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Under normal circumstances, Max Verstappen and George Russell kept their shared apartment as a peaceful sanctuary, a space strictly reserved for just the two of them to switch off from the world. Tonight, however, it looked like a makeshift sports bar, populated by several Formula One drivers and smelling faintly of the Spanish beers Carlos Sainz had insisted on bringing.
Alex Albon and Lando Norris were sitting cross-legged on the rug right in front of the TV, their eyes glued to the massive screen. Charles Leclerc was scrolling through his phone, occasionally looking up to shout something in French whenever the ball went near the box. Beside him, Carlos was sprawled comfortably in an armchair, looking completely relaxed as he waited to see which team Spain would have to beat in the final.
Max sat squarely in the center of the sofa, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. Even though the Netherlands had already been knocked out of the tournament, he was still intensely locked into the match because he loved football too much to ignore a World Cup semi-final. George sat right beside Max, proudly wearing his England kit. He was holding a bowl of popcorn, keeping up with the match even if his expertise only went so far.
On screen, Jude Bellingham was fouled for what felt like the 10th time, the referee waving play on without pulling out a card.
“Oh, come on!” Lando yelled, throwing his hands up. “How many times are they going to get away with that? Their strategy is just fouling Bellingham every time he touches the ball.”
“Exactly,” Alex agreed, leaning forward. “They know he’s their biggest threat, so they’re just trying to take him out of the game entirely.”
Max nodded, leaning back. “Yeah, fair point because he’s one of the best players of the tournament so far.”
George didn’t say anything, silently agreeing with the room. He already knew how good Bellingham was. Having seen him play live once, George was a total believer in the hype. Instead of arguing with the TV, he simply leaned closer to the screen. The chaos around Bellingham faded into the background the moment his eyes found England’s number four, where the name Rice was stamped right below the digit.
George watched how the player was able to break up opposition attacks and shield his backline effectively. He might have had limited expertise when it came to football, but even he understood that this was a quality of a great player. It definitely didn’t hurt that he was exceptionally handsome too.
“Wait,” George said, his voice dropping into a tone of intense focus. “Who is England's number four?”
Max didn’t look away from the screen. “That’s Declan Rice, schat. He’s literally the only reason England’s midfield isn’t a complete disaster right now because he can maintain possession while shifting the play from defense into attack, or vice versa. His positioning is very disciplined.”
George let out a soft sigh, resting his chin in his hand. “So, he’s a very good player, right?”
“Of course, he’s probably one of the best midfielders in the world right now,” Max answered quickly.
“Hmm, I see. Declan Rice,” George muttered to himself.
“Oh, why, Georgie? Did you ask him because he was handsome?” Charles teased, looking up from his phone with a cheeky grin.
Max’s head snapped toward George so fast he felt a sharp pinch in his neck, his eyes narrowing. George felt the heavy weight of Max’s stare burning into him. He quickly looked over, defensive hands flying up. “What? I was just asking because he’s been playing so well. You said it yourself that he’s one of the best players!”
George paused, his eyes darting back to the screen. “Though, to be fair, his hair is actually very nice,” George murmured. “Even when he’s sprinting, his hair is still perfect.”
“George! Seriously?” Max said, staring at George as he was caught entirely off guard by his boyfriend’s comment.
“I was just observing!” George responded, looking back at Max with an innocent expression.
Max let out a dry laugh, crossing his arms over his chest. “Unbelievable,” he grumbled, his tone dripping with jealousy.
George turned his eyes back to the screen, his grin softening into a slightly dazed expression as the camera zoomed in on the player. “Or maybe it’s not even just the hair. His serious gaze, the structure of his cheekbones, his incredibly strong jawline, and his smile. It’s quite striking, isn’t it?”
The living room went dead quiet. The TV commentary suddenly sounded too loud in the silence. Carlos slowly lowered his drink. Charles froze mid-scroll, a delighted smirk breaking across his face. A dangerous silence settled over Max, crossing his arms tighter against his chest, his knuckles turning white as he locked his gaze back onto George.
Alex blinked. “What did you just say, George?”
Lando looked up, his eyes darting immediately to Max, then back to George. A grin of pure malice spread across his face. “Oh, you like Dec? I actually did a filming with him at the MTC a while back. A proper lad he is. I can text him if you want, mate."
“Wait, why exactly were you filming with him?” George asked quickly, completely shifting away from his previous comments.
“It’s just a collab between McLaren and his club, Arsenal,” Lando explained, thoroughly enjoying the chaos he was causing as he smirked at George. “I also congratulated him when Arsenal won the league and we’re planning to golf together some time. We’re practically best mates now.”
