one by one, leaving only a few telemetry screens glowing faintly blue in the corner.
George stared at one of them without really seeing it.
P2.
Again.
“Another impressive drive from George Russell today.”
The commentator’s voice replayed in his head with irritating clarity.
Impressive.
He was beginning to hate that word.
Impressive was what people called you when they needed to compliment you without giving you the thing you actually wanted.
Impressive effort. Impressive recovery. Impressive pace.
Never inevitable. Never dominant. Never champion.
George leaned forward slowly, elbows resting against his knees, and rubbed both hands over his face hard enough to hurt.
He could still feel the steering wheel vibrating in his palms if he concentrated hard enough. Phantom sensations lingered after races sometimes – the pressure of G-forces against his ribs, the ache in his shoulders, the instinctive anticipation of braking points.
And beneath all of it, looping endlessly in the back of his mind: Turn fourteen. Lap forty-seven. The lock-up.
Tiny.
Barely noticeable, really. Most people probably hadn’t even registered it happened. The tyres had protested for less than a second before he recovered the car cleanly.
No damage. No spin. No catastrophe.
Just enough.
Enough to lose a fraction of time. Enough to compromise the next corner. Enough to let Max pull out of DRS range.
George shut his eyes.
He could still hear Bono in his ear afterward, calm and measured as always.
“Unlucky, George. Keep pushing.”
Unlucky.
Right.
Because apparently every mistake became luck once enough cameras were pointed at it.
The worst part was that everyone would tell him he drove brilliantly tonight.
They already had.
Toto had squeezed his shoulder after the podium and told him it was “a phenomenal recovery drive.” The engineers had congratulated him. Sky Sports had replayed his overtake on Charles three separate times during the cooldown room coverage. Social media was probably already full of clips captioned MASTERCLASS.
And maybe objectively they were right.
Started P5.
Finished P2.
Fastest middle stint on worn tyres. Minimal degradation. Strong tyre management. Clean racecraft.
On paper, it was excellent.
George knew how to evaluate races analytically. That was half the problem.
Because analytically, he could also identify every moment that had cost him the win.
The missed apex in sector two during qualifying yesterday. The slightly conservative defence against Max into turn one. The lock-up. The hesitation before committing to the overtake attempt on lap thirty-nine.
Tiny things.
Tiny enough that nobody else would care. Tiny enough that commentators would call it “marginal.”
But world championships were built on marginal.
And Max didn’t make those mistakes.
That thought settled heavily in George’s chest before he could stop it.
He leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling.
Somewhere farther down the paddock, music started playing faintly from one of the Red Bull motorhomes. Celebration music, probably. The bass vibrated softly through the floor.
George wondered if Max was still there.
Laughing with the team. Relaxed already. Easy.
The image came to him unwillingly: Max on the top step, champagne dripping off his race suit, grinning under the floodlights like winning belonged to him as naturally as breathing.
Maybe it did.
That was the thing George could never quite silence in his own head no matter how hard he tried.
Maybe some drivers simply had it.
That final thing. That instinct. That inevitability.
The difference between people who fought for championships and people who became them.
George’s jaw tightened.
Because he did fight. God, he fought for everything.
Every hundredth in qualifying. Every fitness session. Every simulator day that stretched into early morning hours. Every carefully rehearsed media answer. Every tiny adjustment to braking traces and steering inputs and tyre preparation laps.
He worked himself sick trying to become perfect.
And somehow perfection still always looked slightly out of reach.
A mechanic crossed the garage carrying equipment cases, offering George a small smile as he passed.
“Mega drive today, mate.”
George smiled automatically. “Thanks.”
The mechanic disappeared without noticing anything wrong.
Of course he didn’t.
George had become very good at this over the years.
Smile at the right moments. Keep your shoulders relaxed. Speak evenly. Never let disappointment sound too much like devastation.
Drivers who openly unraveled got torn apart by the media. Drivers who stayed composed became “professional.”
George had mastered professionalism so thoroughly that sometimes he thought he’d accidentally erased everything underneath it.
His phone buzzed against the bench beside him. Another notification. Then another.
Mentions. Messages. Team chats.
George picked it up reluctantly.
The first thing he saw was an interview clip already circulating online. The caption read: GEORGE RUSSELL DELIVERS ANOTHER IMPRESSIVE PERFORMANCE
He stared at the word for several long seconds before locking the screen again.
Something ugly twisted in his stomach.
Impressive.
The kind of word people used when they expected you to fall short eventually.
Like a talented student trying very hard. Like someone almost exceptional.
He dropped the phone beside him harder than necessary.
The garage had grown quieter while he wasn’t paying attention.
Most of the crew had already disappeared for the evening. The few remaining engineers spoke in low voices near the back screens, discussing data. One of them glanced over at George briefly before looking away again.
He should probably leave soon.
Shower. Media debrief tomorrow morning. Flight afterward.
Normal routine.
Instead he sat motionless, staring at his hands.
There were thin red marks across his palms from the steering wheel grips. His fingers ached faintly.
Without thinking, he started peeling at the edge of athletic tape wrapped around one knuckle.
Pull. Release. Pull again.
The skin underneath had gone raw hours ago.
He barely noticed anymore.
Not won races. He’d done that.
But become something.
There was a difference between winning occasionally and being the driver people instinctively believed would win before the lights even went out.
Max had that.
Even when he started badly. Even when the car wasn’t perfect. Even when strategy failed.
People still expected him to find a way.
George wondered what that felt like.
To inspire certainty instead of cautious optimism.
He thought about all the headlines over the years.
Future world champion. One to watch. So much potential.
Potential.
Another awful word.
Potential meant unfinished. Potential meant not yet. Potential meant everyone liked the idea of what you could become more than what you currently were.
The cold light overhead hummed faintly, a barely audible buzz that seemed to be inside his own head.
George exhaled through his nose and stood abruptly before the thoughts could sink any deeper.
His body felt heavy after the race. Exhaustion clung to his muscles beneath the adrenaline crash, making every movement feel slightly delayed.
He grabbed a water bottle from the table nearby and twisted the cap open. The water tasted metallic.
Across the garage, one of the monitors flickered briefly as telemetry data reloaded.
Sector comparisons filled the screen.
George’s eyes caught instinctively on the numbers.
VER: 0.000
RUS: +0.241
Two tenths. He stared at it.
Two tenths across an entire race distance. That was all. People watching from outside would call that close. Competitive. Encouraging.
George looked at it and saw proof that close still wasn’t enough. His thoughts kept circling back helplessly to the same thing: if he were truly good enough, wouldn't he have done it already?
His throat tightened unexpectedly.
Ridiculous.
He looked away immediately, jaw clenching hard. Not here. God, not here. He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes until stars burst behind them. This was stupid.
He had driven well. The team would be happy. Fans would call it a great result.
Objectively, there was absolutely nothing to justify the hollow ache sitting beneath his ribs right now. Which somehow made it worse. Because if P2 after a strong drive still left him feeling like this, then what exactly was wrong with him?
The answer came too quickly. Not enough. The thought arrived with such familiar ease it barely even sounded cruel anymore. Just factual.
Not fast enough. Not instinctive enough. Not ruthless enough.
Not enough to stop Max. Not enough to become champion. Not enough to deserve all the expectations people kept placing on him.
George swallowed hard.
Somewhere outside the garage, another burst of laughter echoed faintly through the paddock.
For one brief, ugly moment, resentment flared hot in his chest.
At Max. At the sport. At himself most of all.
Because Max made it look so effortless sometimes.
And George knew that was unfair. Rationally, he knew nobody reached Formula One dominance without sacrifice. Without obsession. Without pain.
But from the outside, Max still carried victory differently.
Naturally. Comfortably.
While George felt like someone constantly trying to prove he belonged in rooms everyone else had already accepted him into.
His phone buzzed again.
This time he didn’t even look at it.
Instead he sat back down heavily in the chair, elbows braced against his knees, and lowered his head into his hands.
The silence pressed closer around him now that most of the garage had emptied completely.
Cold lights. Dark monitors. Fading mechanical noise.
The race was over.
Max had won.
George had been impressive.
Again.
And somehow that hurt more than outright failure ever could.
***
George stayed in the garage until the silence became unbearable.
Not complete silence – Formula One never truly slept – but the thin, echoing kind that settled after the adrenaline drained out of everything. The kind that made every sound feel isolated.
A distant metallic clang. The low whir of equipment being packed away. Footsteps passing outside the garage entrance.
Too much space between noises. Too much room to think.
He stood eventually because sitting still had started to feel dangerous somehow, like if he stayed there any longer he’d sink straight through the floor with the weight of his own thoughts. His knees ached when he straightened.
The overhead lights painted his skin pale as he crossed the garage slowly, grabbing his team jacket from the back of a chair on the way out. Someone had folded it neatly for him earlier. George stared at it for a second before slipping it on.
Even the jacket felt like part of the performance.
Mercedes logos. Sponsor patches. Everything crisp and deliberate.
Presentable.
The moment he stepped outside, cooler air hit his face.
Night had settled fully over the paddock now, dark sky hanging above rows of glowing motorhomes and transport trucks. The floodlights cast sharp reflections across polished surfaces, turning everything silver-white and surreal.
George shoved his hands into his pockets automatically as he started walking. No destination in mind. Just movement.
The media crowds had mostly disappeared already, leaving only scattered team personnel and hospitality staff lingering around the paddock. A few people nodded at him as he passed.
