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Max woke up to a searing, burning sensation on his right cheek as if someone had pressed a frying pan against it. He struggled to pry his eyelids open. White sand showered from his lashes. A blinding light instantly struck his eyes. Before he could even look around or adjust to the sun, a salty lump rose in his throat. He coughed, clearing the last of the water from his lungs.
His whole body ached, but at least his eyes had finally adjusted to the light. To the left was a wall of sand; below, blue waves; to the right, clouds slowly rolling downward; and somewhere in the middle, leaning palm trees. He struggled to pull himself up, and the world swam along with his blurred movements: the sand slid down to the floor where it belonged, the clouds returned to the sky, and the palm trees righted themselves. Max did the same. He didn't feel any better for it, though. Quite the opposite, he felt terribly nauseous.
But where was he? That was what mattered now. Where was he, and what had happened? He tried to rack his memory.
The last thing he remembered was walking through the airport, wheeling his black suitcase. Maybe he had flown off for a vacation and dozed off while sunbathing? Was that even possible? It was a bit of a stretch, he thought.
Damn. He’d run into George there. That was it. Russell had been waiting for someone. Max had suggested they fly on his plane.
Well, of course, who else would put on that tedious documentary about life in the wild? Who actually watches that sort of thing on a plane? Not that it was Max’s place to judge; if he managed to remember anything from it, that would be a bonus. Actually, the film was about a deserted island and extreme survival. Max still hoped he wouldn't need that kind of knowledge.
All he can see is a beach. A beach could be anywhere. There’s a beach in Monaco. Max obviously isn’t in Monaco. They flew from Australia to China, so the odds of him washing up right back home are slim. Still, it’s worth checking the island for signs of civilization before he starts playing Robinson Crusoe.
So, summoning all his strength, he struggled to his feet and looked around. Lovely: sand to the right, sand to the left, the sea, and not a hint of a major landmass nearby. Well, let’s just hope Max is standing on that very landmass, and that it’s hiding from him behind that dark—and not the least bit terrifying—jungle right in front of him.
Alright, you need to know what you’re dealing with, let’s start by checking out the area. Max headed along the beach.
Okay, great, he flew in from Australia. That’s a very good lead. Well, maybe not “very”, but a lead nonetheless.
Wait a minute, does that mean he flew with George? Thank God he doesn’t remember the flight. His mind must have switched into defense mode to block out the screaming. Actually, he does remember some screaming. The lights suddenly went out on the plane, the masks dropped, red lights started flashing, and someone was screaming piercingly. Nothing after that. Maybe that’s for the best.
Something was bobbing in the shallows in the distance, kicking up sand. Max quickened his pace. It was his suitcase. Yes! There was still some good left in the world.
Max dropped to his knees and rummaged through his backpack. A heap of useless clothes. Damn. He’d likely die on this island, but at least he’d be wearing clean underwear. Just great.
Then again, who in their right mind would bring a knife or a damn fire starter to a race? In any case, Max dragged the suitcase away from the water. Should he lug it along while scouting the area? That would be a waste of energy. If he suddenly needed a pair of clean skinny jeans, he could always hobble back here.
Max continued exploring the beach. He had been walking for about an hour when he spotted his suitcase again.
The good news: from certain points on the island, he could make out land.
The bad news: it was too far away, and it didn't look like the mainland anyway.
Damn, looks like he’d wasted his energy for nothing. Pull yourself together, Max. What was that raspy voice saying to George in the documentary?
George…
He shook his head.
Alright, first he needed to find fresh water. That was the priority now. Too bad there wasn't a single water cooler on the beach. That meant he’d have to head into the jungle.
All around him, things were crunching, rustling, crackling, and whistling. Max had wrapped his T-shirts around his shins beforehand—just in case some local fashion-conscious snake took a real dislike to his skinny jeans.
He made his way across the island, struggling every step of the way. Nothing. He strained to hear the distant murmur of a stream. But no—nothing. He might as well drink his own sweat. That was one fluid Max had in abundance. His skinny jeans had never clung to his legs quite like this. His T-shirt hadn't even fully dried from the seawater yet, and now it was soaked through with his own sweat. His tongue was starting to go dry. Drying out right inside his mouth! This was bad.
He went back to his suitcase. Maybe he’d tossed in a water bottle by sheer chance, maybe it was lying somewhere at the bottom and taking a good laugh from Max’s struggling. No, he hadn't forgotten one, and no, it wasn't there. Damn it.
He walked up to the water. Salty, of course. Everyone knows that drinking seawater isn't exactly a bright idea. Yet here, it looked so inviting, so delicious. And terrifying as hell. It stretched for hundreds of kilometers ahead, to the right, and to the left. Nothing but water. And none of it fit to drink. Just a wet desert.
He was utterly alone. Not a ship or even a small boat in sight. He was completely alone in the middle of the ocean.
His breathing suddenly quickened. Max had never felt so small and useless. Not even when his father was dissatisfied with his performance. Fuck, he would actually be glad to have his father right there now. His father would surely tell him he was acting like a shitty loser, wasting precious bodily fluids while tears welled up in his eyes.
But he could easily have endured that. Anything, just to avoid being alone.
An all-consuming terror rose in his throat like a lump.
“Don't you dare waste that precious water.” he whispered to himself.
He had absolutely no strength left. Gazing at the setting sun, Max sank wearily to the ground, leaning his back against a palm tree. He just needed a little sleep. And when he woke up, he’d surely be on his private jet somewhere over China.
***
But no, he was still on that damned island. Alone. He was incredibly thirsty. Max even seemed on the verge of prayer, casting his eyes toward the sky, desperate for just a single drop of water to touch his lips.
And damn, he was such an idiot. There was a coconut hanging right above him—food and water all in one. As ordered.
Max felt a sudden surge of excitement and sprang up, as if he were in peak form before a race. He started shaking the palm tree with all his might. Though "with all his might" is a bit of an overstatement. That burst of morale didn't actually translate into much physical power.
He grabbed a nearby rock and hurled it straight at the coconut. It didn't fall, but at least it budged. Good. Another rock went flying up. And another. And another. Until, finally, the coconut tumbled to the ground.
"Yeah!" Max’s voice came out hoarse and barely audible. But maybe that was for the best. He expended too much energy just to knock down one measly coconut. The fierce heat went straight to his head. But even though he was excited beyond belief.
Getting hold of a coconut was one thing. Opening it was something else entirely. Max glanced around hurriedly, looking for a boulder. But he spotted something else, something that made him drop the coconut. Too bad it didn't crack open.
He ran toward the water. Toward the sea. Toward the waves where a human was drifting. A real human! Max was at his side in a split second.
