Chapter Text
The announcement broke at exactly nine in the morning. Not because that was the ideal time, but because someone had leaked it at eight fifty three.
By nine o’clock, every journalist in the paddock was sprinting through the hospitality units with a phone in one hand and a microphone in the other.
Four-time World Champion Max Verstappen to leave Red Bull Racing after ten years. Signs multi-year deal with Scuderia Ferrari for 2027 until 2029.
The headlines only became more dramatic from there. The biggest driver move in modern Formula 1, second only to Lewis Hamilton’s shock move to the same Italian team a couple years back.
Max stared at the article on his phone until the words blurred together. He’d known this would happen, he just hadn’t expected it to feel like someone had reached into his chest and twisted.
His phone buzzed. Jos. He almost ignored it.
‘You’ve made a mistake.’
Not hello, not congratulations, just disappointment. It was clear Jos favoured a move to Mercedes or even McLaren over Ferrari.
Max pinched the bridge of his nose, ‘I haven’t even started,’ he typed back.
‘You’ve joined a team that hasn’t won anything since 2007.’
Max sighed, head already pounding just thinking of the inevitable hoards of reporters and journalists that would no doubt be clambering at his feet for a statement. Jos was typing again.
‘You left because you’re soft. You think they’ll love you over there?’ his father continued, ‘You’re replacing a 7-time world champion and competing against their golden boy. They’ll eat you alive.’
The words landed exactly where they always did, ‘I’m not replacing anyone.’
‘They’ll compare you every weekend.’
Silence.
‘And when Charles beats you?’
The final blow before his father went offline. No doubt some tactic similar to that of a mic drop, designed to make Max overthink every choice he’s made and feel guilty about it.
Max stared at the screen for another second before locking it. His chest felt strangely tight. He knew better than to let those conversations affect him, having spent years learning how not to.
But it still felt difficult to breathe.
Maranello. Three weeks later.
The factory was beautiful. Old brick buildings mixed with impossibly modern architecture, historic trophies lined the entrance, championship winning cars gleamed proudly beneath carefully positioned lights.
Every person Max passed smiled politely, yet he didn’t miss how they all looked at him for half a second longer than necessary. That was the thing about joining somewhere new. People tried very hard not to stare which somehow made it worse.
It was the January before pre-season testing for the 2027 season. He had finished an abysmal fifth in the championship standings the year before.
“This way,” his new race engineer, Marco, guided him through the maze of corridors, “we’ve got media first, simulator after lunch.”
“And Charles?”
Marco hesitated, “…already in the simulator.”
Of course he was. Golden boy. The face of Maranello. Prince of Ferrari.
Max wasn’t naïve, he knew exactly whose house he’d walked into. The corridors were littered with photographs featuring Charles lifting trophies, celebrating podiums, laughing with mechanics. The factory practically breathed his name.
“Everyone’s excited you’re here,” Marco offered.
Max glanced sideways. He knew that wasn’t true.
Charles arrived late to the introductory meeting. Very late.
The conference room had already fallen silent when the door opened. He didn’t apologise, he simply smiled and greeted the team with easy confidence and perfect Italian before dropping into the chair furthest from Max, sunglasses perched atop dark hair, and donning a gleaming fresh Ferrari shirt.
The team principal, Fred Vasseur, smiled awkwardly, “perfect timing, let’s continue.”
Charles nodded once, his gaze finally sweeping over Max. While others may mistake it for a polite acknowledgement, Max knew better.
Years and years of his life spent battling it out with the Monegasque, both on and off track, had taught him to accurately read the tightness around his eyes, the tension in his brow; Charles wasn’t pleased with this new development and Max could tell.
“So,” Fred carried on, “our driver line-up for 2027.”
Nobody spoke.
“Max, Charles has been instrumental in developing the car for this upcoming season,” Fred spoke directly to Max before turning to Charles, “and Charles, Max brings—”
“I’m aware.” Charles’ jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
Silence. Wonderful. Max pointedly didn’t glance at Charles after that, choosing instead to keep his eyes firmly on the loosely put together presentation, jaw clenched and arms crossed.
The meeting dragged on through technical presentations and development plans. Max answered every question, fighting against every fibre of his body that urged him to meet the stilted welcome with the same attitude.
He can’t. If not for him, then to prove his father wrong. To prove that choosing Ferrari had been the correct choice. And so he forced himself to behave somewhat cordially.
“If there’s nothing else—”
Charles stood, “actually—”
Every head turned. Charles looked directly at Max, “I hope you understand something. This team isn’t a rescue project.”
Max blinked, taken aback. “I didn’t think it was.”
“No?” Charles folded his arms, “then why are you here?” The question sounded almost conversational, forcefully injected with the lightness in which Charles always spoke to maintain his ‘Nice Guy’ persona, “you rejected Mercedes’ obvious advancements to sign you.”
“I made a choice.”
“No, you made a gamble.”
“I’m comfortable with it.”
Charles laughed once. Not because it was funny, because he genuinely didn’t believe him. “You’ll discover something very quickly.”
“And what’s that?” Max tilted his head, his carefully kept flame teetering on the brink of becoming an outright wildfire.
“You don’t get handed respect here.”
Max felt several engineers shift uncomfortably, “I wasn’t expecting it.”
Charles smiled. It wasn’t a kind smile, “good.” He walked out, the door clicking shut behind him.
Shortly after the meeting ended, Max excused himself to the bathroom where he spent the better part of his short break with his back against the cool tile, eyes closed, and counting to ten over and over again.
The simulator session was somehow worse. Every adjustment Max suggested was met with polite acknowledgement. Every adjustment Charles suggested was met with immediate implementation.