“Great race today, George.”
“Mega drive.”
“So close out there.”
George smiled every time.
It came automatically now, practiced enough that he no longer needed to think about it.
Smile. Tilt head slightly. Soft laugh.
“Thank you, appreciate it.”
Easy. Professional.
He wondered sometimes whether he’d trained himself so thoroughly that even his disappointment had started sounding rehearsed.
The thought lingered unpleasantly as he rounded the corner near the hospitality units.
That was when he heard the laughter.
Loud enough to cut through the quiet.
Red Bull’s side of the paddock was still awake.
Bright lights spilled from the open entrance of the motorhome, music pulsing softly from somewhere inside. Team members moved in and out carrying drinks, still buzzing with post-race energy.
And in the middle of it all-
Max.
George slowed instinctively.
Max was leaning against one of the railings outside the motorhome, race suit tied around his waist much like George’s had been earlier. Someone beside him was animatedly reenacting something from the race using exaggerated hand gestures, and Max laughed – sharp and sudden, head tipping back slightly.
Relaxed. Completely relaxed.
The sight hit George strangely.
Not jealousy exactly. Jealousy implied bitterness, resentment sharp enough to blame someone else for your own unhappiness.
This felt quieter than that. Older somehow. Like resignation settling into bone.
Because Max looked like he belonged there in a way George never quite managed to anywhere.
That was the thought George could never fully kill no matter how irrational it sounded once spoken aloud.
Max fit Formula One naturally.
Not just because he won.
Because he existed inside the sport without seeming consumed by proving himself worthy of it.
Even now, after another victory, Max looked almost careless standing there beneath the lights, smiling lazily at something one of the mechanics said.
Effortless.
George hated how much that word haunted him.
He knew the reality wasn’t effortless.
Anyone who spent five minutes in Formula One understood that. Max hadn’t become world champion accidentally. Talent alone didn’t survive this sport. Not for long.
But there was still something terrifyingly instinctive about him.
The way he drove. The way he defended. The way he committed to overtakes half a second before anyone else would dare.
Max drove like certainty. George drove like calculation.
And maybe that was the difference.
George stopped walking before he realized he had.
He stood partially hidden by the shadow of one of the transport trucks, watching the scene from farther away than necessary.
A ridiculous thing to do.
If anyone noticed him standing there staring, it would look pathetic.
So why couldn’t he make himself leave?
Because some ugly part of him kept searching for proof. Proof that there really was something different about drivers like Max. Something unteachable. Something people like George could spend their entire lives chasing and still never fully reach.
Max accepted a beer from someone and took a sip, still listening to whatever story his engineer was telling.
Comfortable.
That was the word.
Comfortable in victory. Comfortable in himself. Comfortable taking up space.
George couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt comfortable after a race.
Even his wins came tangled up with analysis afterward: what could’ve gone better, where time was lost, which corners needed cleaning up.
The satisfaction never lasted long before self-criticism swallowed it whole again.
Maybe truly talented people didn’t have to force themselves this much.
The thought arrived softly this time.
Not dramatic. Not self-pitying.
Just tired.
George leaned his shoulder briefly against the cold side of the truck beside him and looked away from the Red Bull motorhome.
The paddock stretched endlessly under artificial light. Quiet now except for scattered voices and distant machinery.
He remembered interviews from years ago – karting days, Formula 2, junior categories – where people described him the same way over and over again.
Disciplined. Intelligent. Hard-working.
Good words. Respectable words.
But nobody ever looked at a child prodigy and said: What an impressively disciplined little talent.
No.
For drivers like Max, the language had always been different.
Natural. Special. Generational.
George had spent years pretending those distinctions didn’t matter to him.
But they did. God, they did.
Because “hard-working” implied compensation.
As though effort itself was evidence of lacking something more essential.
He remembered being younger – seventeen, maybe eighteen – reading articles comparing upcoming drivers.
Max the phenomenon. Charles the instinctive racer. George the polished professional.
At the time, he’d been proud of that description.
Now it felt almost clinical.
Polished.
Like something sanded down carefully until every rough edge disappeared.
Manufactured into acceptability.
George exhaled slowly through his nose.
Inside the Red Bull motorhome, another burst of laughter erupted.
He looked back before he could stop himself.
Max had turned slightly now, profile lit sharply beneath the floodlights. Someone clapped him on the shoulder and said something that made him grin again.
There was something infuriatingly easy about the way people gravitated toward him after wins.
Not because Max demanded attention. Because he didn’t need to. Attention simply followed certainty.
George thought suddenly of his own post-race interviews earlier.
The careful wording. The measured disappointment.
“We maximized the result today.”
“The pace was strong overall.”
“There are positives to take away.”
Every answer clean and media-ready. Even when his chest felt hollow. Especially then.
Sometimes George wondered if people would still like him if he stopped packaging himself so neatly.
Or if the polished version had become the only acceptable one.
The cold night air stung faintly against his damp skin.
He should leave.
Instead he stayed rooted there, eyes drifting helplessly back toward Max again.
The thing George hated most was that Max probably didn’t even realize how impossible he looked from the outside.
Not perfect. Not flawless.
Just... certain.
Like he belonged exactly where he stood.
George had spent his entire career trying to earn belonging.
Every race felt conditional somehow.
Win, and maybe people believe in you a little longer.
Lose, and suddenly every weakness becomes visible again.
Maybe that was why second place hurt so badly.
Not because it was failure.
Because it was evidence.
Evidence that no matter how much effort George poured into becoming exceptional, there was always still someone unreachable ahead of him.
Two tenths today. Two tenths between himself and someone the sport treated like inevitability incarnate.
He thought again about turn fourteen.
That tiny lock-up.
Most people watching wouldn’t even remember it tomorrow.
George would probably remember it for weeks.
That was the difference too, maybe.
Max seemed able to let races go once they were done.
George carried every imperfection home with him. Every mistake archived carefully inside his own head.
A voice behind him suddenly spoke.
“You planning on staring all night?”
George nearly startled out of his skin.
He turned sharply.
One of the Mercedes engineers stood nearby holding a tablet, eyebrow raised slightly in amusement.
George forced an immediate smile.
“Sorry. Just thinking.”
“Dangerous activity.”
The engineer grinned briefly before glancing toward the Red Bull side of the paddock.
“Hell of a race though. You should be proud.”
There it was again.
Proud.
George nodded because that was what people expected.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “Maybe.”
The engineer didn’t seem to notice the hesitation.
“Seriously, mate. Max just had the edge today. Happens.”
Just had the edge today.
As though it were temporary.
Circumstantial.
George swallowed against the sudden tightness in his throat.
Because deep down, he feared it wasn’t temporary at all.
Maybe Max would always have the edge. Maybe there really was something fundamentally different separating drivers like him from drivers like George.
Something no amount of simulator hours or media perfection or technical understanding could manufacture.
The engineer checked something on his tablet.
“Anyway, Toto’s looking for you eventually. Don’t disappear completely.”
George managed a quiet laugh.
“I’ll try not to.”
Then the engineer walked away, leaving George alone again beneath the floodlights.
For a long moment, he stayed motionless.
Across the paddock, Max tilted his head back laughing at something else someone said. The sound carried faintly through the night air.
George looked at him and felt something inside himself sink quietly lower.
Not hatred. Not even envy anymore.
Just exhaustion.
Because no matter how hard George worked, no matter how carefully he built himself into the perfect driver, the perfect teammate, the perfect public figure-
Max still looked like the version of greatness people believed in instinctively.
And George..
George looked impressive. Only impressive. Never inevitable.
***
George became very good at being fine a long time ago.
It was a necessary skill in Formula One.
Not just resilience – everyone talked about resilience like it was noble, admirable, clean. Like surviving pressure automatically made someone stronger instead of simply emptier.
No, what mattered more was presentation.
The ability to lose gracefully. To answer questions correctly after disappointment. To smile while feeling pieces of yourself splinter quietly under studio lights and camera flashes.
George had mastered all of it.
Which was why nobody noticed anything wrong.
Not when he finally dragged himself back toward the Mercedes hospitality unit. Not when engineers intercepted him halfway there with exhausted excitement still lingering in their voices.
“Hell of a recovery drive.”
“You were flying in the second stint.”
“The tyre management was incredible.”
George smiled every time.
Perfectly.
Not too wide. Not too flat. Just enough warmth to seem genuine.
“Thanks.”
“Appreciate it.”
“Yeah, pace felt strong today.”
The responses came automatically now, polished smooth from years of repetition.
Meanwhile his fingers wouldn’t stop moving.
He kept catching himself peeling at the skin around his thumb nails until it stung sharply. Thin crescent marks burned red against already irritated skin, but the brief pain grounded him enough to keep speaking normally.
One of the younger engineers was animatedly replaying the overtake on Charles from lap thirty-two on a tablet when George entered the hospitality unit.
“Look at this,” he said immediately, grinning. “You committed so late on the brakes here.”
George glanced down.
Onscreen, his car darted aggressively down the inside line.
Confident. Decisive.
The move looked cleaner from the outside than it had felt from inside the cockpit.
George forced another smile. “Yeah. Happy with that one.”
The engineer beamed like he’d personally won the race.
George hated how guilty that made him feel.
Because everyone else seemed genuinely pleased tonight.
And all George could think about was two tenths.
He accepted a bottle of water from someone whose face he barely registered and moved farther into the room.