It couldn't be.
"George!" Max rasped, the word barely audible. Coughing slightly, he pushed aside any sentimentality and hauled the man onto the shore. He grabbed the Briton under the armpits. Once they reached dry sand, both of them collapsed onto the ground. After catching his breath for a moment, Max collected himself. He knelt down beside George. God, was he even alive?
Max recalled how it was usually done in movies—index and middle fingers to the neck. He needed to find a pulse. Max pulled down the Brit’s blue shirt and began poking his fingers against George’s neck, almost haphazardly. What if there was no pulse? What if he was already... Oh, wait, there it was. Max had found it. Yes, definitely. He let out a soft breath. But what did that tell him? Russell was still unconscious. But there was a pulse, so that meant CPR wasn't needed, right? Maybe he’d swallowed water? Max squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed the bridge of his nose. What did they do in that movie in a situation like this? Right. Turn him onto his side. With a single shove, Max rolled the Brit onto his side.
"Come on, Russell. Where’s that fucking stubbornness of yours?" he rasped. “What should I do? What the fuck should I do?” Max squeezed his eyes shut again, trying to remember something else. Anything at all. A cough broke the silence. Not his. Max’s eyes snapped open. George was still coughing, clearing the water from his lungs.
"Fuuuck!" Russell rasped, shouting the word the moment he regained consciousness, unable to hold it back.
"George, are you okay?" Max tried to look into his face.
"Fuck, my leg. What’s wrong with it?" After drifting on the waves for who knows how long without water, his throat produced a sound that barely resembled Russell’s voice. For a split second, Max thought of Baku.
Max’s gaze snapped down to the man’s legs. A piece of aluminum was jutting out of the left one. How had he missed it? He’d been so focused on bringing him around that he’d forgotten about the rest of his body.
"What’s wrong?" George repeated. He didn't seem to realize where he was yet, and his vision hadn't cleared.
Max swallowed hard. His rough tongue dragged unpleasantly across the roof of his mouth. "It’s not that bad," Max lied. He couldn't stop staring at the wound. His left trouser leg was soaked with blood. How desperately he wanted to look away. The sight of the bloody trail on the sand made him feel even more nauseous. Yet, for some reason, his eyes refused to obey. It was as if they wanted to melt aluminum. Unfortunately, Max didn't recall ever possessing such an ability.
"What the hell?" George jerked his head sharply. It seemed his vision was finally clearing. "Where are we?" He shifted his gaze to Max. "Verstappen? Why the hell am I on a beach with you?" George asked, his voice hurried and hoarse.
"I don't remember," Max replied, his voice equally raspy.
George tried to stand up. “Bloody hell!" he finally looked down at his leg, his eyes focusing on the injury. His already huge eyes grew even wider and rounder.
"Easy, it’ll be okay," Max hastened to calm him before the Brit could scream loud enough for the whole island to hear.
"Okay? Fucking okay?" George rasped angrily, then broke into a fit of coughing.
"Yeah. We’ll figure something out. Maybe it just looks worse than it is?" Max crawled closer to Russell’s lower leg. The piece of metal had already torn through the beige trousers, so it took little effort for Max to rip the fabric all the way down.
"So, what is it?" George asked, turning his head away. He couldn't bear to look at his leg.
"Well..." Max drawled, staring blankly at the wound. At the base of the plate, the leg had turned into a bloody mess. "Hard to say. Do you think we should do something about it ourselves? Maybe it’s like a bullet—better to leave it be? You know, so the blood doesn't gush out even more."
George turned slowly. He was breathing heavily, fighting back screams of pain with every passing second. After taking a close look at his leg, he nodded in agreement.
"Yeah, they’ll probably find us soon. The Grand Prix is just around the corner." Max nodded in agreement. "Are you okay? Any injuries?" The Briton turned his gaze to Max. Max hadn't actually given it a thought until then. Aside from some bruises, he was fine.
"Yeah, I'm fine. Does anything hurt besides your leg?"
"Even if it did, I wouldn't feel anything but this piece of metal. But I’m just incredibly thirsty.”
"Oh, wait. I got a coconut," Max remembered. He looked around again for a boulder. He had to settle for an ordinary-sized rock. It wasn't a boulder, which didn't please Max, but it was worth a try. He struck the coconut with all his might. It held firm. George watched his attempts, swallowing hard. Max was on the verge of despair. His arm was weakening, and he had nothing to show for his efforts. He glanced at Russell. He had never looked worse. He was covered in sand and still half-wet. His hair was a bird's nest, and his lips were coated in a dry, salty crust. His skin had lost its healthy glow. It was almost physically painful for Max to look at him. And he didn’t even mentioned the wound yet.
The Briton’s huge blue eyes darted across the area, scanning everything within reach. Max glanced at the wound again, composed himself, shifted the stone to his other hand, and resumed hammering.
"Wait. Try using the zipper pull from the suitcase." Max looked at him anxiously, wondering if the Brit had actually suffered sunstroke, but the other man just rolled his eyes wearily. "You could try piercing one of those three indentations. The pull tab is long and made of metal."
"That’ll only get us water," Max said, though he leaned toward the suitcase anyway.
“You’d jumped up to get water, after all. Water was the priority, no matter what. Without it, in this heat, we’d be dead in about three days.” Max flinched at the mention of death. Roughly yanking the tool free, he returned to where George and the coconut were waiting.
"We aren't going to die. None of us." He caught George’s eye, and they stared at each other in silence for a moment, until George swallowed hard again. That brought Max back to reality, and he set about drilling into the coconut by hand.
"Here." He handed the drink to George first, once his idea finally worked. Russell drank greedily from the coconut. Barely pausing for breath, he passed the rest to Max. After draining it completely, both men took deep breaths, as if they had consumed the elixir of life. Yet a single coconut came nowhere near quenching their thirst. So, while Max knocked coconuts down from the palm tree, George drilled into them. After a few of them, they finally stopped. Max collapsed beside George.
"Big brains saved the day." A pleased Max patted Russell on the shoulder and glanced at his leg again. "Ideally, we should treat that."
"Oh yeah, let me just grab the first-aid kit," George quipped. Max pursed his lips, he couldn't stop staring at the wound. "I hope I can still drive," Russell remarked grimly.
"If not, you can go into NASCAR," Max said with a shrug, trying to look as nonchalant as possible. "They don't need a left foot." George shot him an angry glare.
"That means you're coming with me. I'd die of boredom with them.”
