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There are approximately forty-nine seconds between the start of Max’s race and the end. A short race no doubt. Not the quickest ever. He’s sure that there is another time where their race was shorter. Maybe Singapore 2017 or 2019 in Spa. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t remember. Those seconds didn’t really matter. They passed, then blurred and bent into the next minute then hours then race weekends.
But this weekend, GP is painfully aware of every one of those forty-nine seconds.
There was no doubt it was going to be an intense weekend. The moment Max snatched a home sprint win from Lewis, a target was painted on his back. Not that it wasn’t already there. But it felt bigger. Bolder. Somehow more malicious. Max setting the pole lap was the final nail in the coffin of the ego of the great Lewis Hamilton.
And the fight was on. For forty-nine long, intense, seconds, it was some of the most beautifully intense racing he’d ever seen.
Then, it was over.
The moment contact is made, GP’s initial response is anger. It was clearly Max's corner and he would make sure the stewards knew it. Jonathan was already ranting into his microphone, Christian’s own frustration only adding fuel to the fire. But GP knows his job and he’s good at it. His job is to remain calm so that Max stays calm. To take all the anger that both he and Max are feeling and mask it well enough to curb any unnecessary fines or penalty points. They can rant and rave and curse the very name of Lewis Hamilton later, when the radio was off.
But there’s no raging anger on the other line of his headset. There’s no cursing. There’s… there’s nothing.
And that’s when it clicks just what he had witnessed. The onboard camera remains off, a light blinking at them indicating damage, the screens filled with data points and information that GP was sure he was supposed to recognize. The radio remains silent. Then it’s as if he’s in a movie scene, moments replay across his mind in slow motion. The outside view of the track. The contact. The plume of smoke. Then… nothing.
There’s damage to the car. Dozens of warnings and sensors are lighting up across his board and he normally knows what to make of it, but at the moment the only thing he knows is that there is silence.
There’s no “Mad Max” in his ear. There’s no anger or heat or defense. No talk of penalties or championships or points lost. There’s just… nothing.
An additional ten seconds have passed. (Now fifty-nine into the race.) The monitors swim in his view as he presses the button that connects him to Max.
“Max, are you okay?” His hand presses against the side of his headset like that will make a difference. Like maybe there is a disconnect somewhere or Max’s volume is turned too far down and he will hear him if he just listens close enough.
Only silence greets him. All radio chatter on the pit wall abruptly ends.
Hannah seems to hold her breath. Five seconds pass.
Jonathan has stopped speaking to the FIA, eyes traveling around the rest of the pit wall. Ten seconds.
Christian has abandoned his post, now standing behind GP’s shoulder, gripping his forearm as if a response can be squeezed out of the muscles. Fifteen seconds.
Drivers know. They know that no matter how big or how small, you get on the radio immediately. With Max it was more often an angry expletive or technical explanation, rather than confirmation of his condition. But it had always worked for them. This wasn’t that. This was silence. And this silence screamed.
He glances again at the monitors to make sure Max hasn’t simply stumbled out of the car without answering. But there’s nothing. Just a wide shot of mangled bodywork.
Everything was still. Too still.
All thoughts of the championship are gone. They’re nearing twenty seconds of silence. (Forty if you start the count at the moment of impact.) Someone has pulled up Max’s biometrics on their tablet, but GP can’t seem to make out the screen. He wonders if he’s being shielded from it. If there is information out there being kept from him. Because if Max isn't answering, something is wrong. Very wrong.
He's unconscious. Or winded. Or paralyzed. Or-
Or dead.
His thumb hovers over the button. Should he say something again? They’ve hit the twenty seconds mark since he last tried. Maybe-
The telltale click of a radio has GP sucking in a breath. The air seems to sharpen to the same stillness of the settled dust at Copse. Slamming a hand over his headsets, pressing them close to his ears, waiting for more. Waiting for something more than the static of an open radio channel.
Then finally, finally, a groan. Deep. Guttural. Like there’s not enough air in the car for Max to exhale words. And then there, over the sound of his own pounding heart, another gasp. He’s alive. He’s alive.
But he’s not- he’s not okay.