The hospitality area buzzed softly with post-race energy. Team members drifted between tables carrying laptops and drinks, conversations overlapping beneath warm lighting and low music.
Usually George liked this part.
The comedown after a race. The sense of shared exhaustion. The relief of surviving another weekend.
Tonight every voice sounded slightly too loud.
Every congratulation landed wrong somehow.
“Mega result, George.”
“You drove brilliantly.”
“We’ll get them next time.”
Next time.
George nodded along like he believed in next times.
His jaw had started hurting from how tightly he’d been clenching it.
He only realized when Toto appeared beside him and rested a hand briefly against his shoulder.
“You should be proud,” Toto said.
George looked up automatically.
Toto’s expression was kind in that infuriatingly perceptive way George had always struggled with. Calm. Evaluating. Like he could see several layers deeper than everyone else in the room.
George smiled anyway.
“We maximized it.”
“You did more than that.”
The praise settled heavily instead of comfortingly.
Because Toto always sounded sincere when he said things like that. That somehow made it worse.
If people stopped expecting so much from George, maybe second place wouldn’t feel like failure anymore.
But they kept believing in him.
Year after year. Race after race.
And George was beginning to fear that eventually everyone would realize belief had been misplaced.
Toto squeezed his shoulder once before stepping away to answer another question from someone across the room.
George exhaled slowly.
His skin felt wrong. Too tight. Too warm beneath the lights.
Without really thinking, he drifted toward the mirrored wall near the elevators – then immediately angled away the second his reflection appeared in the glass.
The movement happened instinctively. Too fast to be deliberate.
Still, shame prickled unpleasantly at the back of his neck.
Ridiculous.
It was just his reflection.
But tonight he couldn’t stand looking at himself for very long.
Because all he saw was exhaustion poorly disguised as composure.
His eyes looked too tired. His smile too practiced.
And somewhere underneath that polished exterior sat the ugly certainty that he simply wasn’t enough.
George moved away quickly, before anyone could catch him avoiding his own reflection.
The edge of athletic tape around his finger had started peeling loose again. He picked at it relentlessly while pretending to listen to conversations around him.
Someone from PR stopped him near the coffee station.
“A few journalists still want quick follow-ups before you head out.”
Of course they did.
George nodded immediately. “No problem.”
Professional. Always professional.
The media room lights felt even harsher somehow. White. Clinical. Endless.
George sat beneath them answering questions with the same measured calm he always used.
“How difficult was tyre degradation in the second stint?”
“You looked extremely competitive today – does this feel like momentum building?”
“Do you think you could’ve challenged Verstappen without the lock-up?”
George kept smiling.
Kept speaking evenly.
“The pace was definitely encouraging.”
“There are positives to take away.”
“Max was very strong today.”
Always balanced. Always gracious.
Even saying Max’s name felt strange now, like pressing against a bruise.
One journalist smiled sympathetically near the end of the session.
“You must still be pleased overall. Another really impressive performance.”
There it was again.
Impressive.
The word hit him so hard this time he nearly laughed.
Instead he smiled wider.
“Yeah,” George said carefully. “Lots to build on.”
The journalist nodded, satisfied.
Nobody noticed the way George’s fingers dug sharply into his own palm beneath the table.
By the time the interviews finally ended, his entire body felt restless in an unbearable way. Like static beneath his skin.
He couldn’t sit still. Couldn’t settle. Couldn’t breathe properly inside crowded rooms anymore.
The hospitality unit suddenly felt suffocating when he stepped back inside.
Too bright. Too warm. Too many voices.
Someone called his name from across the room. George pretended not to hear.
He grabbed his jacket from the back of a chair and slipped out through a side exit before anyone could stop him again.
***
Cool night air hit him instantly.
Better.
Not enough, but better.
The paddock had quieted even further now. Most teams were winding down for the night, lights dimming behind tinted hospitality windows.
George walked aimlessly at first.
Past parked scooters. Past stacked freight containers. Past mechanics smoking quietly behind transport trucks.
No destination. Just away.
His jaw still ached. He realized abruptly that he’d been grinding his teeth hard enough to give himself a headache.
The thought almost made him laugh.
God, he was tired.
Not physically – though that too.
A deeper kind of tired.
The kind that settled somewhere behind his ribs and stayed there.
George shoved both hands into his pockets to stop himself from tearing at his fingers again.
It didn’t help much.
His pulse still felt uneven beneath his skin.
Every conversation from tonight replayed endlessly in his head: great drive, fantastic recovery, impressive performance.
As if everyone else had watched a completely different race than he had.
Because George remembered every mistake in brutal detail.
He remembered the exact moment the rear stepped out slightly through turn fourteen. The split-second hesitation before committing to the overtake. The fractionally poor exit that cost him momentum.
Tiny imperfections burned brightest in his memory.
Not the podium. Not the applause. Not the praise.
Just evidence.
Evidence that under pressure, Max still executed more cleanly.
More naturally.
Maybe that was what separated champions from everyone else.
Not effort. Not intelligence.
Instinct.
George slowed near the back side of the paddock where the lighting grew dimmer between transport trucks and hospitality structures.
Quieter here.
Finally.
He could hear distant generators humming softly and little else.
A staircase leading to one of the upper hospitality balconies sat empty nearby. George climbed it without thinking too hard about where he was going.
The balcony above was deserted. Thank God.
A few abandoned glasses sat forgotten on one of the tables, condensation long since faded. Beyond the railing, the paddock stretched beneath scattered floodlights and strips of darkness.
George moved toward the far corner automatically. Away from the windows. Away from visibility.
The cold metal railing pressed against his palms as he leaned forward heavily.
For a while, he just stood there breathing. In. Out. The night air smelled faintly like rain and engine smoke.
Below him, tiny figures crossed between motorhomes, voices too distant to make out clearly.
Up here everything finally felt muted enough for the exhaustion to catch up fully.
George closed his eyes briefly.
His shoulders hurt. His hands hurt. His chest hurt in that quiet, embarrassing way disappointment sometimes did when it stayed buried too long.
And worst of all, he still couldn’t stop thinking.
About Max. About the race. About two tenths. About the awful possibility that maybe this was simply who he was in Formula One: close, impressive, almost.
Never inevitable.
George tightened his grip against the railing until the metal bit cold into his skin.
Somewhere below, laughter drifted faintly upward through the dark.
He looked down before he could stop himself.
Red Bull personnel crossing the paddock.
One of them said something that made Max laugh again.
Even from this distance, George recognized the sound immediately.
And something inside him twisted painfully enough that he finally looked away.
George stayed on the balcony long enough for the cold to start sinking through his race undershirt.
He welcomed it.
The chill gave him something physical to focus on besides the endless churn of his own thoughts. Metal railing beneath his hands. Damp night air against overheated skin. The faint ache still lodged deep in his shoulders from fighting the car for fifty-three laps.
Real things. Manageable things.
Below him, the paddock continued winding down in fragments.
A transport cart rolled slowly between motorhomes.
Someone laughed in the distance.
A garage shutter slammed somewhere far enough away to echo.
George stared out across all of it without really seeing anything.
His mind kept replaying moments from the race in viciously precise detail.
The lock-up. The hesitation. The tiny corrections he’d made mid-corner that nobody else would ever notice.
He wondered if Max replayed races like this too.
Or if winning made it easier to let mistakes dissolve into the background.
That thought alone was enough to make George’s jaw tighten again.
Because Max had made mistakes tonight too. George knew that rationally. Everyone did over an entire race distance.
But nobody remembered the tiny imperfections of winners. Only the result.
George exhaled slowly through his nose and tilted his head back toward the dark sky.
A burst of laughter drifted upward from below again.
George looked down reflexively.
Red Bull personnel were spilling out of the motorhome now in smaller groups, post-race celebration energy finally beginning to fade into something calmer. Mechanics leaned against barriers talking quietly. Someone carried a crate of empty bottles toward the back loading area.
And there, near the edge of the crowd-
Max.
Still talking to someone. Still looking infuriatingly at ease.
George looked away immediately this time. The movement felt almost guilty. Like he’d been caught staring at something he shouldn’t want.
Because that was the humiliating truth buried underneath all the resentment and admiration and exhaustion: George wanted whatever made Max look so certain in himself.
Not the championships. Not even the wins, not really.
The certainty. The ease. The complete absence of hesitation.
George had spent years constructing himself piece by piece into the kind of driver people respected.
Max simply existed, and the entire sport bent around him naturally.
The thought made something sharp twist beneath George’s ribs.
He scrubbed a hand over his face hard enough to sting.
Pathetic.
Standing alone on a balcony psychoanalyzing your rival because you finished second was genuinely pathetic.
George straightened abruptly from the railing.
He should leave.
Go shower. Go back to the hotel. Sleep for three hours before his brain inevitably replayed the race again.
Instead he stayed exactly where he was. Because moving meant facing people again. And George suddenly wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep smiling correctly tonight.
The balcony door slid open behind him.
George stiffened instinctively.
Footsteps crossed the floor slowly.
Not hurried. Not uncertain either.
George already knew who it was before the voice spoke.
“You disappeared.”
Max’s tone was casual.
Too casual.
George turned just enough to glance over his shoulder.
Max stood near the doorway with both hands shoved loosely into the pockets of his jeans. The top half of his race suit had been tied around his waist earlier, but now he’d changed into a dark Red Bull hoodie instead. His hair still looked damp from a shower, messy beneath the low balcony lights.