"Better to die of boredom than of hunger," Max countered. "Right, let's try to get something to eat." He stood up again and picked out the coconut that looked the most fragile. He grabbed the same rock and started hammering away at it—bang, bang, bang. A couple of minutes later, George reached for the nearest coconut, hissing in pain. Max jumped over to him, concerned. "What are you doing?"
"I can do something useful too, I still have my hands.” George grumbled irritably.
"Yeah, fair enough." Max carefully helped him sit back down and handed him the coconut and the rock.
The rhythmic sound of tapping filled the beach until Max finally managed to crack his open. He placed the split coconut between them and popped a piece into his mouth.
“Fuck. That’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”
George dug into the flesh, too. "I can't even tell if it's because we haven't eaten in ages or because we're on a Bounty-style island," Russell remarked. "By the way, where do you think we are?" he added thoughtfully.
“On an island?”
"Wait, are you serious?" George turned dramatically. "Damn, I was sure it’s mountains."
"Ask a silly question, get a silly answer," Max said, shrugging.
"Alright, Mr. Geography Nerd, do you happen to have a guess as to which exactly island we might be on?" George asked, his tone tinged with irritation as he spelled it out as if for a child. Just as Max opened his mouth to speak, George added, "And 'uninhabited' doesn't count.”
"That’s not at all what I meant to say," Max lied, rolling his eyes. "And a geography nerd? Seriously?" George gave a brief nod. "For your information, I can't possibly know every island on Earth, and I certainly can't pinpoint its location just by looking at the surrounding waves."
"Got it. All talk, no brains. You’re stripped of your geography nerd rank." George made a gesture as if ripping the epaulets off Max’s shoulders.
“Thank God for that. But at a guess, we’re in the Philippines or Indonesia.” George, sitting opposite, smiled pleasantly and patted Max on the shoulders, as if restoring his rank. Max let out a slow, sarcastic chuckle.
Heartened by his first meal in two days, Max set to work on the next coconut. George soon cracked open his own first one. Within twenty minutes, they had devoured all five coconuts. The gnawing hunger receded for a while, and Max drifted off to sleep without even realising it.
***
He woke up at sunset. Alone. The sand around him was crisscrossed with chaotic tracks. Max scrambled to his feet in terror.
"George?" Max called out uncertainly. The only reply was the chirping from the jungle. The Brit was nowhere to be seen. "Russell!" He was shouting at the top of his lungs now. Panicked, Max ran along the beach, skirting the edge of the jungle. "George!"
He ran and shouted until he collapsed from exhaustion. His head was throbbing—from the heat, the hunger, the maddening thirst that made his throat raw, and the terrible fear of being left alone here again. His eyes betrayed him and closed once more as he continued to call out for George, delirious.
***
He struggled to pry his eyelids open as the sun rose above the horizon once more. Russell was hovering over him.
"God, I thought you were dead! Why did you leave?" the Briton asked indignantly.
"I left?" Max rasped, his throat burning with pain. "Where were you?" His body was trembling slightly from the night's chill, the sun hadn't yet warmed the sand.
"Right where you left me. What are you talking about? Where would I go with a leg like this? I barely managed to crawl to you," Russell said, looking bewildered.
"What? No. I woke up and you weren't there. Where the hell were you?" He stood up, confusion and irritation flashed in his eyes. Yet, he carefully helped George to his feet, holding him by the waist. "I was fucking scared."
“Sorry, maybe I needed the toilet break? But honestly, I don't remember going anywhere. Are you feeling okay?" He began looking Max over with concern.
"I'm fine." He peered at George’s face again, looking for a catch or a smirk. But he could read nothing there but serious concern.
How strange. They had never worried about each other like this before. Sure, they’d had their moments and things hadn't been too bad lately, but they hadn't exactly moved far beyond the days of threatening to ram each other off the road. Well, the absence of civilization certainly does strange things to people.
Pushing aside any unnecessary thoughts, Max slung George’s arm over his shoulder and gripped him firmly around the waist.
"I was scared, too," Russell said quietly. Max glanced at him in surprise. "When you weren't there... I thought you’d decided to ditch the dead weight." He fixed his gaze on the sand.
"Don’t think about such bullshit anymore. I’m not abandoning you. We’re a team now," he declared importantly. "Ha—just like you wanted," Max chuckled.
"That’s not at all how I wanted it," he muttered under his breath, like a small child.
"Be careful what you wish for." For some reason, Max’s mood had vastly improved.
But George, it seemed, couldn't leave it on a sentimental note.
"I won't abandon you, either."
"How sweet."
"No, really, I just wouldn't be able to run away. Like literally. I am glued to you now. Spending a honeymoon with you voluntarily is definitely not in my plans," George said jokingly.
"Perhaps you’d like another coconut cocktail, Mr. Verstappen?" Max quipped, grinning broadly.
"If you would be so kind, Mr. Russell." George shot back a wry smile of his own.
By the time the sun was at its zenith, both of them were sitting in the shade of the palm trees.
"By the way, how long have you been awake?" George asked, fiddling with yet another coconut.
"Sometime the day before I found you. I thought I’d dry up completely without water." Max swallowed hard. All he could look at was Russell’s leg and the shard of aluminum still sticking out of it. He picked up a piece of the coconut shell they had cracked open the day before.
"You know, we’d make terrible survivors," George said thoughtfully. Max gave an inquiring grunt. "We’d last another week on coconuts, tops. I’d most likely catch pneumonia. And you’d end up getting lost on the beach all by yourself." Max snorted with amusement. "Alright, seriously though, everyone knows the first steps are finding water, building a shelter, finding food, and starting a fire.”
"Two out of four—that’s a win," Max said, throwing his hand into the air in triumph.
"Didn't know you were such an optimist," George mumbled, chewing on coconut meat.
"You should try actually talking to me instead of picking a fight every time. You might learn a thing or two," Max said, shrugging.
"Ha! As if you aren't the one who starts it every time."
"If I do start it, it's only because you provoked me!"
"See? You're starting it again.”
"Because you’re provoking me again."
Something rustled in the jungle behind them. Both men fell silent instantly and stared into the thicket. A bird burst from the bushes, brushed its wing against Max’s shoulder, and soared upward. Both men let out a breath of relief.
"Not the best place for an argument." Max nodded in agreement.
"Right. So, what’s next? Shelter and a fire?" Max stood up.
"How about you gather some kindling, and I try to start a fire?" Russell looked at the Dutchman as if asking for forgiveness or a huge favor. His large blue eyes spoke louder than words.
"Yes, of course. Go ahead." He began pacing nearby, keeping George within his line of sight.