A single drawn out curse. It’s a word, at least he thinks it is. (He’s not past wondering if it’s just hope that a third groan took cognitive form.) And swearing is to be expected. This was Max. He should be cursing Lewis Hamilton up and down. But that's not what that was. That was disoriented. That was reactionary. That was pain.
The only sound that follows is another groan. Or gasp. (Or the strangled sound of a lung collapsing.) Then… silence.
A squeeze on his arm is what reminds him of Christian’s presence. “He's hurt.” GP chokes out, feeling just as winded as if he was the one to slam into the barriers at two hundred kilometers per hour.
Christian reaches over him, flipping an emergency switch that cuts the radio off from the live broadcast. GP should have done that already. That should have been the first thing he’d done. But it was frowned upon by the FIA and only to be used during medical emergencies and oh God-
The silence is still ringing in his ears as he watches the screens. Orange outlines rush towards the car.
Closing his eyes, GP takes a deep breath, then flicks on the radio. “It's going to be alright, Max.” Somehow his voice doesn’t tremble. “The marshals are on their way and the medical car is right behind you. The engine appears stable. Just wait for them.”
Dead air greets him.
The screen is showing such a wide shot it’s impossible to tell what’s going on. There's an eerie silence at the pit wall. GP prided himself in knowing what was going on at all times. He didn’t like the unknown. But maybe it wasn’t so much GP knowing as Max telling him. Because right now? GP knows nothing.
He wishes he was out there. Wishes he could check on Max himself. Make sure he was conscious. Touch his skin and see his eyes and know.
Unable to see through the swarm of orange, it’s Jonathan who announces. “He’s out of the car.” (Eighty-three seconds since contact.)
And there, he can kind of see. He can see Max slip off of the halo with the help of the marshals and medics. See him stumble. Can see him bend from the waist. And then the camera zooms in, invasive and inappropriate, and GP’s lifeline. And now he can clearly see how unsteady he is. Can see the way he stumbles, only upright due to the medics supporting him by both arms. But he had to focus on the positives. Max had gotten himself out of the car. He was conscious. He was standing.
“Red flag. Red flag.” The announcement comes over the headset, issuing orders like they affected GP at all. Like he had anyone to relay the information too. (It took them one-hundred and forty-two seconds for them to call a red flag.)
It's probably just to clear the wreckage. Probably. Almost certainly. It can’t be because of a possible serious injury because Max is already in-
Max isn’t in the medical car. In fact, when the cameras cut to him, he’s sitting against the fence, the track doctor kneeling beside him. Why? What did that mean?
“They're waiting for an ambulance.” Jonathan’s comment informs GP that he is being watched from the other side of the pit wall.
GP nods, jaw tightening. He will not panic. He will not assume the worst. That's his job, stay calm, stay unaffected. That's usually for Max's sake, but Max isn’t here to be strong for right now. But the team is. His team is. So he’ll hold it together for them.
He watches what he can from the screen. They’re not showing much now, interspersing more pitlane shots. This is good because it respects Max’s privacy. This is bad because it means GP has no idea what’s going on. The FIA is not being very forthcoming with information.
It’s been seven-hundred and eighty-three seconds when Max is finally taken to the medical center. They show a clip of Max waving, walking into the ambulance. He’s no longer being held up, but bodies press close to them, hands hovering like they expect him to fall any minute. GP wants to be there. He wants to be the hands that catch him if he falls.
“Can we disable the car from here?”
If the words weren’t spoken directly into his earpiece, he would have missed them. Thought they were spoken to someone else. Why would anyone be thinking of the car right now?
“GP?” Jonathan’s voice repeats.
Despite what it often felt like, Max was not the only part of his job. He still had responsibilities. Even if they all felt trivial at the moment. “Sorry, what was that?”
“The car is still live, the marshals need it shut off before it can be touched. Is there a way to do it from here?”
He has to close his eyes, massaging at his temple, trying to remember what the protocol was for this. He’s sure they had one, but usually Max just made sure everything was the way it needed to be before getting out. But there was a protocol in place. Could it be activated from the pit wall?
“I already tried.” God bless Adrian. “We’ve tried everything we can from the pit wall. It looks like something is wrong with the battery.”