George immediately summoned the same practiced expression he’d been wearing all evening.
Small smile. Relaxed posture.
“Needed air.”
Short. Polite. Dismissive.
An answer designed to end the conversation cleanly.
Max didn’t move toward the door. Didn’t say “fair enough” and leave.
Instead he walked farther onto the balcony, stopping a few feet away beside the railing.
For a moment neither of them spoke.
The silence should have felt awkward. Instead it settled strangely heavy between them, threaded through with distant paddock noise and cold night air.
George kept his eyes fixed outward.
“If Christian sent you to recruit me,” he said lightly, “you’re a bit late.”
Max snorted softly. “There it is.”
George frowned slightly before looking over. “There what is?”
“That weird fake PR personality you do when you don’t want anyone talking to you.”
The words landed so directly George almost forgot to respond. His smile stayed in place automatically anyway.
“I have absolutely no idea what you mean.”
“Sure.”
Max leaned one elbow against the railing.
The floodlights below cast pale shadows across his face, sharpening the tiredness beneath his eyes. George noticed suddenly that Max looked exhausted too. Not physically exhausted. Worn down around the edges somehow.
The realization unsettled him more than it should have. Because George had spent so long thinking about Max as inevitable that he sometimes forgot inevitability could still bleed.
“You looked for me?” George asked finally.
“Mm.”
“Why?”
Max shrugged one shoulder. “Toto said you vanished. Said he saw you heading this way looking like death.”
George blinked once.
Of course Toto noticed. Or maybe Toto noticed everything all the time and simply chose which things to address carefully.
“I didn’t vanish,” George said. “I walked upstairs.”
“You know what I mean.”
George looked away again before Max could study his face too closely.
The problem with Max had always been that he noticed inconvenient things. Not publicly. Max wasn’t emotionally perceptive in the polished, comforting way some people were. He wasn’t gentle about it. But he observed people with the same ruthless focus he drove with. And once Max noticed something, he tended to keep pushing at it until it gave way.
George really, really did not have the energy for that tonight.
“I’m fine,” he said.
The response came too quickly.
Max went quiet beside him. Not convinced.
George could feel it immediately.
Damn it.
Below them, another group of team personnel crossed the paddock laughing quietly among themselves. Max watched them for a second before speaking again. “You’ve said about four words since I got here.”
“I’m tired.”
“You were tired in the cooldown room too.”
George’s stomach tightened faintly.
The cooldown room. He remembered it suddenly in flashes: the replay screens, Charles talking about tyre degradation, Max making some dry joke George barely processed.
George had smiled at the right moments. Answered when spoken to. Looked attentive.
Apparently not attentively enough.
“I had a race today,” George said evenly.
“So did I.” There was no arrogance in the statement. That somehow made it worse.
George inhaled slowly through his nose. The cold air burned slightly in his lungs.
He could feel irritation beginning to crawl beneath his skin now – not fully directed at Max, but near enough. Because this was exactly what George had been trying to avoid all evening.
Someone lingering too long. Someone paying too much attention.
Most people accepted the performance at face value.
Max apparently refused to.
“You won,” George said quietly. “Shouldn’t you be downstairs celebrating?”
Max shrugged again. “Already did.”
Something about the answer unsettled George unexpectedly.
Simple. Matter-of-fact.
As though celebration itself had an expiration date for Max. As though victory wasn’t this overwhelming, life-altering thing but simply another completed task.
Maybe that was another difference between them.
George still treated every result like proof of something fundamental about himself.
Max treated winning like work.
The thought lodged unpleasantly in George’s chest.
“You drove well today,” Max said after a moment.
There it was again.
George laughed once under his breath before he could stop himself.
Not amused. Not warm.
Just tired.
“Please don’t.”
Max glanced sideways at him. “Don’t what?”
“Do the whole ‘great job, unlucky’ thing.” George rubbed at the back of his neck roughly. “I’ve had enough of it for one night.”
Silence.
George immediately regretted letting that slip out.
Too sharp. Too honest.
He forced his shoulders to relax again.
“Sorry,” he said automatically. “That came out wrong.”
Max ignored the apology entirely.
“You hate people saying you drove well?” It wasn’t phrased as a question.
George stared out over the paddock. “I don’t hate it.”
“Yeah, you do.”
George’s jaw tightened.
The awful thing was that Max sounded genuinely certain. Like he’d already figured it out.
“You know,” Max continued lightly, “most people would kill for a podium.”
“There it is.” This time George’s laugh sounded bitter even to his own ears.
Max frowned slightly. “What?”
“Most people.” George looked down at his hands gripping the railing. “That’s kind of the problem, isn’t it?” The words slipped out before he could smooth them over.
For a second neither of them spoke.
Wind moved faintly across the balcony, cool against George’s overheated skin. He became abruptly aware of the raw sting around his fingertips again. At some point he’d started peeling at the skin near his thumb without noticing.
Max’s eyes flicked downward briefly.
George shoved his hands into his pockets immediately.
A beat of silence passed.
Then Max said quietly: “You’re doing it again.”
George looked over sharply. “Doing what?”
“That thing where you act normal enough that nobody notices you’re about five seconds from losing your mind.”
The words hit so close to something true that George physically recoiled from them.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “You make me sound insane.”
Max’s expression barely changed. “I make you sound tired.”
George looked away immediately. Because tired was manageable. Tired sounded temporary.
What George actually felt was uglier than that.
Like he’d hollowed himself out chasing something he still couldn’t quite reach.
The balcony suddenly felt smaller somehow. Too exposed.
He wished Max would leave. More than that, he wished Max would stop looking at him like this – calm and observant and quietly certain there was something wrong beneath George’s carefully maintained composure. Because George had worked very hard to make sure nobody noticed those cracks. And Max had apparently seen through him in under five minutes.
“I’m fine,” George repeated. Softer this time. Less convincing.
Max sighed lightly through his nose. “Right.”
The word carried just enough disbelief to make George’s chest tighten.
For a while, neither of them spoke again.
Below them, the paddock lights glowed cold and artificial against the dark. George stared at them hard enough for his eyes to ache.
Beside him, Max stayed exactly where he was.
Not pushing harder. Not leaving either.
And somehow that quiet persistence unnerved George more than if Max had started interrogating him outright. Because people usually let George retreat behind professionalism eventually. Most people accepted the smile. Accepted the rehearsed answers. Accepted “I’m fine” because it was easier than questioning it.
Max, apparently, had no interest in making things easier.
The silence stretched long enough to become uncomfortable.
At least for George.
Max still looked irritatingly calm beside him, one elbow hooked against the railing, gaze drifting somewhere out across the paddock lights as though he had nowhere else to be tonight.
George didn’t understand that. Didn’t understand why Max was still here at all. Most people backed off eventually when George got quiet enough. They accepted the polished version of him because it was easier, cleaner. Formula One practically rewarded emotional distance as long as you packaged it attractively. Max, apparently, had decided to become a problem instead.
“You know,” Max said eventually, voice casual again, “normal people usually celebrate podiums.”
George let out a soft breath through his nose. “There aren’t any normal people in Formula One.”
“That’s true.”
Another silence.
George stared fixedly at the transport trucks below.
The problem was that Max had already noticed too much.
Once someone noticed the cracks, maintaining composure became harder. George became hyperaware of every movement afterward: the tension in his shoulders, the ache in his jaw, the raw skin around his fingers he kept picking at despite himself.
He tucked his hands deeper into his jacket pockets.
Beside him, Max tilted his head slightly. “You act like second place killed you.”
Something in George finally snapped.
Not dramatically. No raised voice. No explosion. Just a sharp fracture somewhere deep enough that all the restraint he’d been balancing carefully suddenly turned brittle.
“Because second is the problem.” The words came out colder than he intended.
Max’s eyebrows lifted slightly.
George laughed once under his breath, humorless. “There,” he muttered. “That’s the honest answer everyone wants, right?”
“George-”
“No, seriously.” George turned toward him fully for the first time all evening. “What exactly am I supposed to celebrate?”
The exhaustion in his chest had curdled into something sharper now. Bitter enough to finally speak.
“A good recovery drive?” he continued. “Strong pace? Another impressive performance?”
That word again. It sounded uglier every time he said it.
Max’s expression shifted slightly at George’s tone, but he stayed silent. Which somehow made it easier to keep going.
“Everyone keeps saying the same thing,” George said. “Like I’m supposed to be happy finishing close.”
“You finished second.”
“Yes,” George snapped quietly. “Exactly.”
The wind moved cold across the balcony.
George dragged a hand back through his hair roughly, pacing two steps away before turning back again almost immediately. He couldn’t seem to stand still anymore.
“That’s the whole issue, Max.” His voice stayed controlled, but only barely. “It’s always close. Always almost.”
Max watched him carefully now. Too carefully.
George hated it.
“I know how this sport works,” George continued. “I know second place is objectively a good result. I know most drivers would be thrilled with it.”
“Then what’s actually bothering you?”
George laughed again. This time it sounded genuinely tired. “You really want to know?”
Max didn’t answer verbally. He didn’t have to.
George looked away sharply toward the floodlit paddock below. His chest felt tight now, every thought pressing too close together after hours of forcing them down.
“If I was actually championship material,” he said quietly, “I would’ve done it already.” The words settled heavily between them.
Max frowned immediately. “That’s bullshit.”