“It’s what Charles prefers.”
Max heard that sentence fourteen times before lunch.
Ride height, differential, brake migration, balance, everything. He wasn’t offended. Not really. Charles had been here for years, of course they’d know his preferences.
But every time someone unconsciously referenced him as the benchmark, Max found himself shrinking a little further into the seat.
Lunch was held in the cafeteria overlooking the test track. There were easily two hundred employees inside.
Once Charles entered, half the room greeted him by name, enthusiasm evident. He knew birthdays, families, children. He asked mechanics about holidays. People lit up when he stopped beside them. And of course all conversations were spoken in Italian which felt like an indirect jab for some reason seeing as Max couldn’t understand what was being said.
He watched quietly from the opposite corner, sipping on some fruity water concoction, already missing the endless supply of Red Bull he usually had at his disposal.
”Bit intimidating?” Marco had appeared beside him carrying a coffee.
“A little.”
“They’ll warm up.”
Max smiled politely, nodding. “I’m sure.”
He wasn’t.
Across the room, Charles looked over and their eyes met. Charles didn’t smile nor wave, he simply turned away and continued his conversation.
Max hated how much he was being reminded of his usual experiences in school cafeterias growing up.
The first pre-season test arrived in Barcelona. A heavily protected and private test with no media, just the teams and their cars.
Max climbed into the scarlet car for the first time wearing Ferrari colours. It felt…wrong? No, different. Heavy somehow. He completed eight laps before returning to the garage.
“What do you think?” Marco asked through the radio.
“The rear’s nervous.”
“We haven’t seen that.”
“It is,” he immediately responded, spotting Charles’ identical Ferrari pulling into the neighbouring garage before the Monegasque climbed out, “same setup?”
“Mostly,” Marco replied before being approached by Charles’ race engineer, Bryan. Five minutes later, the crackle in his ear came to life, “Charles says the rear’s planted.”
Max said nothing. Maybe it was him. Maybe he simply hadn’t adapted.
He went back out for his next stint on the same set of hard tyres. Pushed harder, braked later, his core tight, a dull roar filling his ears as he drove to the edge of his limit. The rear stepped out through turn nine.
He barely caught it.
Radio silence.
He finished the stint and returned to the garage, seeing Charles already standing beside the telemetry screens.
“You overdrive entry.”
Max paused halfway through removing his gloves, his helmet and balaclava on the table beside him, “excuse me?”
“You force the rotation,” Charles explained easily, as though he were providing aid out of the goodness of his heart when Max knew it was meant to sting. And it did.
“I don’t.”
“You do.”
“I’ve driven like this for ten years,” his gloves were placed next to his helmet with a little more force than necessary.
“And you’re not driving that car anymore.” The words came sharply, almost carelessly, “this one doesn’t like being bullied.”
Max stared at him, arms crossed defensively, “you think I don’t know how to drive?”
“I think you’re trying to make this car behave like your old one.”
“I’ve been in it for barely forty laps.”
Charles shrugged, “exactly.”
Max gave a disbelieving laugh, the mechanics having left the second the conversation began, “you really didn’t want me here.”
“No.” came the immediate response, no hesitation, “I told management not to sign you.”
Something inside Max dropped, “…right.”
“I wanted consistency, a teammate who understood this team.”
“I’m standing right here trying to,” Max said through gritted teeth, fists clenching and unclenching, indentations no doubt forming on his palm.
Charles looked him up and down dismissively, “are you?”
Then he walked away.
That evening Max sat alone in his hotel room, still wearing the team shirt. His dinner had gone cold an hour ago.
He had been in the middle of an early midlife crisis when his phone buzzed again.
His dad. Of course.
Against every instinct, he answered on the fourth ring.
“So.” His father’s voice was almost amused, “how’s paradise?” Max didn’t get a chance to reply when his father’s voice sounded again, “I heard you spun.”
“It wasn’t a spin, I caught it.”
“You always make excuses.”
Silence.
“They already prefer Charles.”
“I know.”
“You know why?”
Max squeezed the phone tighter.
“Because he’s exactly what they want. You’re too difficult. Too stubborn. Even as a child, you never learn.”
The words were matter-of-fact, as though memorised after years of relaying the same information.
“You’ve always been difficult.”
“I’ve won championships,” came Max’s response, weaker than he’d intended.
“You were useful, yes. But there’s a difference.”
Max closed his eyes.
“You’re not a winner anymore.”
Click. The room became silent — his breathing anything but.
In.
Out.
Too fast.
His chest tightened painfully, his fingers trembled. He wasn’t here. He was eleven again, standing beside a kart clutching his Spider-Man helmet. Being told to lose weight because he looked slow, being told that champions didn’t beg for dinner, that nobody wanted a weak son.
The hotel room blurred. He knew this feeling. He hated this feeling. Panic.
No. Not now.
He stood too quickly, his knees buckling against the coffee table before the mirror opposite the couch caught him. He looked exhausted.
The team shirt suddenly felt tight around his stomach. Too tight.
His father’s voice echoed in his head. Too heavy. Too soft. Not enough.
Max turned away from the mirror, but it didn’t help, it never did. He still knew exactly what he looked like. Eventually he slid down beside the bed until he was sitting on the carpet, forehead resting against his folded arms.
Outside, the city carried on without him.
Inside, he wondered whether leaving Red Bull had been the bravest thing he’d ever done or the stupidest. Because maybe Charles was right.
Maybe this team had never wanted him. Maybe he’d walked into someone else’s home expecting to belong when, in reality, he never would.