GP clears his throat, “We’ll have to-” Christian, who had returned to his own seat at… some point stands and begins a half sprint towards the medical center. Well. A lot of things were that way. There’s no way to know exactly where he was going. “Uh, yes, we’ll have to send a team with the diagnostic equipment. It may be a bit of trial and error with… with the extent of the damage.” Because the car looked shredded. Who knew what kind of damage there was to the car. (Who cared about the car? Why were they talking about the car?)
Jonathan must understand because he asks no more questions. In fact, it seems he’d returned to shouting at the FIA. Good.
Hannah is looking at diagnostic information and GP is wondering why,(the race is over, the race ended at forty-nine seconds) before remembering that they have a second driver. Perhaps that’s cruel. Checo doesn’t deserve to be ignored it’s just-
GP keeps one eye on the screens and one on his phone. Maybe something will appear. Some bit of information he’s missed about Max’s wellbeing. About his current condition.
The tap, tap, tap of his fingers would normally garner a glare from Hannah, but today it's only a sympathetic glance. Small blessings.
It’s been two-thousand four-hundred and three seconds, when GP’s phone screen lights up. It's in his hand before he can make a conscious choice to pick it up.
Christian Horner (RB)
They're sending him to hospital.
The impact of the words is almost physical. He bites back the bile climbing up his throat and lets a forceful breath out of his nose. The screens continue their red flag coverage, but that’s not what GP sees. He sees white hospital walls, beeping machines casting a forever glow in the coma ward, doctors scribbling about internal bleeding and blunt force trauma, forbidden whispers of maybe it would be better if-’s, and trackside memorials.
Hannah looks at him expectantly. Pushing away the unbidden images, he turns his attention back to the one thing he does know for certain. “They're transferring him to the hospital.”
The same flash of panic is reflected in Hannah’s eyes. He’s not sure if it’s a reassurance or a damnation. “You should go.” She finally says, a gentle hand covers his own trembling fingers. “He'll need you.”
It may sound cliche and it may be underserved, but GP knows she's right. If for no reason other than to keep Jos and Christian from making everything worse.
But it's more than that. They can say it’s for Max all they would like, but GP needs him. GP needs to see that he’s okay.
He expects to be questioned at the door. He remembers the horror stories of that day in Japan. When trainers and personnel alike were barred from entrance. But there are no problems. The door is unlocked. The security guard gives him a quick glance but doesn't interfere.
While he doesn’t know the exact location, it’s not hard to find. He follows the sound of raised voices.
Christian is there. So is Jos. But neither are providing comfort to the pale boy on too white sheets, or even talking to the doctor in order to figure out what exactly the next steps are. No, the two grown men are standing just inside the doorway, arguing at full volume.
“What's going on?” GP asks, mostly to just break up the clamour.
Jos turns to him, eyes dark. “He does not need hospital.”
“Clearly he does!” Christian snaps back.
“Why does he need hospital?”
“I have already said-!”
GP’s patience is already wearing thin. “I’m not asking your opinion, I’m asking what the doctor’s said.” He tries to keep his voice even, but few people can test his patience like Jos Verstappen.
“He failed the concussion test.” Christian finally supplies.
Okay. This was- This was fine. There were worse things. Failing it meant that he was conscious. And they weren’t rushing to close up bleeding organs. So there was no reason to panic. Not yet. At least not while he was apparently the only responsible adult in the room.
He forges ahead. “How is- he sounded winded on the radio.” He sounded worse than winded. He sounded hurt. It was an interaction that was going to haunt him the rest of his life. The silence. The gasping breaths. The bitten off curse like he couldn’t even get enough air in his lungs to really say it.
“I don’t know, they haven’t said much other than that.” Christian seems tired. Annoyed, yes, fuming, of course, but mostly tired.
“He does not. Need. Hospital.” Jos was back to insisting.
“Can you at least keep your voice down?” GP tries for pleasant but doubts it comes through, especially as he shoulders past the two men.
Jos scowls but GP ignores him, making his way over to the exam table. Max’s legs dangle over the edge, his eyes pinched and staring at nothing.
“Max,” He says softly, drawing the attention of the boy.
Unfocused eyes pull away from the blank spot at the wall. “GP?”