“Is it?” George’s voice stayed calm in the worst possible way. Flat. Exhausted. “Because I’m starting to think maybe everyone else sees something in me that just... isn’t there.”
“That’s not-”
“You know what people always say about me?” George cut in. “Disciplined. Intelligent. Hard-working.” He smiled faintly then, but there was nothing warm in it. “Funny how nobody ever uses those words for you.”
Max’s expression hardened slightly.
George kept going before he could stop himself. “For you it’s always natural talent. Instinct. Generational ability.” His jaw tightened. “Nobody talks about how hard you work because nobody needs to. You just win.” The bitterness in his own voice startled him. Not because it was new. Because it wasn’t. It had probably been living somewhere inside him for years.
Max stared at him for a long second. Then: “You think I don’t work for this?”
George immediately shook his head. “That’s not what I mean.”
“Sounds exactly like what you mean.”
God. George pressed both hands briefly against his eyes. This conversation was slipping out of control too fast.
“That’s not-” He exhaled sharply. “Forget it.”
“No.” Max straightened from the railing slightly. “Say it properly.”
George looked at him then. Really looked at him. At the calm posture. The steady gaze. The irritating certainty carved into every line of him.
And suddenly all George could think was how unfair it felt standing this close to someone who seemed built perfectly for the thing George kept failing to become.
“You have something natural,” George said quietly.
Max’s jaw tightened instantly. “You seriously believe that.”
“It’s true.”
“No, it isn’t.”
George laughed under his breath again. “You make it look easy.” The second the words left his mouth, something changed in Max’s expression. Not dramatic anger. Worse – offense. Real, sharp offense cutting through the calmness he’d maintained up until now.
“You think this is easy?” Max asked.
George looked away immediately. “Forget it.”
“No.” Max’s voice sharpened for the first time. “Don’t say that and then backtrack.”
George’s pulse was starting to pound unpleasantly now. He hadn’t meant for this to become a fight. Actually, that wasn’t true. Some ugly, exhausted part of him probably had. Because fighting felt easier than being looked at gently.
“You know what I mean,” George muttered.
“No, I genuinely don’t.” Max pushed away from the railing fully now, frustration finally surfacing beneath his voice.
“You think I woke up one day magically good at this?”
George swallowed hard. “That’s not what I said.”
“You said I make it look easy.”
“You do.”
“Because you only see race weekends.”
The words landed harder than George expected.
Max ran a hand through still-damp hair roughly, jaw tight now too. “You see twenty races a year and think that’s the whole story.”
George stayed silent. Because suddenly he wasn’t entirely sure what to say.
Max laughed once, sharp and humorless. “Jesus Christ.” The sound echoed strangely in the cold air.
“You think winning means none of it costs anything?”
George flinched almost imperceptibly.
Max noticed anyway. Of course he did.
“I didn’t say that.”
“No,” Max said. “You just keep talking like I was handed all of this naturally while you’re the only person killing yourself trying.”
The words struck painfully close to the truth.
George’s stomach twisted. Because wasn’t that exactly what he’d been thinking all evening?
Not consciously cruel. Not deliberately dismissive.
Just... resentful.
Resentful of how effortless Max looked from the outside. Resentful of how impossible he felt to catch. Resentful of the certainty everyone attached to him.
George turned away sharply, gripping the railing again.
Below them, the paddock lights blurred faintly out of focus for a second.
He was suddenly aware of how tired he really was. How emotionally exhausted. Like his thoughts had been scraped raw by the race and interviews and endless pressure of pretending he was handling all of this normally.
“I’m just saying,” George said finally, quieter now, “some people are built for this sport.”
Max stared at him. “And you think you aren’t.” It wasn’t a question.
George’s throat tightened unexpectedly. He hated how easily Max kept finding the center of things.
“I don’t know anymore,” he admitted before he could stop himself.
The honesty of it sat between them immediately. Too exposed. Too real.
George looked away.
The balcony suddenly felt freezing.
For a long moment, Max didn’t say anything. Then: “You’re being ridiculous.”
George laughed softly. There it was. Ridiculous. Dramatic. Oversensitive.
He should’ve known better than to let any of this out loud.
“Maybe,” he said.
Max frowned harder. “No, definitely.”
George’s chest tightened painfully. Because Max still didn’t understand. Couldn’t understand. How could he?
Max had never been the driver people described as promising. He’d never had to live in the space between expectation and achievement for this long. Never had to wonder if eventually everyone would realize they’d overestimated him.
“You wouldn’t understand.” The second the words left George’s mouth, he knew he’d made a mistake.
Max went completely still. Not visibly angry at first. Just still. The kind of stillness that felt dangerous precisely because it was so controlled.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
George closed his eyes briefly. He should stop talking. Immediately. Instead exhaustion kept dragging honesty out of him like blood from an open wound.
“You’re Max Verstappen,” George said quietly. “You win championships. People look at you and see certainty.”
Max’s face hardened further. “And?”
“And people look at me and see potential.” The word came out ugly.
George laughed under his breath again, though this time it sounded closer to self-disgust. “Do you know how exhausting that is after a while?”
Max said nothing.
George could feel himself spiraling now and couldn’t seem to stop. “Every year it’s future champion. Future champion. Future champion.” He swallowed hard. “At some point the future starts sounding a lot like never.”
Silence crashed heavily between them.
Below the balcony, someone shouted something across the paddock, laughter following a second later. It sounded impossibly far away.
George stared down at his own hands gripping the railing hard enough for his knuckles to pale.
His voice dropped lower. “I work for this constantly.” He shook his head once. “Simulator. Training. Media. Debriefs. Everything.” Another laugh, quieter this time. “And somehow it still feels like I’m compensating for something everyone else naturally has.”
Max’s expression had shifted again. Less angry now. More complicated.
Which somehow made George feel worse. Because pity was the last thing he wanted from him.
“You really think that little of yourself?” Max asked finally.
George wished immediately that he’d never come up to this balcony. Wished he’d stayed in the garage under those awful fluorescent lights where at least he understood the rules. Smile at the right moments. Say the correct things. Keep moving.
This-
This felt dangerous.
Because Max wasn’t letting him hide inside polished answers anymore. And worse, George suddenly wasn’t sure he had enough energy left to keep trying. He stared hard at the paddock below them, jaw clenched painfully tight. The floodlights blurred slightly at the edges.
God.
No. Absolutely not.
George swallowed hard and blinked quickly once.
Then again. The tightness in his chest had shifted into something sharper now, pressing painfully upward into his throat.
Humiliating.
The absolute last thing he needed was to lose composure in front of Max Verstappen of all people.
“I’m tired,” George said finally. The words sounded thin.
Max didn’t respond immediately.
George could feel his gaze anyway. Steady. Patient. Still there.
That somehow made everything worse. Because if Max had mocked him, dismissed him, gotten properly angry – George could’ve recovered from that. He understood conflict. Understood sharpness.
What he didn’t understand was this quiet refusal to leave.
George inhaled slowly through his nose. His breathing felt uneven now.
“You’re taking this too personally,” Max said at last, voice calmer than before.
George laughed once under his breath. Too personally.
Right.
As if there was any other way to survive Formula One once your entire sense of worth became tangled up in performance.
“You don’t get it,” George said quietly.
Max sighed. “Then explain it properly.”
George shook his head immediately. “Forget it.”
“No.”
“Max.”
“What?”
George turned abruptly away from the railing and started pacing toward the far end of the balcony. Movement. He needed movement. Standing still made him feel trapped inside his own skin.
“This is stupid,” he muttered. “I’m just tired and being dramatic.”
Max watched him cross the balcony. “You don’t sound dramatic.”
“Well, I do.” George scrubbed both hands hard over his face. His pulse was beating too fast now. Everything suddenly felt too close: the conversation, the cold air, the pressure lodged beneath his ribs for months – years, maybe.
He stopped near the far wall of the balcony and folded both arms tightly across his chest. Defensive. Contained.
Max stayed where he was for a second before speaking again. “You think if you were good enough, it would feel easier?”
George laughed softly again. There was no humor in it at all. “It clearly feels easy for someone.”
Max’s expression tightened instantly.
George saw it and regretted the words immediately. But exhaustion kept loosening his mouth faster than caution could stop it. “I don’t mean-”
“Yes, you do.” The sharpness in Max’s voice cut clean through the night air.
George looked away. The stupid pressure behind his eyes kept building no matter how hard he tried to force it back down. He could not cry right now. That was not happening.
“You know what the problem is?” George said suddenly, voice low and strained. “Everyone thinks confidence looks natural on me.”
Max frowned slightly. “What?”
George swallowed hard. “They think because I speak well in interviews and stay calm on the radio that I actually believe in myself.” The admission slipped out ugly and raw. George immediately wished he could take it back.
The silence afterward stretched too long.
Max stared at him in a way that made something twist painfully in George’s chest. Not pity. Something worse. Understanding.
George looked away so fast it almost hurt his neck. “Forget I said that.”
“You don’t believe in yourself?”
George laughed sharply under his breath. “Not enough apparently.”
“George-”
“No, seriously.” He shook his head hard once. “How many years do I get called a future champion before people realize maybe I’m just...” His voice faltered briefly. “Maybe I’m just good. Not great.” The words cracked strangely at the edges. George hated it instantly.
He cleared his throat hard and looked down at the floor.
Not now.
Not now.
His eyes burned. He blinked aggressively against it.