He gathered dry grass and twigs so George could get straight to work, while he himself tried to construct some sort of shelter. He piled up a heap of branches, fallen palm fronds, and vines, doggedly attempting to fashion something out of them. Meanwhile, George worked steadily, the dry twigs and grass rustling as he dug into the sand. From time to time, he offered the Dutchman suggestions on how to fasten the materials or proposed new approaches to the structure taking shape. Max suddenly realized how glad he was to be with George right now. Of course, any company would have been an incredible godsend in a place like this, but he was especially glad that it was George.
In truth, their arguments never brought him any satisfaction. It always frustrated him that they couldn't resolve things without shouting or damaging their relationship. For some reason, he had actually wanted to be friends with him, yet something always seemed to get in the way. But now... Max had once heard that the strongest bonds are forged when people go through extreme conditions together. Of course, it wasn't exactly the best time to be thinking about that—after all, it could all end just as quickly as it began.
Still, though. Max was so glad to have George with him. But that aluminum in his leg... Max would swallow hard every time he looked at it, yet he found a way to calm himself: he would shift his gaze to Russell’s golden curls, which seemed to glow in the sunlight. They were tousled into messy strands, twisted by the sea breeze into intricate spirals. The longer Max watched them curl this way and that, the calmer he felt.
"You're staring," George said with intense focus, not looking away from his twigs. Max cleared his throat and turned away.
"Not at all.”
Pausing his task after another failed attempt, George turned to Max and gave him a skeptical look.
"Just watching how you're handling it," Verstappen hastened to explain.
George nodded, pretending to buy it. "Not well at all," he exhaled wearily. "It’s incredibly hot. And on top of that, I have to get a fire going."
“Maybe they’ll at least spot our smoke. And who knows, we might actually break our coconut diet after all.”
Both fell silent in agreement and went back to work. Max rigged up a lopsided, crooked lean-to and lined three sides of it with large leaves. He spread soft, dry grass on the ground. After giving it a satisfied pat, he noticed that George had finally managed to get some smoke going. Together, they fanned the flames, carefully adding more dry grass and then small twigs. Through the sweat, they succeeded in building a real fire.
"Phew. It’s a lot easier in the movies," George said, leaning back.
"And building a shelter like this is no small feat." Max lay down beside him, propping himself up on his elbows. "You did a great job.”
"You’re not bad yourself," George said with a smug smile.
"Alright, Princess, let me show you our new abode." Max extended his hand with a gentlemanly flourish. Grinning broadly, George placed his hand in Max’s. With one smooth, deft motion, the Dutchman swept him up into his arms.
Russell immediately let out a shout. "What are you doing?”
"Is your leg okay?" Max asked anxiously. George paused to gauge the sensation, then gave a quiet nod. "That’s the main thing." Verstappen carefully carried him into their makeshift shelter and just as gently set him down on the bed of grass.
"It’s great to sit on something other than sand," Russell said with satisfaction.
"Right?" Pleased with the reaction, Max stepped back slightly to survey the shelter from the outside. "We’ll need to add a few more leaves here." He ran his hand over the flimsy roof.
"In any case, it’s even better than I imagined.”
“It didn't sound like a compliment, but the wounded get a pass.” He shook his head. "Another cocktail?" Max offered gallantly, and after a nod of agreement, he disappeared behind the palm fronds. On his way back, he tossed some branches onto the fire. He returned with two coconuts, ready to drink.
"Come here often?" Max smiled and waggled his eyebrows, handing George a coconut. George rolled his eyes. "Sorry, they ran out of straws, so, Princess, we’ll have to drink it like this." Max watched his reaction closely. The Brit just chuckled softly and started drinking. Max did the same.
"This place would be paradise, if circumstances were different," George said bitterly.
"One hundred percent. I’d say things aren't actually that bad so far? Except for..." He glanced at George’s leg again. "Well, you know." He cleared his throat.
“That, plus the lack of food—aside from coconuts—decent drinking water, and a shower. We stink to high heaven. Our clothes never fully dry. Don't even get me started on my hair. And it won't be long before I’m walking around with a beard like yours," George said grumpily.
"Oh, I’d like to see that. I’ve never seen you with stubble," Max said, studying the Briton’s face thoughtfully.
"It’s awful.”
"Oh, come on.”
"It’s just disgusting.”
"Do you think the same about mine?" Verstappen suddenly asked. George hesitated slightly.
“Well... no, not really. It suits you. Adds a bit of sex appeal, I guess. But on me, it’s a whole different story.”
"You think I look sexy with stubble?" Max stared unblinkingly at Russell.
"Well, that’s the general consensus.”
"Never heard that before. But even so, does that mean you agree?" Max pressed, moving closer.
"I never said that!”
"But you didn't deny it, either." Max smiled smugly.
George took a frustrated breath, about to say something else, but couldn't find the words.
"I'm sure you look sexy with stubble too. Relax, Russell.”
After finishing another coconut, Max decided to head into the jungle once more—to try and find drinking water, or something edible other than coconuts. George resisted for a long time, but Max convinced him by pointing out that he had already crossed the island from end to end. Nothing had happened. There hadn't been the slightest hint of danger. Besides, George himself had recently mentioned the need for drinking water, and sitting on the beach gnawing on coconuts forever wasn't exactly a great plan. So, Russell stayed behind to guard the campfire.
Max was making his way through the thicket again, armed with a long stick. His thoughts wandered far from the unsettling rustling of the jungle. He just hoped fear wouldn't get the better of him again.
Now that he knew someone was waiting for his return and very likely wouldn't survive without him, Max was loath to come back empty-handed. But he dreaded the thought of not returning at all even more. He wouldn't be able to forgive himself for that, too. He kept thinking about that terrible wound. They still hadn't managed to wash it out; there simply wasn't anything to use. Max couldn't even imagine how many coconuts it would take to clean away all that blood. He winced as he pushed aside yet another plant.
He just hoped there were no snakes, spiders, or tigers here. There weren't supposed to be tigers, right? Max felt a surge of alarm when something crunched to his left. Of course, there were no tigers here. Or cougars, panthers, or jaguars. A cold sweat broke out over Max.
He needed to think about something else—something soothing. Russell’s curls, for instance. They looked so soft, even here. They curled so sweetly and rustled softly—rustling and curling like water. Max had mastered the art of visualization so well that he could have sworn he heard that very sound. Right nearby. To his left. Without a second thought, he headed that way. Pushing aside the dense foliage with a stick, he froze. Water! It was water! He ran to the edge and dropped to his knees.
The pond, filled with clear water, was quite shallow, probably only chest-deep for Max. The bottom was covered in small pebbles. He scooped water into his palm and tasted it with his tongue. Fresh! He was ready to drink half the pond. But he pulled back. He remembered something from a documentary about fresh water—it had to be purified. George would know how. He surely would. And then they could finally wash his wound! Heartened, he dashed back to the shore. To George.