Max’s gaze remained dangerously fixed on George, his glare practically drilling holes into the side of George’s head, but George just pretended not to see it. He kept his eyes locked onto Lando, nodding with way too much enthusiasm at the explanation.
“He told me he’s never attended a race in person,” Lando added, looking right at George to keep fueling the fire. “I wanted to invite him to Silverstone, but I just remembered that he obviously couldn’t make it because he was still playing in the World Cup. Now that it’s over, maybe I’ll invite him to Hungary before the summer break and before he gets busy with Arsenal again.”
Max’s deadly gaze immediately snapped from George over to Lando, his eyes narrowing in a silent warning that practically screamed don’t you dare. But Lando, being the absolute menace that he was, just offered a shameless grin, utterly unbothered by the threat.
“Ah, so he plays for Arsenal,” George murmured, nodding quickly as he gripped his drink a little tighter. “Yes, I remember they won the league this year. Good for them.”
Max scoffed loudly, turning his full attention back to George. “So what? You’ll start following Arsenal for him now?”
“You know what? Maybe I will!” George answered, leaning in slightly as a challenging spark lighting up his eyes and a smirk tugged at his lips.
“It’s not like they are the best team in the world, you know,” Max mocked, his voice thoroughly unimpressed. “Even though they won the league, they lost the Champions League final to PSG this year.”
“But at least they have one of the best midfielders in the world,” George shot back, throwing Max’s own words back at him with a teasing grin.
Lando chimed in once more, enjoying the smoke coming out of Max’s ears. “Don’t worry, Georgie. I’ll make sure you get to meet him when he finally can come to a race. I’ll even bring him over to the Mercedes garage myself.”
Max didn’t even bother arguing anymore, he simply grabbed the sofa cushion and threw it right at Lando as his final warning. Lando just chuckled, entirely pleased with himself, while George just leaned back, redirecting all of his attention to the screen to focus on the match again.
With England clinging to a 1-0 lead in the early 70th minute, Carlos shook his head at the screen. “Why did they sub Gordon for Konsa? Are they seriously trying to park the bus now? I think it’s way too soon.”
Max nodded in agreement, his eyes glued to the screen. “Yeah, they should actually score one or two more goals before parking the bus. Besides, it’s only the 72nd minute. There’s still way too much time left.”
When the match ticked into the early 80th minute, Rice was subbed off for O’Reilly. George leaned forward, completely bewildered. “Wait, why is Rice being subbed off? Isn’t he the one who’s holding their midfield steady? What’s gonna happen now?”
Max rolled his eyes, scoffing. “Oh, so now you’re an expert on the England midfield?”
George just snorted, completely ignoring him as he kept his eyes on the screen.
“That’s exactly my question too, George,” Carlos chimed in, gesturing aggressively at the screen. “And now they have added Burn and O’Reilly onto the pitch, two more defenders! It’s only the 83rd minute, which is still quite long, and that’s not even counting additional time yet!”
Eventually, the inevitable happened—Argentina equalized in the 85th minute. Lando and Alex screamed in unison, while George sat frozen in pure shock, his hand instantly flying up to cover his mouth. Even Charles looked up from his phone, startled by the sudden screams.
“I was right about Rice being subbed off!” George started to talk. “Just two minutes later, Argentina scored.”
Carlos shot up from the armchair. “I told you! Their strategy is absolutely ridiculous.”
Max shook his head, looking completely stunned. He wanted to drop another sarcastic reply to George, but the need to comment on England’s tactics completely took over. “Surely they’ll get the likes of Saka, Watkins, Rashford, and even Toney on the pitch now?”
“I hope so,” Carlos responded, crossing his arms. “If not, I’m sure we’re just counting down the minutes until Argentina scores another goal.”
Sure enough, Argentina found the back of the net once more, snatching a 2-1 lead with seven minutes left to play. The moment it happened, the room absolutely exploded—Lando, Alex, George, and even Charles, who had been completely glued to the TV since the equalizer, all let out a collective scream of despair.
“That’s game over then,” Max grumbled, crossing his arms. “That’s what you get for not reacting to the equalizer. Even now, they still haven’t brought on any attacking players. Unbelievable.”
“Yes,” Carlos agreed with a heavy sigh. “I think it’s over now.”
As the final whistle blew, Carlos stretched and looked over at the group. “Well, it was good while it lasted, guys,” he said, holding back a laugh. “It’s a shame we won’t be meeting in the final. I guess Franco is the enemy now.”
The lively energy of the watch party completely disappeared when the front door clicked shut. With the others heading home, the apartment fell into a warm quiet. George dropped onto the sofa, staring blankly at the switched-off TV, still irritated by the defeat.