Max’s voice softened slightly. “You don’t actually believe that.”
George’s laugh came out almost breathless this time. “Then why am I still chasing you?” The question escaped before he could stop it. Raw. Honest. Mortifying.
Silence crashed between them again.
George pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes hard enough to hurt. He could feel tears threatening now despite every desperate effort to suppress them.
Fucking unbelievable.
He took a sharp breath inward and forced his hands back down immediately.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “Forget it.”
Max didn’t move.
George could practically feel Max watching the carefully constructed walls of his composure lose another brick.
“You’re exhausted,” Max said carefully.
“No, I’m embarrassed.” The response came too fast. Too honest.
George turned sharply toward the railing again so Max wouldn’t have to see his face properly. His throat ached. This was so humiliating. Formula One drivers weren’t supposed to fall apart over second place. Millions of people would kill for his career. For his podiums. For this life.
And George was standing here on a balcony feeling like he’d failed some invisible test no matter how hard he worked.
Pathetic.
He scrubbed aggressively at one eye before any tears could actually fall. The movement only made things worse.
“Stop doing that,” Max said quietly.
George froze. “Doing what?”
“Acting like this makes you weak.”
The pressure behind George’s ribs tightened violently. “You don’t understand,” he said again, but his voice shook this time.
Damn it.
He swallowed hard and tried again. “You don’t understand,” he repeated more evenly. Still unsteady. Still wrong.
Max stepped a little closer. Not enough to crowd him. Just enough for George to notice.
“I understand burnout,” Max said.
George shut his eyes briefly. That word again.
Burnout.
As if this was temporary exhaustion instead of something fundamentally wrong inside him.
“It’s not burnout,” he whispered.
“Then what is it?”
George opened his mouth. Nothing came out. Because how was he supposed to explain the constant, gnawing feeling that no achievement ever seemed to prove enough? That every good performance only bought temporary relief before the fear returned worse than before? How was he supposed to admit that sometimes he looked at Max and felt like he was staring directly at the kind of greatness he could imitate but never truly become?
His chest tightened painfully.
The first tear slipped before he even realized his eyes had filled properly. George wiped it away immediately with the heel of his palm, almost angry about it.
“Nope,” he muttered harshly under his breath.
Max’s expression shifted instantly.
George looked away before he could fully read it.
Absolutely not.
He turned sharply toward the far side of the balcony, shoulders rigid. “I’m fine.” His voice cracked halfway through the sentence. Horror flooded him immediately afterward.
Max stayed silent behind him.
George pressed both hands hard against the railing. Cold metal dug painfully into his palms. His breathing had gone uneven now, sharp inhales he couldn’t quite control no matter how hard he tried. This couldn’t be happening. Not here. Not in front of Max.
He’d spent years building himself into someone composed and controlled and impossible to embarrass publicly. And now he was standing under paddock floodlights trying not to cry because Max Verstappen had asked one too many honest questions.
George laughed weakly at the absurdity of it. The sound came out dangerously close to breaking.
“George.”
“Don’t.” The word snapped out immediately. Sharp. Panicked.
George kept his back turned. If he looked at Max right now, he was genuinely afraid more tears would follow. He wiped harshly at his eyes again. His skin already felt raw from it. “Just leave it,” he said quietly. Another crack in his voice.
God.
George inhaled sharply through his nose, trying desperately to steady himself. It wasn’t working. The harder he fought for composure, the more obvious its absence became.
Behind him, Max still hadn’t moved.
“Look at me,” Max said softly.
George laughed once in disbelief. “No chance.”
“George.”
“I said leave it.” This time the words came out louder than intended. Not angry. Worse – wounded.
George immediately shut his eyes hard. He could feel tears gathering again despite every effort to stop them. His chest hurt now with the effort of holding himself together.
He hated this. Hated the weakness of it. Hated the exposure. Hated that Max was seeing him like this at all. Most of all, he hated that some small exhausted part of him wanted Max to stay anyway. That realization nearly undid him completely.
George dragged a shaking hand through his hair and laughed again under his breath. “Brilliant,” he muttered hoarsely. “Really proving my point now.”
“What point?”
George turned just enough to glare at him over his shoulder. “That I’m obviously not built for this.”
Max stared at him for a second like he’d genuinely lost his mind. “You’re crying because you’re exhausted, not because you’re weak.”
“I’m not crying.” The denial came instantly. At the exact same moment another tear slid down his cheek. George swore softly and wiped at it aggressively.
Humiliating.
Max’s expression did something strange then – not amusement, not pity. Something painfully close to concern.
George couldn’t handle that. “Stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?” George shook his head hard.
“I don’t know.” His breathing hitched unevenly again. “Like I’m something fragile.”
“You think crying makes you fragile?”
“I think crying in front of my rival after finishing second is objectively pathetic, yes.”
Max actually looked offended by that. “Jesus Christ.”
George laughed weakly again, throat burning now. “See? Exactly.”
“No, not exactly.”
George looked away immediately because his vision was blurring again. The floodlights below streaked softly through watery eyes. He hated himself a little for this. For the tears. For the confession. For all of it.
And somewhere beneath the humiliation sat an even uglier fear: that Max was finally seeing the truth underneath George’s carefully constructed confidence. That there really wasn’t much there besides pressure and insecurity held together by discipline.
George swallowed hard against the ache in his throat. “Forget this happened,” he whispered. But his voice shook so badly around the words that neither of them could pretend anymore.
For a long moment, neither of them moved.
The night air had gone painfully cold against George’s damp skin, but he barely noticed anymore. All his attention narrowed inward instead: the ache in his throat, the humiliating sting behind his eyes, the terrifying awareness that he’d let himself unravel too far to recover cleanly now. He kept one hand braced against the railing as though it was the only thing holding him upright.
Behind him, Max stayed silent. Not awkwardly silent. Not impatient. Thinking.
That somehow unsettled George more than anything else tonight. Because Max wasn’t looking at him with confusion anymore. He was looking at him like he was trying to solve something.
George hated being looked at too closely. Especially now. Especially by him.
“Forget this happened,” George repeated quietly. His voice still sounded wrong – rough around the edges, frayed from trying too hard not to break apart completely.
Max didn’t answer.
George scrubbed harshly at his face again. His skin burned from it.
God, this was humiliating.
Next week they’d both get back in cars and drive wheel-to-wheel at three hundred kilometers an hour, and tonight George had somehow managed to cry in front of his biggest rival because he couldn’t handle finishing second.
Pathetic. The thought hit hard enough that George laughed weakly under his breath again. It sounded miserable even to him.
“George.” Max’s voice had changed. Quieter now.
George immediately stiffened. “Please don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“I don’t know.” George swallowed hard. “Whatever this is.”
Because he genuinely didn’t think he could survive kindness right now. Anger, yes. Mockery, probably. Even cold detachment would’ve been easier. But kindness threatened to crack open whatever fragile composure he still had left.
George stared fixedly out at the paddock lights below. Blurry now. Softened at the edges by tears he still couldn’t fully stop. He blinked quickly again, furious with himself.
Max exhaled slowly behind him. Then: “Don’t do that.”
George frowned faintly without turning around. “Do what?”
A pause. Long enough that George finally glanced back over his shoulder.
Max was watching him with an expression George couldn’t immediately read. Not pity. Something more uncertain than that. Almost cautious.
“Look at me like that,” Max said finally.
George blinked at him. “What?”
“You keep-” Max stopped abruptly, visibly irritated by his own inability to explain himself properly. “You look at me like I’m confirming something horrible.”
George stared at him in genuine confusion. Because he had absolutely no idea what Max meant. “I’m not-”
“Yes, you are.”
George turned fully toward him now despite himself, wiping quickly beneath one eye again before Max could see another tear fall. “I genuinely don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Max looked briefly exasperated. Of course he did.
Neither of them were good at conversations like this. George hid things too well. Max said emotional truths like they physically offended him. A disastrous combination.
“You keep looking at me,” Max said slowly, “like every time I say something decent about you, you think I’m lying.”
George’s chest tightened painfully. Because that-
That was dangerously close to true.
He looked away immediately. “That’s not–”
“You do.”
George laughed weakly again. “Max.”
“What?”
“You’ve won four world championships.”
“And?”
“And you can’t seriously expect me to believe you look at me and see...” George trailed off sharply. Something lovable. The words nearly surfaced before he could stop them. Horror crawled instantly down his spine. He pressed his lips tightly shut.
Max’s gaze sharpened immediately. “See what?”
George shook his head hard. “Nothing.”
“George.”
“Forget it.” His voice cracked again around the words. The shame of it burned hot beneath his skin.
Max stared at him for another long second before something in his expression shifted abruptly. Not softer exactly. But more certain. Like he’d finally understood something important.
And that terrified George. Because George himself had spent years trying not to look too closely at what was underneath all this insecurity. The idea of Max seeing it clearly after one conversation made him feel unbearably exposed.
The silence stretched. Wind moved cold through the balcony again, stirring loose strands of George’s hair. Below them, somewhere deep in the paddock, music still played faintly from one of the hospitality units. The sound felt impossibly far away.
Max looked at him for a long moment. Then he said quietly: “You’ve got eyes too pretty to cry over stupid shit like this.”
George stopped breathing. Not literally. But something in him went completely still.
The sentence hung suspended between them beneath cold floodlights and dark sky. Too sincere to joke away. Too awkward to sound rehearsed. Pure Max: blunt, slightly irritated, painfully honest.