They lit a real fire pit on the shore to make sure the fire didn't go out. Under George's watchful eye, Max surrounded it with stones. God forbid they burned everything here. The walk on this tiny island would take fifteen minutes at most. Fifteen minutes at Max's healthy pace through the dense jungle. With George, the time tripled. But that was okay. Max could see how painful and difficult each step was for Russell. He was ready to carry him, but George convinced him that was a bad idea.
Anything can happen in the jungle. Yet Max, determined to help as much as possible, practically carried the Briton anyway. They had fashioned an improvised sling for him out of a T-shirt—a blue one with the Red Bull logo, naturally—and loaded it with a couple of coconuts and some clean clothes. Slowly but surely, they reached their destination. He gently set George down on the ground. Back on the beach, they had cobbled together a water filter, a rather questionable contraption, but the only option available.
They fashioned a sort of pie out of the T-shirt, filling it with pebbles, dried grass, and coconut fiber. Their plan was to use the most intact coconut shell as a water reservoir and suspend the filter above it from the trees. George set to work on this. Max began to undress. He tested the water with his toe. It was cool—just right for such terrible heat.
"You’re planning to bathe in the water we’re going to drink?" Russell asked, a look of utter disgust on his face.
"What, did you expect a shower or something? We’re going to purify the water anyway.”
"Not exactly reassuring.”
"Princess, stop acting up. You need to wash anyway. With that wound of yours, things won't end well if you don't." Max crouched down next to George and pulled the hem of his shirt upward. George obediently raised his arms. The Dutchman unashamedly studied the bare torso before him. "It’s a shame I never got those topless photos of you in the Mercedes suit.”
"God, are you serious?" he snorted, rolling his eyes.
"Okay, that’s even better. No complains." He reached for George’s fly.
"Whoa, isn't that a bit bold for a first date?" Russell chuckled.
"First date? In case you hadn't noticed, we’ve already moved in together. And we’re definitely sharing a bed tonight." Max smirked, leaning closer to the Brit’s face, and continued undoing his fly.
After a bit of a struggle, they were both down to just their boxers. But Max didn't mind. For some reason, slowly undressing George turned out to be a far from unpleasant task. Verstappen sat him down on the edge of the pond and stepped into the water himself.
"It’s going to hurt," Max warned apologetically—as if that wasn’t exactly what George was thinking. "Let’s take it slow," Max suggested, taking both of George’s hands in his and resting them on his own shoulders.
The Briton leaned forward slightly, and cool, wet hands immediately steadied him by the waist. He slowly lowered himself into the water. As soon as the wound submerged, George let out a long, pained groan. Max immediately pulled him closer, careful to avoid touching the injured leg. George buried his face in the crook of Max’s neck.
"It’s okay, I’m here with you. I’m here," Max whispered into his ear, stroking the hair at the back of his head. "It’ll pass."
Russell was breathing heavily against his neck; Verstappen just held him tighter, as if he could take away his pain. After a couple of minutes, the breathing against Max’s neck steadied. He waited a moment longer, then pulled back slightly, cupping the other’s face in both hands. "You okay?" he whispered.
George nodded uncertainly. Max suddenly kissed him on the cheek. A cheek roughened by the sea breeze, the salty air, and the scorching sun. The Briton’s already large eyes widened, and a flush spread across his cheeks. Max felt flustered. For some reason, in that moment, it had felt right—as if there wasn't a single reason why he shouldn't kiss him. It seemed he had forgotten to think it through properly.
And he hadn't even realized yet what he had done. The surrounding jungle seemed to have gone quiet. All he could hear was the soft, rippling sound of water and the beating of his own heart. The sun stubbornly pierced through the dense foliage, it clearly loved George. How else to explain the way he seemed to glow in the forest's gloom? A gentle breeze lazily stirred the leaves above them, casting a soft play of shadows across his face. God, he was beautiful.
Max desperately wanted to kiss him again. Properly. How could a man with a wound—someone who hadn’t eaten properly or bathed in days, and was sporting a light stubble that wasn't usually his style—still be the most beautiful person in the world? Max felt like he was bursting at the seams as he gazed at the sight before him. Everything about him was perfect—from the tiny scar above his eyebrow to the two moles on his nose.
"Max?" George whispered uncertainly. Something in his tone made Max nervous. His eyes darted about, and only then did he realize what he had done and with whom.
"I didn't..." He started to explain himself, to look for excuses, but couldn't find a single one. He had simply done what he had wanted so badly to do. Max cleared his throat awkwardly and turned his gaze back to the water. "How's... um... your leg? Is it okay?”
"Max." George called out, still whispering. Verstappen refused to look up. It was too dangerous. He might not even realize he was leaning in to kiss the other man again. But Russell didn't give up; lifting Max's chin with two fingers, he forced him to meet his gaze.
"Yeah, yeah, I'm an idiot. I don't know what that was." He stubbornly looked away, even as those graceful fingers continued to hold his chin.
"Can I do the same?" George asked quietly. Max’s eyes immediately darted to his.
He couldn’t believe his ears, so he stared blankly at the Brit, expecting him to laugh right in his face. But he was serious. ”I feel like an even bigger idiot for not asking myself." Taking that as a yes, George hungrily latched onto Max’s lips. It was something he hadn't expected at all, and he even let out a little squeak of surprise. Not exactly the coolest sound, but when the most beautiful creature on earth is kissing you, you can't really help yourself. The deep, wet, loud, and nipping kiss ended just as abruptly as it had begun. Max was breathing heavily. "You’re supposed to give a warning before doing something like that!" he exclaimed, stunned.
"But I did ask.”
"Yeah, but I thought you’d just give me a peck or at least a gentle kiss. I never imagined you kissed like THAT. Not that I didn't like it. Actually, I really did. Yeah, I loved it. I like you, too. A lot. Yeah. You’re like Apollo. Or David. You know, a statue. No, you’re better." He was breathing heavily, struggling to find the right words. Never once taking his eyes off George"Am I talking too much? I can stop.”Max asked anxiously, but continued anyway. “I feel like a kid going through puberty who’s touched a girl for the first time. But you’re way cooler than a girl. You’re just... You… The Masterpiece, verbluffend, magnificent, prachtig. Nee, not at all like that. I don't even have the words for it in any language." Max rattled this off nervously while George, sitting across from him, broke into an endearing smile.
"Easy there, kiddo," he chuckled. "You’re not bad yourself." This time, he planted a light peck on Max’s nose.