Max didn’t say a word first. He just walked over, sat close beside George, and slid an arm around his waist, pulling him gently against his chest. George sighed, letting his head rest against Max’s shoulder as the tension began to melt away.
Max leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to the top of George’s head. “Hey, it’s okay. They still had an incredible campaign in this World Cup.”
George reached across to take Max’s hand, threading their fingers together. “I know. It’s just… we were so close.”
“You know what,” Max added, a hint of teasing in his voice. “They still have the third-place match to play. You can still watch your favorite guy Rice play.”
George pulled back slightly, looking up at Max with a curious expression. “Oh, really? When is it?”
Max blinked, a look of mild shock crossing his features as he stared at his boyfriend. “Jesus, you really like him, don’t you?”
George burst out laughing, completely amused by the dramatic sulk written all over Max’s face. “Darling, are you seriously jealous of him?”
Max just shrugged, instantly looking away to avoid admitting it. But George wasn’t about to let it drop, leaning forward to press him again. “Come on, when is the next match?’
“Saturday,” Max grumbled, still refusing to look at him directly but answering anyway. “It’s way after qualifying, so you can watch.”
“Brilliant! Please, please, can we watch it then?” George pleaded, fluttering his eyelashes as he looked up at Max.
Max stared down at him, trying his absolute best to hold his ground, but looking into those wide eyes and fluttering eyelashes made it entirely impossible. A helpless sigh escaped him. “You are unbelievable,” Max said, his tone softening despite himself as he pulled George even closer. “Fine. We’ll watch your stupid midfielder.”
George caught Max by the chin, leaning in to give him a quick peck on the lips. “Yeay! Thank you, baby.”
Max could only shake his head, letting out a heavy sigh at how quickly all his defenses had crumbled. He held George like that for a few quiet moments before standing up and offering a hand to pull him up. “Come on. Let’s sleep, schat. We have a morning flight tomorrow.”
George looked up at the offered hand, a soft smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he reached up and let Max pull him to his feet. Instead of letting go, George stepped right into Max’s space, wrapping his arms around his neck for one last lingering hug.
***
The next morning, the apartment was filled with the quiet rustle of travel preparation. Suitcases stood neatly by the front door, zipped up and ready for their flight to Belgium, while Max sat on a stool by the kitchen island. He was sipping a coffee and quietly checking emails on his laptop before they had to leave for the airport.
Across the island, George stood by the coffee machine, humming an unknown tune as he waited for his coffee. He leaned against the counter, looking over at Max. “Babe, passport check. Is it in your bag? And what about the present for your mum? Make sure you bring it since we’re seeing her as soon as we land.”
Max let out a low chuckle, finally shutting his laptop and sliding it into his bag. He looked up, a faint smile tugging at his lips as he met George’s eyes. “Don’t worry, schat,” Max answered softly. “Passport is in the front pocket of my backpack, and the gift for my mum is in my carry-on.”
Max rose from the stool to join George by the coffee machine, leaning in to wrap his arms around his waist. George smiled as Max pulled him close, the busy energy of the morning slowing down completely as they shared a deep, lingering kiss.
A few seconds later, the doorbell rang, completely shattering the quiet of the apartment.
They pulled apart with a collective sigh. Max frowned slightly, his hands still resting on George’s waist. “Are we expecting someone?”
“I don’t think so,” George replied quietly, adjusting his shirt as he stepped out of Max’s embrace.
George walked over and opened the door, his frown deepening the moment he saw who was standing there. It was Lando. He was wearing a hoodie, holding a takeaway coffee, and looking entirely too pleased with himself.
“Alright, mate,” Lando said, stepping right past George into the kitchen. He didn’t even sit down. He just pulled his phone out of his pocket, tapped the screen, and hit FaceTime.
Max, who had already retreated back to the stool, looked over at Lando with an instantly alert expression.
“Lando, what are you doing? We’re heading to the airport soon,” George asked, his brows furrowing.
“Just making a call. It won’t take up too much of your time," Lando said innocently. A second later, the phone chimed, and a loud English accent echoed through the kitchen.
“Hi, Lando! What’s up, mate?”
“Dec! Once again, so sorry about the loss last night, mate. You were brilliant out there, easily the best on the pitch.”
“Ah yes, thank you, mate. Anything I can help you with?”
“Actually, yes!” Lando said enthusiastically. “Remember how I told you that my mate George Russell from Mercedes thought you played absolute world-class last night?”
Before George could process what was happening, Lando shoved the phone directly into his face.