“I’d think you’d know my voice better than anyone.” He jokes lightly, even if he doesn’t feel jovial himself.
Max hums, blinking at him several times before seeming to give up and close his eyes entirely, breath falling from his mouth with a huff.
“I am sorry.” Max finally says.
“For what, Max?”
“I am sorry I did not answer you.”
So ridiculous. So Max. “Don’t worry about that. I’m just glad you’re okay.” Well, okay enough.
Another hum is the answer.
“How are you feeling?” GP asks gently, placing his hand on Max’s knee.
“I am okay.” The words are forced out, like they’ve been waiting to be said for hours. “On the radio. That is what I was going to say. I am okay.”
Then it would have been a lie. Because it was clear then and it's clear now. The crash was big, the biggest of his career. And this time Max wasn't making it out unscathed.
“And your head?’
Max frowns and doesn’t answer immediately. “It is- it will be okay.” He says hesitantly.
Not a vote of confidence. “Is it the dizziness?”
“Yeah, it’s just-” He blinks several times, squinting at the wall. “I am a bit dizzy that is all.”
GP watches him, not feeling particularly confident that it was the truth. “They said you had a concussion.”
Max hums again.
“Did they say anything else?”
“Said they needed some scans. Didn’t say of what. Probably ribs.”
“Do they hurt?”
Max shrugs, but there’s a wince woven into it. So, yes.
“Anything else.”
“Dunno.” Max’s eyes fall shut.
He looks awful.
He’s pale, though the color of the walls and bedsheets certainly don’t help. They were probably dealing with at least some extent of shock. His eyes, in the few moments they had been fully open, were glassy and unfocused. They’d already said he had a concussion, but it was possible to still clear him if it was minor enough. This clearly was not minor. They wanted to take him to the hospital. Wanted to get scans, and not just for his head. For his ribs too. He wondered if there was more. His knees maybe? They always bothered him after a crash. And how were his hands? He’d never been the type to let go of the wheel and brace properly.
At this point he didn’t think Max was lying to him. It really seemed as though Max didn’t know what was going on. Which was its own brand of terrifying. Just how much damage had Max’s brain taken?
“We will not be taking him to the hospital.” The momentary reprieve had subsided, Jos once again shouting as if he wanted the Lewis Hamilton grandstands to hear. “We will not tell the media he has a concussion. We will take him home and move on!”
Christian easily matches the pitch. “You’re not thinking this through. We play it up. They’re already planning to send him to the hospital, we could make this work in our favor. Get Hamilton disqualified from the race.”
“And risk the next race? No.The media cannot know.”
“Look at him,” Christian makes a sweeping gesture in Max’s direction. “The race is already at risk. If we can get Hamilton a penalty we have a chance of keeping the gap manageable.”
“He will be fine. There is a week off. He will be fine by then. He does not need hospital.” GP wasn’t sure if Jos was oblivious or just didn’t care. Because it was clear that Max was not in fact okay and it would be a miracle if he raced in Hungary.
“We don't get a say in that, they’re sending him to the hospital, it's out of our hands-”
Max flinches, whether it is at the words or something else, GP doesn’t know.
“Max?” He places his hand back on the driver’s knee and feels a flash of guilt at yet another flinch.
When Max looks at him it’s accompanied by rapid blinking and squinting and- and GP starts to wonder. He’s wondering if Max is really seeing him at all.
“Max? You still with us?” He keeps his voice as neutral as he can, offering a squeeze of encouragement.
“Mhm.” The hum sounds entirely unconvincing and not at all like he’s trying to keep from throwing up.
Max’s hair has fallen down over his forehead. GP gently reaches up, smoothing it away as if it will allow him to see whatever damage is hiding underneath the skin. He knows that's not how it works. That the helmet protected him from any noticeable damage. But it would be easier if he could just see it. If it was just- if it was like putting a bandaid on a scraped knee.
Pressure falls into his hand, Max's head resting in his palm. He leaves his hand there, gladly taking just a fracture of his weight.
“It’s my job to make sure that what’s best for my team is done!” GP glances back at the raised voice, pressing his lips together. Christian is trying to help. Probably.
“And he is my son! You do not get to decide what is best for him!”