"Can we do that again?" Still unable to quite believe what was happening, he asked with only a hint of hope. But George didn't keep him waiting.
Pulling back, George beamed. "It doesn't even hurt. Did you hide some painkillers in your mouth?”
"You can go looking for them, if you want." Max looked away playfully. George laughed—a laugh so childlike it stirred something deep in Max's chest. Suddenly, he swallowed hard, a note of anxiety creeping in. "When we get back... will things go back to the way they were?”
George’s expression grew serious. He pursed his lips thoughtfully—just as he used to do at press conferences before delivering some brilliantly absurd yet biting remark. "I am definitely never eating coconuts again. That’s one thing that gets old fast." Max looked at him with dissatisfaction. "We can’t know how things will turn out. You might even regret it later.”
"Never," he shot back instantly. George smiled affectionately.
"Don't get ahead of yourself. First, we need to get out of here." Max nodded in agreement, but suddenly a hand pressed down on his head, plunging him underwater right up to the crown. He surfaced immediately, glaring at Russell with a mix of surprise and annoyance. Russell was laughing heartily at the look on Max's face. "Who knows? Another couple of days, and I might not be able to stand being on this island with you.”
"You’re the one who’s insufferable! You’re a constant headache." Max moved threateningly toward the Brit.
But the other man protested before the Dutchman could do anything. "You don't hit a wounded man!" Max glanced at the water; a red stain was spreading around their feet.
"Not a chance, Princess." Verstappen quickly and carefully grabbed him by the waist with one hand, supported his back with the other, and tilted him backward so that they both ended up underwater, their lips pressed together.
They dunked each other in the water a bit more. Finally calming down, Max gently sat George on the edge of the pond, just as before. Then he climbed out himself. They drank the purified water—fresh, delicious, cool, and free of that stale coconut smell. They set the next batch of water—the one they would take to the beach—to purify. They changed clothes and both sat down on the ground.
"I need to find some decent food. I’m completely drained," Max said wearily, rubbing his eyes. "But it’s nice here. Cool." No one answered. Lulled by the pleasant sensations, Max drifted off again without realizing it.
He woke up with a foggy head. His vision was swimming and jungle was spinning slightly. He struggled to get to his feet.
"Shit, George, it’s already dark." Silence was the only reply. "We need to get back to the beach. Wake up." He jabbed his hand out to the right, but there was no one there. His arm just swung uselessly through the air. "George? Where are you?" Max stood unsteadily, trying to make out George in the darkness amidst the swirling jungle.
Suddenly, a shout rang out in the distance. Max immediately bolted toward the sound. "Russell! Where are you?" He ran headlong, constantly crashing into trees and stumbling as his legs gave way beneath him. Another shout came from ahead.
“Max!"
Verstappen scrambled back to his feet and ran. Something glinted amidst the foliage. He lunged toward it, nearly tripping over Russell’s leg, which was pierced by a shard of aluminum. A wild boar roared furiously in front of him. It charged at George, but Max leapt in its path and kicked it in the snout with all his might. The beast was momentarily disoriented. Max grabbed its protruding tusks with both hands and smashed its head against a tree trunk with every ounce of his strength. The boar dropped dead. Breathing heavily, Verstappen turned to George.
"What the hell are you doing here?" He was gasping for air. "How the fuck did you even get away?”
"I just wanted to take a leak and got a bit lost.”
"Are you out of your mind? Fuck, if you need to go, tell me. Why the hell would you go into the jungle alone with a leg like that? Why didn't you just stand by a tree? I ran across the entire island to find you." Max shouted, not holding back, having barely caught his breath.
George looked down guiltily. "Alright... it's a good thing I made it in time." He squatted down beside him. "Just don't do that again. If you need something—anything—just tell me. Deal?”
"But you were asleep!”
"Then wake me up!” Max said irritably, as if speaking to a petulant child. "No matter what I’m doing, I’ll drop it for you, okay?” He took him by the chin and forced him to look at him. "It’s my fault. Don’t think you’re burdening me with your request." George’s eyes glistened in the soft moonlight.
"That’s not true. You aren’t to blame for anything.”
Max shook his head in disagreement. "I insisted you fly with me. You’d have been preparing for the race by now. Safe and sound.”
"I’m an adult. I can make my own decisions about how and with whom I fly." He placed his hand on Max’s wrist. "It’s not your fault the plane crashed. It’s not your fault," he repeated earnestly.
“Anyway, on the bright side... we have food.”
Once on the beach, they realized that calling it a "food" was a bit too early. Of course, the sight of the wild boar carcass was a welcome one, promising the satisfaction of a full belly—a sensation that felt distant and all but forgotten. In reality, however, they had nothing to butcher it with—nor the nerve to try. They decided to roast it whole over their campfire. George used a stone to sharpen a long, sturdy branch, while Max worked on reviving the fire, which had burned down almost completely while they were away.
They set up a structure using forked sticks on either side of the fire and struggled to hoist the wild boar onto the branch. It roasted slowly while they savored the aroma of the cooking meat. Their stomachs rumbled in unison. After a while, it seemed to Max that the meat was ready.
While the boar was roasting, they sharpened a few more sticks and struggled to carve off pieces of meat for themselves.
"Fuck!" Max leaned back in bliss. The meat was bland, tough, and unevenly cooked, but right then, they couldn't imagine anything tasting better.
Having eaten their fill, they sat in their dwelling. Both gazed at the shifting patterns of the waves. Max bit his lip. He couldn't shake the feeling of guilt.
"I'm sorry.”
George turned away in annoyance. "I already told you, it’s not your fault.”
"No, I..." He let out a loud breath and ran a hand over his face. "I don't know how to explain it." George waited patiently for Max to find the words. "I am deeply sorry that you’re going through this. That every second here is painful for you, that you’re constantly hungry and thirsty. But..." He looked apologetically into those bright blue eyes. "But I can’t shake the feeling that I’m really glad I brought you along. And even if I’d known back then what I was condemning you to, I probably would have done the same thing. I know, I’m selfish." Max lowered his gaze. He couldn't bear to look into those eyes that were studying him so intently anymore. George remained silent, lost in thought.
“Even if I’d known a piece of metal would tear through my leg, I still would have agreed to fly with you. I wouldn’t wish for anyone to end up here alone. Especially not you.” He gently pressed his lips against Max’s. “Don’t think about such bullshit anymore.” He tenderly stroked Max’s cheek. “We’re both tired. Let’s get some sleep.”
***
Max woke up to a strange noise. It was painfully loud, and a strong wind buffeted his face. His eyes hadn't yet adjusted to the light. Someone ran up to him.