George’s brain completely short-circuited. On the screen was Declan Rice, sitting propped up against the pillows on a hotel bed, smiling warmly. George instantly panicked, almost dropping the phone, and frantically smoothed down his hair with one hand.
“Oh, hi! Hello, Declan!” George stammered, his posture instantly correcting into his most formal stance. “What a match yesterday, though I’m sorry for the result. You played really well. You looked—I mean, the midfield looked very steady because of you. Elite work, really. Just… phenomenal!”
On the screen, Declan laughed, totally charming. “Ah, cheers, George! Appreciate it, mate. Thank you for supporting us. Good luck with the next race, yeah?”
“Yes! And you too! Good luck for the third-place match,” George said rapidly.
“Oh, and Dec!” Lando piped up quickly, leaning over the phone. “Don’t forget to come to Hungary! I’ll text you all the details soon.”
“Ah, yes, I’ll try to come,” Declan said with a nod. “I guess I’ll see you soon too, George?”
“Yes! Splendid! See you!” George squeaked.
Lando ended the call and sprinted to the front door after recognizing the sudden dark shift in Max’s expression. “Right, just dropped by to say hello. See ya!” he screamed before opening and slamming the front door behind him in a blur of motion.
Silence descended on the kitchen. George stood frozen by the counter, his cheeks flushed a distinct shade of pink.
Max slowly slid off the stool and walked over to George, crossing his arms over his chest. “George, what the hell was that?” he asked, his eyebrows knitted in utter confusion. “What did Lando just do?”
George blinked, looking entirely too stunned to speak. “I… I don’t know either,” George stammered, genuinely lost for words. “He just… he just showed up.”
Then Max reached out, gently but firmly cupping George’s jaw with one hand to tilt his face up, his thumb brushing against his flushed cheek. “And now, explain to me why you are blushing after talking to that guy.”
“It was a surprise!” George defended himself quickly. “Lando caught me completely off guard!”
Max stepped in closer, his jaw tight with pure jealousy. “You really like him, huh?”
George’s jaw dropped, his eyes widened, utterly blindsided by the accusation. “Max, be serious! I don’t even know the guy.”
Max rolled his eyes, letting out a dry laugh. “Well, you’re definitely going to know him when he shows up in Hungary next week.”
“Oh my God,” George groaned, hiding his face in his hands as his cheeks burned even hotter. “I am going to actually murder Lando Norris.”
Realizing he needed to change the subject immediately, George stepped forward and gently took Max’s hand. “Come on, darling, we have to leave for the airport now. We don’t want to be late.”
Max let himself be led out, but the jealousy didn’t fade. Even once they were settled in the back of the car, Max was still pouting like a disappointed toddler. No matter how many times George squeezed his hand or tried to coax a smile out of him with gentle teasing, Max refused to break his sulk.
Once they finally boarded the jet, Max immediately sank into his seat. He crossed his arms, leaning his head against the headrest and continuing his silent, dramatic protest by staring fixedly out the window.
George sat in the seat directly opposite him. He watched Max for a moment, a fond smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Realizing his usual peace offerings weren’t working, George decided to change tactics. He unbuckled his seatbelt, slid onto the edge of his seat, and leaned close enough that his breath brushed Max’s ear. “If you stop pouting right now, I will give you a proper apology in the lavatory.”
Max stared at him for three seconds, completely silent, before his entire grumpy facade crumbled. A smirk instantly replacing his frown. “Suddenly, I’ve completely forgotten what I was even pouting about,” Max whispered, already unbuckling his seatbelt. “Lead the way.”
***
With qualifying out of the way and the grid locked in—Max on the front row in P2 and George right behind him in P3—the pressure of the race weekend was temporarily on pause. They were finally back in the quiet luxury of their hotel room, tangled up in the sheets of the king-sized bed as the TV screen cast a glow across the room.
Max was holding his phone, his thumb flicking through the confirmed lineups. “Look, your favorite guy is captain tonight,” he teased, turning the phone screen toward George.
“Oh wow, good for him,” George countered, completely unbothered by the bait Max was dangling.
The TV screen cut to the tunnel, capturing the players preparing to march out onto the pitch. Right at the very front of the line, adjusting his armband with a focused expression, stood Declan Rice. Max immediately glanced sideways, deliberately tracking George’s face to catch his exact reaction to the sight of the player.
George felt the burn of Max’s stare instantly. He bit his inside lip, his shoulders tense as he tried so hard not to laugh at the blatant jealousy radiating off his boyfriend. “Don’t look at me like that,” George said, keeping his face straight.
“I am not looking at you like anything,” Max grumbled, refusing to break his sulking face for more than a second before snapping his gaze back to the TV screen, crossing his arms tightly over his chest.