This time, Max’s flinch is accompanied by a pitiful sounding whine. GP’s heart aches, wanting nothing more than to wrap him in his arms and take all the pain away.
Shifting his hand so he's more firmly holding Max's cold cheek. “Max,” at his name, the boy opens his eyes. His pupils are cloudy, unsteady and unable to hold focus. “Don't worry about them. We'll cross those bridges when we get to them.”
“No, no he's right.” The words seem to come at the end of a sob. “I cannot afford to miss a race.” A hitched breath, voice cracking, “They cannot see me as weak.”
And for a moment GP genuinely considers walking over to Jos Verstappen and putting a fist in his face. Instead he needs to take care of his broken boy, heaven knew no one else was going to. “Let's see what the CT says and we can work from there, alright?”
Surprisingly, Max doesn't argue with him, offering only a light hum as his eyes flutter close. He doesn't pull away from GP’s hand. He wishes there was something better for Max to lie against.
“Who's winning?” Max mutters, barely audible.
GP sighs internally, knowing he can't let his displeasure show or Max will take it the wrong way. “Don't worry about that right now.”
“But-”
“Max.” He removes his hand, forcing Max to keep his own weight up and causing his eyes to slip open.
Instead of arguing or forcing GP to further his reasoning, Max just lets his head fall forward onto GP’s shoulder.
GP adjusts closer to him so it's less of a stretch and more comfortable. Happy to let the argument end, GP lets a hand run gently through Max's hair, trying to offer any comfort he can. It’s not enough. Nothing would be enough. The pain, the still raised voices, the thoughts Max was no doubt warring with.
Max seems to be nearly asleep again when he speaks, voice sounding incredibly small. “What happens if Hamilton wins?”
His heart breaks at the words. It's not something Max should be worried about at all. Not right now. Not when he's in so much pain he can barely hold his head up. And besides that Max's voice should never, never sound that small and broken. “Max-”
“I'd still lead, right?” Like he's afraid GP will scold him for asking, but more afraid of not knowing the answer.
That, more than anything, is what leads him to respond, even if he can't bite back the sigh. “Yes, you'd still lead.’
“But not if I miss next week.” He's not sure if it's the head injury or if Max is just asking for reassurance. Some form of hope that everything will somehow be okay.
GP will do many things for Max. Almost anything. But one thing he will not do is lie to him. But Max isn't strong enough, may not even be aware enough, to deal with such negativity right now. “Max, I need you to listen to me and try to understand what I'm saying.”
He hums, temple still pressed against GP’s shoulder.
“It doesn't matter.” He can't remember the last time he felt so strongly of something. “The championship doesn't matter. Let's see what the hospital says and then we can worry about damage control. It's more important for you to get better.” It's the only important thing. Not racing. Not the car. Not optics. Nothing matters more than that hazy look disappearing from Max's eyes.
That groan on the radio, the breathlessness, the lack of true confirmation of his condition- Even now, seeing Max alive (though seemingly far from well) doesn't quite quench that fear that it's all an illusion. That he's still at the pit wall, silence in his ear as he asks if Max is okay and receives nothing. That he didn't crawl out of the cockpit himself. That it took more than a few helping hands for him to slide off the halo and onto solid ground.
Maybe Max's head injury is contagious.
“You are sabotaging my son!” It's something that should be whispered. It was not. Jos Verstappen did not know how to speak a decibel below shouting it seemed.
“I am trying to save his championship.” That was more of a hiss than a shout. It was still grating and inappropriate considering the setting. Christian could be just as childish as Jos sometimes. “Max is walking away this weekend with no points. We can’t change that. What we can change is what Lewis walks away with. If you weren’t so-”
Footsteps pull his attention away. He can’t move without disturbing Max but he catches the concerned, pinched frown from Brad. He hadn’t even considered the absence of the physio. He must have been the only one capable of handling the doctors without shouting obscenities. Their eyes meet for a moment. GP knows there’s a line somewhere. A line between professional concern and personal concern. Looking in Brad’s all too knowing eyes, he’s not sure which side he prefers.
Brad clears his throat. “Max,” GP uses the moment where Max’s head lifts to readjust in case he’s needed again. “How ya doin’ champ?”