"George? Has your leg healed?" he asked, confused.
"Max Emilian Verstappen? Are you alright?" an unfamiliar voice asked. Max focused his vision. Standing before him was a person in rescue gear. The Dutchman snapped fully awake.
"Yes! Yes, I’m fine." He looked around for George. He wasn't there. "Where’s George? Did you pick him up already?" The rescuer helped him to his feet. A helicopter was circling overhead with a rope ladder lowered.
"What? Who are you talking about?”
"George Russell. He’s got an injured leg. Didn’t you see him?" Max spoke anxiously as the rescuer guided him toward the ladder.
"You mean George William Russell, the driver, your rival?" Max nodded. "He’s perfectly fine. You don’t need to worry about him," the rescuer said, his tone odd. "Was he the only one with you?" the man asked, using that same strange tone.
"Yes. When did you pick him up?”
“Don't worry, you'll need to climb up the ladder. Can you manage that?”
Max nodded. "I think so. How did George get up? His leg is in terrible shape.”
"We helped him. Don't worry. I'm going to put a safety harness on you." He put a vest on Max and clipped on the rope that was dangling next to the ladder. Max kept craning his neck, trying to catch a glimpse of the top of George's head sticking out of the helicopter, but he couldn't see it. Finally, following the rescuer's instructions, he climbed up. Two other rescuers immediately began examining him. The man who had met him on the ground climbed up behind him.
"We're ready to go," he shouted to the pilot.
"What? No, wait. Where’s George?" The rescuers exchanged anxious glances.
"He’s fine.”
"Where is he?" Max wasn't listening. "Did you leave him there? He won't survive on his own. His leg…"
"Mr. Verstappen, please, calm down," one of the rescuers stammered.
"Take this." The other held out a pill. Max brusquely shoved his hand away.
"Where is he? Where’s George?" Max kept shouting until he felt a sharp prick in his neck and blacked out.
***
When he opened his eyes, a bright light struck them again. It was starting to get really infuriating. Everything was swimming again. It was far too bright. But this time, it wasn't hot at all, and there was no sound of waves, just an unpleasant beeping noise. Someone nearby stirred.
"Mr. Verstappen. How are you feeling?" He tried to sit up, but the IV catheter in his arm tugged painfully at his skin. "Oh, be careful. I’ll call the doctor right away." The woman’s voice receded.
His vision cleared, and he saw that he was lying in a room filled with flowers—from fans, friends, acquaintances, and colleagues. The door swung open again, and a woman in a medical coat walked in, carrying a folder.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Verstappen. How are you feeling?”
His throat felt raw, but he still tried to say the one thing that kept running through his mind. “Where..."
"You’re already in Monaco.”
Max shook his head in frustration. “Where..."
"Where is who? Your family is here. They’ll be able to visit you. We’re going to run a few more tests. The ones we’ve already done showed—as you’d expect—severe malaise caused by a lack of essential nutrients and prolonged exposure to the heat. But I can assure you, you’re going to be just fine.”
"Where..." Max began again, but he couldn't manage to finish the sentence.
"Yes, I’ll call them in right now.”
The door closed again, and a minute later, P ran into the room, followed by Kelly.
"Dad!" Penelope cried out happily. She hugged his legs. Kelly pulled a chair up to the bed, sat down, and took Max’s hand.
"We were so worried," she said, raising their joined hands to her lips.
Yeah, Max must be a real bastard—asking his own girlfriend about the only person on his heart right now.
"George. Where is he?" he finally rasped out. Kelly’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, then furrowed in confusion. "Russell," Max clarified, as if that were the issue.
"He... um. I don't know. To be honest.”
"They left him there," Max whispered in horror, starting to get up again. Kelly tried to keep him in bed.
"Max, calm down. What are you talking about? P, call the doctor," she said to her daughter with concern. The girl dashed out the door and returned with a woman.
"George. They left him there," Max repeated. "We have to get him. Let me go!" He was shouting at Kelly like a madman, making no attempt to restrain himself. More nurses rushed into the room and held him down by his arms and legs.
"Max, what are you talking about? Who left Russell behind, and where?" Kelly genuinely tried to understand.
"On the island. They left him on the island. We caught... a wild boar. There’s a little water left there, but he won't last long. I have to go back." He was babbling incoherently.
"Max!" Kelly shouted sternly. She cupped his face in her hands. "George wasn't on the island. He had a great race in China. What are you talking about?" Max stared at Piquet in confusion. He blinked silently, finally calming down.
"What?" Frowning, he scanned the faces of the people in the room. They were lying to him. Laughing at him while George was dying alone on the island. "No, he was with me. He... We were flying together. And then the plane crashed," Verstappen recalled slowly.
"Max," Kelly said in an anxious whisper. "You were flying alone.”
He frowned, trying to figure out who was lying—his own memory or his girlfriend. He shook his head emphatically.
"I want to see him then. Where's my phone?" He began looking around the nightstand.
"Probably somewhere out in the ocean. I’ll call him if you really want me to," Kelly said condescendingly. The nurses ushered them out and hooked Max up to an IV with a new medication. A heavy, irresistible drowsiness washed over him.
***
When he opened his eyes again, the first thing he saw was a mass of neatly styled curls. Max swallowed hard.
"George?" he called out softly. The Briton sat down on the chair beside the bed. A visitor’s gown hung loosely over his shoulders.
"Max. Kelly called me. She sounded... odd, actually," he gave a nervous chuckle. "You wanted to see me?" he asked in surprise, still unsure if he had understood correctly. His voice was full of life.
"Very much so," Max said quietly. He studied George closely—his face, tanned no more than usual and perfectly clean-shaven, and his completely uninjured leg. He couldn't believe the Russell before him was real. Slowly and cautiously, afraid of shattering the vision, Max reached out toward his cheek. He let out a ragged breath as his palm touched skin that felt so real. George sat awkwardly, unsure of what to do. "You weren't there," Max admitted, sounding almost sad. "On the island. I was alone.”
“The doctors said it might have been a psychological defense mechanism. I'm sorry." George pursed his lips.
"It felt so real." Max’s eyes welled up slightly, but he swallowed the lump in his throat. "My mind really played tricks on me. I’m glad you’re okay." He reluctantly pulled his hand away.
"You are too, now," Russell hastened to assure him. "That nightmare is over. Everyone in the paddock was absolutely terrified when they found out your jet had crashed.”
"Yeah, a nightmare.” He said thoughtfully. “Did you really almost fly with me?" George gave a brief nod in response. "Thank God you said no," he lied. "Won't you stay with me?" Max asked hopefully.
George smiled indulgently. "Yes, of course." Max’s face lit up.