George couldn’t hold it in anymore. A breathless laugh escaped him and he leaned his weight heavily against Max’s side, nudging him playfully. “You’re very cute when you’re jealous, you know?”
“I am not jealous,” Max muttered under his breath, though a small grin finally appeared on his face, unable to stay grumpy with George laughing like that right against his shoulder.
The match was barely underway when the screen erupted. It only took two minutes and fifteen seconds for Rice to put England ahead with a quick goal, slotting the ball into the bottom-right corner.
George shot up from his propped-up position against Max, throwing his arms in the air. “Yeeess!! Get in there!” he screamed triumphantly, a massive grin breaking across his face.
Max stayed exactly where he was, letting out a soft huff of laughter, watching the pure joy radiating off George. “Calm down, it’s only the second minute,” Max teased softly, his hand automatically found George’s waist, pulling him back down to the mattress.
“But that’s exactly why!” George shot back as he settled back against Max’s side. “Three minutes in and we’re already scoring. This match is going to be a thriller!”
England was dominant, pressing the French defense relentlessly, and by the 18th minute, Konsa scored a header to double England’s lead, converting a cross from Rice’s corner kick.
“Yeeeesss!! Fucking come oooon!!!” George shouted as he leaned forward, squinting slightly at the replay before turning an incredibly smug look toward Max. “That counted as an assist by Rice, right?”
Max could only shake his head, letting out a heavy, defeated sigh. He was annoyed now—not because England was winning, but because the guy he was completely jealous of was actually putting on a world-class performance. “Yeah, it did,” Max muttered, clinging to his sulk even as a fond twitch of his lips threatened to betray him. “I guess he’s the best after all.”
George couldn’t help but be thoroughly smitten, a wave of pure warmth washing over him at how incredibly cute Max was being. The Dutch man’s reluctant admission, buried under layers of sulk, was completely endearing.
Living up to George’s prediction, the match was indeed a thriller from start to finish. By the time the final whistle blew, England won the match by 6-4. “Phew, what a match. Thank goodness it’s over now,” George said, a happy smile breaking through his relief. He was practically glowing with triumph and Max just leaned back, letting himself enjoy the view, completely charmed by how jubilant George was.
“Well,” George said as he switched off the TV. He shifted on the bed, turning to look at Max with a soft smile. “I’d say that was a brilliant evening, especially with Dec putting on an absolute masterclass out there.”
Max’s eyes narrowed instantly. “Dec? Already on the first-name basis, aren’t you? Fantastic,” he muttered, pulling the duvet over his legs with a bit more force than necessary.
George let out a soft laugh, sliding down beneath the duvet to join him. He propped himself up on one elbow, his eyes locking onto Max’s face. “Well, it is his name,” he pointed out smoothly. “Besides, I think he earned it after such a brilliant performance, no?”
Max rolled his eyes dramatically. “Oh, one goal and one assist and suddenly he’s a close friend,” he stated. He leaned across the space between them to press a quick kiss to George’s lips, then wrapped his arm securely around George’s waist, pulling him close against his side. “Now I don’t want to hear anything about him again and let’s go to sleep.”
With the banter finally trailing off, the residual adrenaline from watching the match fully dissolved into a sleepy haze. They turned off the bedside lamps, plunging the room into darkness. Safe in the quiet of the room, they fell asleep tangled together.
Or at least, that was the plan.
They had barely been in the dark for three minutes when the bedside table suddenly illuminated, accompanied by the aggressive buzz of George’s phone. Max let out a long groan into the pillow as George reached out to grab his phone, squinting blindly into the bright glare of his phone screen.
“Lando sent me a video,” George murmured, clearing his throat as he tapped the screen. Max leaned in, resting his chin near George’s shoulder to get a clear view of the video.
Instantly the quiet bedroom was filled with the sounds of a loud dressing room. The camera focused entirely on none other than Declan Rice, who was sweaty, wearing a proud grin, and casually holding up his bronze medal directly to the lens.
“Hey, George!” Declan called out over the shouting of his teammates, giving a wave. “Lando said you were watching! Just wanted to say cheers for the massive support, mate, really appreciate it. I also want to say congrats on securing P3 in qualifying earlier! Wishing you the best of luck for tomorrow’s race. And, see you in Hungary next week!”
The video cut out, leaving the room in another silence.
George couldn’t help it—a massive, delighted smile broke across his face, lit by the glow of his phone. He bit his lip, trying and failing to hide his absolute joy as he locked his phone.
From right beside him, Max threw his head back with a massive groan, rolling his eyes at the ceiling in pure despair.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake. I am going to kill Lando Norris.”
THE END