George stared at him. His first reaction wasn’t embarrassment. It was disbelief. Complete, instinctive disbelief. Because Max couldn’t possibly mean that. Not really. Not once he looked properly.
George had spent so long dissecting every flaw in himself that compliments no longer registered as truth. They hit some invisible wall inside him and shattered immediately.
Pretty. The word felt absurd attached to him. Wrong.
George laughed softly in disbelief, shaking his head immediately. “My eyes aren’t pretty.” The rejection came automatically. Reflex. Immediate. Certain.
Max frowned slightly. “Yes, they are.”
“You’re blind.” And there it was. The line landed harder than either of them expected. Because George didn’t say it teasingly. Didn’t smile after. Didn’t flirt. He said it with quiet, genuine conviction. Like it was simply factual.
You’re blind. Because nobody looking clearly at me would say something like that.
The silence afterward changed instantly.
Max went completely still.
George looked away first. His chest hurt suddenly in a much sharper way than before. He wished desperately he could take the words back – not because they were unkind, but because they’d revealed too much. Because now Max knew. Not just that George was insecure. Not just exhausted. But that somewhere deep down, George genuinely believed there was something fundamentally unlovable about him.
The realization settled visibly across Max’s face in slow motion.
George saw it happen and wanted to disappear. He turned sharply back toward the railing again, arms folding tightly across his chest. “Forget it,” he muttered hoarsely.
Max didn’t answer.
George swallowed hard. The tears had mostly stopped now, but his face still burned with humiliation. Every inch of him felt too exposed beneath the balcony lights. He could practically hear his own heartbeat. “You didn’t have to say that,” he said quietly after a moment.
“I know.”
George frowned faintly at the response. Not defensive. Not embarrassed. Just honest. That somehow made things worse again.
George pressed one hand briefly against his eyes. “Jesus Christ.”
Max moved slightly closer. Not enough to touch him. Just enough that George became acutely aware of his presence beside him.
“You really believe that, don’t you?” Max asked quietly.
George’s throat tightened immediately. “Believe what?”
“That there’s something wrong with you.”
George laughed once under his breath. A tired, broken little sound. “You make it sound dramatic.”
“You make it sound normal.”
That hit harder than it should have.
George looked down at the dark floor beneath them. He didn’t know how to explain that after enough years of pressure, insecurity stopped feeling emotional. It became structural. Like part of the framework holding you together. Every mistake reinforcing it. Every almost-win feeding it. Every comparison sharpening it further. Eventually self-criticism stopped sounding cruel and started sounding rational.
“You don’t understand,” George said softly.
Max actually looked offended by that now. “Stop saying that.”
“It’s true.”
“No, it isn’t.”
George shook his head tiredly. “You don’t walk into rooms wondering if everyone secretly overestimated you.”
Max stared at him. “You seriously think I don’t know what pressure feels like?”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“Why?”
Because you win. George didn’t say it aloud this time.
But Max seemed to hear it anyway. His jaw tightened sharply. “You think winning fixes this?” he asked.
George hesitated. And that hesitation alone answered enough.
Max looked genuinely stunned for a second. Then strangely angry. Not at George exactly. At the idea itself.
“You think champions don’t hate themselves?” Max asked quietly.
George blinked. The question caught him off guard enough that he finally looked up properly. Max was watching him with an intensity that made something uneasy twist low in his stomach.
“You think winning suddenly makes you feel good enough?” Max continued. “That’s not how this works.”
George stared at him. Because no one ever said things like this out loud. Not in Formula One. Not publicly. Not honestly. Drivers talked about pressure in controlled ways. Polished ways. Never like this. Never like wounds being compared in the dark.
George swallowed hard. His eyes still stung faintly. “You’re different,” he whispered.
Max looked almost frustrated enough to laugh. “No, George.” His voice softened unexpectedly. “I’m really not.” The sincerity in it cracked something open all over again.
George looked away immediately before his eyes could betray him a second time. His chest ached. Because part of him wanted desperately to believe Max. And another part – the larger, older part – couldn’t imagine ever seeing himself through anything except criticism.
Pretty eyes. The phrase echoed painfully in his head. Absurd. Impossible.
George kept staring out over the paddock because looking at Max felt too dangerous now.
The conversation had shifted into territory neither of them knew how to navigate properly anymore. Too honest. Too exposed.
And George still couldn’t get the words out of his head. You’ve got eyes too pretty to cry over stupid shit like this. No one had ever spoken to him like that before. Not with flirtation. Not with detached admiration. With genuine frustration threaded through concern, like Max was actively irritated George couldn’t see himself clearly.
It unsettled George down to the bone. Because if Max was right – if there was something in George worth softness, worth care – then George had spent years hating himself unnecessarily. And that possibility hurt worse than the self-loathing itself somehow.
“You’re different,” George repeated quietly.
He heard Max exhale sharply beside him. Then: “No, George. I’m not.” There was something dangerous in Max’s voice now. Not loud anger. Worse. The tightly controlled kind.
George finally looked over.
Max’s jaw was set hard, arms folded tightly across his chest now like he was physically restraining himself from snapping properly.
For a second neither of them spoke.
Then Max laughed once under his breath. Except there was absolutely nothing amused about it. “You really think this came naturally to me.”
George immediately stiffened. “That’s not what I said.”
“It’s exactly what you said.”
“No,” George shot back, exhaustion making his voice sharper again, “I said you have something instinctive.”
“And you think instinct just appears out of nowhere?”
George dragged a hand through his hair roughly. “This is not what I meant.”
“Then explain it better.”
God.
Everything suddenly felt too tight again. The air. The conversation. His chest. George turned away sharply, bracing both hands against the railing. “You know what?” he muttered. “Forget it.”
“No.” Max’s voice cracked across the balcony hard enough to make George flinch. Not shouting. But close now.
“You don’t get to say all that shit about yourself and then act like I wouldn’t understand because I win races.”
George swallowed hard. “That’s not-”
“You think I got here because I’m magically special?”
The bitterness underneath the words stunned George into silence.
Max laughed again, harsh and disbelieving. “Jesus Christ.” He pushed a hand back through his hair aggressively. “You think talent means none of this hurts?”
George looked over despite himself.
Max’s composure had finally cracked properly now. Not dramatic. Not explosive. But visibly fraying around the edges.
And suddenly George remembered something he usually tried not to think about too deeply: Max had been built for Formula One long before he was old enough to choose it. Karting tracks. Relentless pressure. No room for weakness. No room for failure. George had always known that intellectually. But standing here now, hearing the anger in Max’s voice, it stopped feeling like paddock mythology and started sounding painfully real.
“You keep talking about me like I was born comfortable with this,” Max said. “Like confidence just happened to me.”
George opened his mouth. Nothing came out. Because suddenly he wasn’t entirely sure what he believed anymore.
Max looked furious now. Not performative anger. Offended anger. The kind that came from having something deeply personal reduced into a convenient narrative.
“You know how old I was when people started expecting me to win everything?” Max asked sharply. “Do you know what happens when that’s all anyone sees you as?”
George stared at him silently.
Max shook his head once, jaw tight. “You think pressure only exists when you’re chasing something. Try being told your entire life you’re supposed to become a world champion before you’re even old enough to understand what failure means.”
The words landed heavy between them.
George looked away first. Because he had reduced Max down to inevitability in his own head. Natural. Untouchable. Certain. It had been easier than admitting how much work and damage might exist underneath that certainty too.
“You make it look easy,” George said weakly.
Max’s expression hardened immediately again. “There it is.”
George felt frustration spike hot through his chest. “Because you do!”
“And you think that means it doesn’t cost anything?”
“I didn’t say that!”
“You keep implying it!” The sharpness in Max’s voice echoed against the balcony walls.
George recoiled instinctively.
Max noticed immediately. That only seemed to make him angrier. “See?” Max snapped. “You hear one raised voice and look terrified. Imagine growing up with your entire career attached to whether you were good enough every single day.”
George blinked hard. The implication hit instantly. And God, that was not what he’d meant.
“That’s not fair,” George said quietly.
“No, what’s not fair is you acting like I wouldn’t understand insecurity because I happened to win before you did.”
The words struck brutally close. George’s chest tightened. Because wasn’t that exactly what this was really about? George had spent so long placing Max on some unreachable pedestal that he’d stopped seeing him as human entirely. Just the finish line George kept failing to cross.
Max laughed sharply again, pacing a few steps away now before turning back. “You think I don’t know what burnout looks like?” he demanded. “You think I don’t recognize someone destroying themselves trying to earn a result?”
George’s throat tightened painfully. Because Max sounded like he was speaking from experience now. Not observation. Experience.
And suddenly George became aware of how exhausted Max looked too. Not just tonight. Generally. The shadows beneath his eyes. The tension still sitting rigidly in his shoulders despite the victory.
A horrible thought surfaced quietly in George’s mind: Maybe Max recognized this because he lived too close to it himself. The realization made guilt twist sharply beneath George’s ribs. “I wasn’t trying to erase that,” he said quietly.
Max scoffed softly. “But you did.”
Silence crashed down again. George looked toward the floodlit paddock below because he couldn’t bear the intensity in Max’s expression anymore. Everything felt messy now. Raw in a way neither of them knew how to handle properly. George had spent years carefully controlling every emotion until it became presentable.
Max seemed to survive by forcing emotions down until they exploded sideways.