“Fine.” His voice cracks on the single word. GP grabs the glass of water off of the side table. Max seems hesitant to take it which is telling in itself, but eventually manages a sip.
Brad observes the trembling glass, but still keeps his voice light when he says, “Mhm, sure. How’s he really doing, GP?”
Not well. He wants to say. I’m worried. Something’s not right. But he can’t say all that right now. So instead he takes the glass back and asks, “When are they moving him to the hospital?”
Brad nods once, assessment received and confirmed. “Right now, actually.” The smallest amount of weight lifts off of GP’s shoulders. The faster they can get him to the hospital the better. “They wanted to know how we’re moving him. Stretcher is their go to, but if he’s up to it, we can use a normal wheelchair-”
GP knows Max’s answer before he even opens his mouth. “No. I can walk.”
But GP has been here and he knows that Max can barely sit up by himself. He can barely lift a glass of water to his lips. “Max I’m not sure that’s the best-”
“I can walk.” He insists, straightening his shoulders as if to prove a point. Like his eyes haven't yet to focus on a single location since GGP had arrived.
“Alright, alright, fine. Let’s see how you feel once you’re standing.” Brad concedes.
GP bites back his disagreement. Brad is his physio. He knows what he’s doing. He has to believe that.
That doesn’t mean he’s going to let Max try to stand on his own. Max doesn’t discourage the helping hand. It’s a concession in its own way. And it does nothing to settle the fear churning in his gut.
“What’s going on?” Christian joins them just as they have each taken an arm.
“The helicopter is ready.” Brad answers, not even looking up at him. “Alright, Max, slowly.”
Max doesn’t respond, gritting his teeth. Whether his breath catches or he’s holding it, Max isn’t breathing as they slowly pull him to his feet. His knees start to buckle, but he catches himself.
“I told you no hospitals!” Jos snaps.
Max flinches, it’s light, but enough for GP to reposition himself between father and son.
“Jos, listen to me.” Brad makes sure that Max and GP are stable before stepping up to meet him. His voice is firm, but not unkind. “Do you want him to race?”
“This is a stupid question-”
“Okay. I want him to race too. But due to the current test results, the medical center legally cannot clear him. The hospital can. If you want him to have a chance to race at all this season, you will let him go. If you keep fighting it here you could get him banned for the rest of the season, is that what you want?”
“GP-” Max breathes. GP only squeezes his arm. A silent command to let Brad handle this.
“Fine.”
Brad needs to switch careers. He could be a politician. Or maybe work in hostage negotiations.
They don’t let GP onto the helicopter. He’s not surprised. Not really. He’s not family. He’s not a physio. He’s not even the team principal (though they don’t let Christian on either). He’s just a racing engineer. He has no special privileges. It’s really a miracle they’ve allowed him this much access.
He grips Max’s arm a bit tighter before passing him off to Brad.
“I need you for the race.” Christian mutters in his ear the moment Max is no longer in his grasp. “You can go as soon as it’s over.”
GP nods, bile rising in throat, eyes fixed only on the wavering form before him.
“Max,” Christian smiles at him, that too bright smile usually reserved for the Netflix cameras. “Jonathan and I are going to do what we can on our end, but to do that, I have to stay here.”
It's a tight lipped nod in response. It looks like Max wants to say something, his lips parting slightly before they close, swallowing like it’s painful. GP wishes he’d brought the water with him. Max seems to be out of breath, his skin a shade paler than it even was in the medical center. He shouldn't have walked. They shouldn't have let him.
“I've got to get back on the pit wall.” The words feel like he’s spewing acid. “As soon as it's over I'll be there, alright?”
Max nods again, eyes half closed, leaning heavily on Brad. GP gives Brad a glance, silently begging him to take care of their boy.
Brad receives it with a grim nod. Jos doesn't even look at him, already settled in the helicopter, arms crossed and muttering under his breath.
The medics are circling them now, helping Max into the helicopter. Brad, follows them in, whispering something to the far too compliant Max.
The door closes, Christian lightly pulling GP away so the helicopter can safely take off. Can safely take Max to the hospital where he’ll get the scans he needs to get better.
Five-thousand two-hundred and eighteen seconds ago, Max Verstappen went into the barriers. And all GP can do is count the seconds.