They talked about how the Grand Prix had gone. Following doctors' advice, George avoided questions about the island and the crash. Yet Max kept circling back to the subject time and again. They talked for a long while, but sooner or later, George had to leave. He left behind nothing but the bitter taste of loneliness. Lying in his empty bed, Max couldn't come to terms with the idea that this whole beautiful love story had existed only in his head, that he had made it all up. Why had he imagined it that way? Why with George? Throughout it all, he hadn't once thought of Kelly or P.
It just had to be George Russell. The worst part was that his feelings for the imaginary George hadn’t vanished, they had simply shifted and taken root in the real one. Throughout their entire conversation, he couldn’t tear his gaze away—from his eyes, his curls, the actual scar above his eyebrow, and the two moles on his nose. How did he know they were there? How the hell did he know?
***
He was discharged a week later. He was prescribed a heap of medication to take at home. It was time to get back into shape. The next Grand Prix was a week away, and he had no intention of missing it. If Carlos had managed to win a race after having his appendix out, then Max could do it too. He was ready for that. The paddock was teeming with cameras and people. They greeted him joyfully and hugged him, some even tearfully. He was ready for that, too. What was he not ready for? Seeing George at press conferences, walking past his motorhome, seeing him in the mirrors during free practice, or anywhere else. Of course, he cherished every second spent with George safe and sound, yet his heart ached at the realization that nothing had changed for George. That Max hadn’t planted a kiss on him in that pond, and George hadn’t responded with an even hungrier kiss.
A few times, Max saw George mentally preparing a sharp retort to Verstappen’s usual quips. But whenever the Dutchman simply offered a gentle, welcoming touch on the shoulder and asked how he was feeling, the Briton’s eyes would widen in bewilderment, and he would flash a sweet smile.
Before the drivers' parade, Max tried to position himself closer to Russell. But Norris wouldn't leave his side. Lando waved cheerfully at Verstappen, beckoning him over.
"Max! Our very own Tom Hanks!" George gave Lando a nudge in the ribs with his elbow, but he didn’t understand why. ”They say George was your Wilson?”
"Lando!" Russell hissed.
"It's true," Max said with a shrug.
"It's a defense mechanism. Can you imagine the stress?”
"Yeah, but it’s interesting that Max’s mechanism chose you specifically." Norris glanced enigmatically at Max.
"He was the last person I saw. Maybe that’s why." Verstappen came up with the explanation more for his own sake.
"Yeah, probably," George agreed. "In any case, the most important thing is that you’re back with us." He gently took Max’s hand. A shiver ran down the Dutchman’s spine. He looked at their joined hands, then up at George.
Lando, standing nearby, was wearing a strange smile. "Yeah, exactly.”
George started looking around. "I’m going to find Kimi. I think he’s running late.”
"Sure," Lando called out after him. He turned his gaze to Max. "Spill it," Norris blurted out, eager for some juicy gossip.
"There’s nothing to spill." Max looked away, feeling self-conscious.
"Yeah, right, as if I can't tell.”
Glancing around to ensure there were no cameras, microphones, or reporters nearby, Max looked seriously at Lando. "I kissed an imaginary George.”
"You what?!" Norris exclaimed. Max quickly covered his mouth with his hand to keep him from drawing any more attention. In the distance, George glanced their way with interest. Catching his breath, Lando pulled Max's hand away. "Seriously?" he whispered, a look of disbelief on his face. Max—perhaps only just realizing how terrible that sounded and how absurd the situation actually was—buried his face in his hands. "Wait, so... how was it?”
"Really good. It was absolutely amazing," he whispered through his hands.
Lando couldn't suppress a stunned chuckle. “Well, that was an imaginary George, right? You almost certainly imagined him as being much better than he actually is—better-looking, kinder... in short, better.
Max shook his head. "He’s a thousand times better in real life. Though I didn't think that was even possible.”
Lando stared, dumbfounded. "You mean you liked real George after kissing an imaginary version of him?”
"I don't know. There were so many details. Things I hadn't even thought about before. Beauty marks I hadn't noticed. What if it was always there? That feeling?”
"Beauty marks you hadn't seen?" Norris asked, flustered. "You aren't saying you did anything else besides kissing, are you?”
"What? No!”
“Don't pretend you wouldn't want to.”
Max looked at Norris and let out a pained groan, burying his face in his hands again. “God, what am I supposed to do?”
“Well, I don't know, ask him out on a date. You know, while you were away, he broke up with Carmen.”
“Carmen.” Max gave a wry chuckle. "I didn't think about Kelly even once while I was there," he admitted.
“Maybe you needed to be thrown into an extreme situation to realize your true feelings.” Lando shrugged.
“What if it’s just PTSD? And I end up making the biggest mistake of my life?”
“Well, don't go throwing yourself at him right away. Test the waters—figure out how you feel and whether he feels anything too.”
***
The entire weekend was an ordeal for Max. Handling the car was a grueling struggle, answering reporters was painfully difficult, and the task of simultaneously pursuing and avoiding George was even more agonizing and complex. It became truly impossible once they both found themselves on the podium, standing behind the race winner, Lando.
In the cool-down room, Norris was absolutely beaming as he watched the two of them, constantly nudging them to interact. Thank God they were soon called out for the trophy presentation.
Drenched in champagne, all three smiled for the photo. Norris unceremoniously shooed the other two off the podium so he could take a picture with his mechanic.
Max stopped George in a deserted corridor. The Briton turned to him, still smiling. He was soaking wet, and even here in the shade, the sun managed to catch the curls that had escaped his styled hair. He looked more handsome than ever. Max wasn't sure why he had stopped him, but deep down, he knew he had to do it—right then. He felt exactly the same sensation he had experienced by that pond on the jungle island: that magnetic pull bypassing his brain—which only deigned to kick in once he felt his lips brush against the other man's cheek. Max recoiled sharply, covering his mouth with his hand.
"God, I’m sorry," he blurted out. George was staring with those big, wide eyes. "I... Damn, I'm an idiot. I'm sorry." He started to walk away, but George grabbed his wrist.
Russell was breathing heavily—probably from the race—and studying Max intently, looking closely at his face and lips."Can I do the same?”
Max’s heart skipped a beat. He gave a quick nod, and George’s hot lips instantly covered his—hungry, nipping, wet, and loud. Max nearly swooned at the familiar sensation.
Norris rounded the corner, admiring his trophy. He didn't notice the pair in the hallway at first, then stopped dead in his tracks. "Holy shit!” He nearly dropped the cup. "Exactly what I told him not to do!" he grumbled under his breath as he quietly walked away.