Neither method was working particularly well tonight.
“You know what the funniest part is?” Max said suddenly.
George glanced over cautiously.
Max was staring at him with something dangerously close to disbelief. “You actually think effort is proof you aren’t talented.”
George swallowed hard. “Sometimes it feels like it.”
Max looked genuinely offended by that. “That’s the dumbest thing you’ve said all night.”
George laughed weakly under his breath. “There’s been a lot of competition.”
“I’m serious.” Max stepped closer again, frustration bleeding visibly through every movement now. “You think champions don’t work themselves sick? You think people at this level survive on natural ability alone?”
George looked away. Because rationally, he knew that. Of course he knew that. But insecurity wasn’t rational. Insecurity took every flaw and turned it into evidence. “You don’t understand what it feels like,” George said quietly. “To keep being almost enough.”
Max went still again.
And suddenly George realized that had been the wrong thing to say too. Because Max understood almost enough better than anyone. He’d just learned to outrun it.
“You think winning cures that feeling,” Max said softly.
George hesitated.
Max laughed bitterly. “There’s seriously no getting through to you right now.”
George flinched slightly at the exhaustion in his voice. Not anger anymore. Something sadder. Like Max genuinely didn’t know how to make George see himself clearly.
And maybe George didn’t know either.
The cold wind swept across the balcony again. George folded his arms tighter around himself instinctively.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered finally.
Max frowned immediately. “For what?”
“For...” George exhaled shakily. “Reducing everything you’ve done into talent, I guess.” The admission tasted bitter. Because it meant admitting he’d been unfair. Not just to Max. To himself too.
Max stared at him for a long second. Then rubbed a tired hand over his face. “God, we’re both terrible at this.”
The honesty of it startled a short laugh out of George before he could stop it. A real one this time. Small. Frayed at the edges.
Max looked at him immediately. And despite everything – the argument, the exhaustion, the tears still drying uncomfortably against George’s skin – something in his expression softened just slightly.
George hated how much that affected him.
The laugh faded quickly. Not awkwardly. Just... tired. Like both of them had finally burned through too much emotion to keep fighting properly.
The cold air settled heavily across the balcony afterward, carrying distant paddock noise upward in soft fragments. Somewhere below them, equipment still clattered faintly against concrete. Engines hummed low in the background. Music drifted from one of the hospitality units, muted enough to sound unreal.
George stared out at the lights without really focusing on them. His face still felt hot from embarrassment despite the cold. The tears had stopped eventually, but the aftermath remained: raw eyes, tight throat, exhaustion sitting heavy beneath his skin.
Beside him, Max had gone quiet too. Not because everything was suddenly resolved. Nothing was resolved.
George still felt scraped hollow by the race. Still felt the same ugly ache every time he thought about second place. Still couldn’t fully separate his self-worth from performance no matter how irrational he knew it sounded.
And Max-
Max still looked frustrated. Not angry anymore. Just worn down by the conversation in a way George understood too well.
For a long while, neither of them spoke. George was grateful for it. Talking had become dangerous tonight. Every sentence seemed to peel something open he normally kept hidden under layers of professionalism and control. And now that those walls had cracked, George suddenly felt unbearably exposed standing here beside someone who had seen too much.
The worst part was that Max hadn’t looked away from it. Most people did. Most people accepted the polished version of George because it was easier. Easier to believe the composed interviews and practiced smiles. Easier to assume confidence where there was really just discipline holding everything upright. Max had looked directly at the mess underneath and stayed anyway.
George didn’t know what to do with that. He rubbed tiredly at his face again before realizing too late that the movement probably gave away how wrecked he still felt. His skin burned slightly beneath his fingers.
God.
Tomorrow morning this would all feel mortifying. Actually, no. It already did.
George let out a slow breath through his nose. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly into the silence.
Max glanced sideways at him. “You already said that.”
“I know.” George swallowed hard. “I just...” He shook his head faintly. “I know I was being unfair.”
Max didn’t answer immediately. The floodlights below cast pale reflections across the balcony railing between them. Finally, Max shrugged one shoulder. “You were upset.”
“That’s not really an excuse.”
“No.” Max’s mouth twitched faintly. “But it’s still true.”
George looked down at his hands. The skin around his fingers looked worse now – irritated and red where he’d picked at it too much tonight. He curled his hands into fists automatically so Max wouldn’t notice. Too late probably. Max noticed everything.
Another silence settled. Softer this time. Not comfortable exactly. But no longer sharp enough to cut.
George became aware suddenly of how close Max was standing now. Not touching. Just near. Close enough that George could feel warmth lingering against the cold night air if he focused on it too hard. The realization made his chest tighten strangely.
He looked away immediately.
Coward. The thought came automatically. But George genuinely didn’t think he could survive direct eye contact right now without falling apart all over again. Especially not after - Pretty eyes.
Jesus Christ. The memory alone made heat crawl instantly back up his neck. He still couldn’t process that Max had said it. Worse, he couldn’t process the sincerity of it. There’d been no teasing in Max’s voice. No flirtation performed for effect. Just blunt, irritated honesty.
Like Max genuinely couldn’t understand how George saw himself so cruelly. The thought hurt in ways George didn’t know how to explain. Because he’d spent years building his reflection out of criticism. Every flaw magnified. Every weakness catalogued carefully inside his own head.
And now someone else had looked at him and seen something gentle instead. It felt impossible.
Beside him, Max shifted slightly.
George immediately tensed instinctively before he could stop himself.
Max noticed. Of course he did. His expression flickered briefly with something unreadable. Then, quieter this time: “You really don’t see it, do you?”
George’s throat tightened painfully. He knew exactly what Max meant. And that somehow made answering impossible. So instead, George stared harder at the paddock below. The lights blurred faintly again at the edges. Not crying now. Just exhausted.
Max sighed softly beside him. “You’re such an idiot, Russell.” The insult should’ve sounded sharper. Instead it landed strangely warm. Affection threaded invisibly through the exhaustion in Max’s voice.
George laughed weakly under his breath before he could stop himself. “Probably.”
“Definitely.”
Another silence.
George’s chest hurt less now. Not fixed. Not healed.
Just quieter. Like the pressure had finally exhausted itself enough to stop clawing quite so violently at the inside of his ribs. The insecurity was still there. The self-doubt too. Tomorrow he’d wake up and replay the race all over again. He’d still compare himself to Max. Still wonder whether effort was compensation instead of proof. Still hear the word impressive and feel hollow afterward. None of that had magically disappeared. But for the first time all night, George also couldn’t fully pretend Max’s words hadn’t affected him. That was the dangerous part. Not believing them. Wanting to.
George closed his eyes briefly. he cold wind moved through the balcony again, softer now somehow. When he opened them, Max was watching him with that same frustratingly direct expression. Too observant. Too steady.
George looked away almost immediately. “I hate this,” he admitted quietly.
“What part?”
George laughed softly without humor. “All of it.”
Max hummed faintly in acknowledgment. Not disagreeing. Just understanding. And maybe that was what finally undid the last of George’s resistance – not reassurance, not compliments. Understanding.
The awful realization that Max wasn’t trying to fix him anymore. He was simply staying.
George swallowed hard against the sudden tightness in his throat. His eyes burned faintly again from exhaustion. He pressed his lips together hard, willing himself not to embarrass himself further.
Then Max stepped closer. Carefully this time. Like he was giving George enough room to move away if he wanted to.
George didn’t. He probably should have. Instead he stayed perfectly still as Max lifted one hand hesitantly toward his face. The touch barely happened. Just the rough brush of Max’s thumb beneath George’s eye, wiping away the faint dampness still lingering there.
Gentle. So painfully gentle George forgot how to breathe for a second. Humiliation flared instantly afterward. Not because the touch felt wrong. Because it felt devastatingly right.
George looked down sharply, unable to handle the expression he might find on Max’s face if he looked directly at him now. His heartbeat had gone uneven again. “Don’t,” he muttered weakly.
Max’s hand dropped immediately. But he didn’t step away. “Don’t what?” he asked quietly.
George shook his head once. He didn’t know. Don’t be kind. Don’t look at me like I’m worth caring about. Don’t say things I’ll remember later when I’m alone again. Too many answers. None survivable.
So instead he just whispered: “I can’t do this tonight.”
Max was quiet for a moment. Then: “Good thing I’m not asking you to.”
George shut his eyes briefly again. Something inside his chest twisted painfully at the softness of that response. Because Max wasn’t demanding anything from him. Not confidence. Not recovery. Not healing. Just honesty.
And George suddenly realized how exhausted he was from pretending all the time. Pretending second place didn’t feel like failure. Pretending confidence came naturally. Pretending he wasn’t constantly terrified of disappointing everyone who believed in him.
For one awful moment, George thought he might cry again purely from the relief of no longer having to perform. Instead he just leaned heavier against the railing. Tired down to the bone.
Beside him, Max stayed close enough that George could still feel the warmth of him through the cold air.
Neither of them spoke again after that. They didn’t need to.
The paddock below continued glowing beneath artificial lights while somewhere far off, another garage door slammed shut for the night.
George stared out into the dark and, for the first time since the race ended, stopped trying so hard to argue. Not because he suddenly believed Max. He didn’t. Not fully. But because he was too exhausted to keep pretending Max’s words meant nothing to him anymore.
And beside him, silent and stubborn and still there, Max seemed to understand that too.