Chapter Text
Max Verstappen hated George Russell. It was a simple fact, self-evident, as obvious as a mathematical axiom. Every object on Earth falls because of gravity; tires wear down the more you use them; the FIA occasionally makes—well, more than occasionally—decisions no sane person could explain; and George Russell was insufferable. Max never felt the need to interrogate that statement any further. If you hated a food, you just hated it—did you really need to break down its molecular structure to justify it? Not everything needed a tidy, well-reasoned explanation. Hating something was allowed to just be hating it. If Max hated the way George's jaw ticked ever so slightly in press conferences while he kept his mouth politely curved at the corners and still managed to say something that flipped your stomach, or the way he whined when things didn't go his way—then he hated it. That was that.
The problem was that Max ran into George far more often than he'd have liked. The paddock was smaller than people thought, there were an obscene number of cameras everywhere, and even though their so-called public reconciliation was ancient history by now, the moment the two of them ended up in the same space, everyone descended like a pack of hounds catching a scent. Max had his share of friction with other drivers too, but whatever this thing with George was, it was different. With Lando it was half joking, half genuine. With Charles it was clean, almost tidy. With Lewis, the history ran so deep it could practically be dressed up as maturity by now. But George—George made him irrationally angrier. When George smiled while talking, it pissed him off more. When George was polite, it was even more suspicious. Even when the man did absolutely nothing, that long neck, those perfectly squared shoulders, that hair combed with borderline compulsive precision—all of it was enough to grate on Max's nerves.
Every single time, Max thought the same thing: how the hell does that man manage to stand so straight?
Did someone slot an entire FIA rulebook down his spine?
That day was no different. In the press conference ahead of the race, Max and George happened to get grouped together, of course. Max slouched back in his chair, tapping a finger idly against the microphone. The British press was, once again, the overwhelming majority in the room. Today's going to be fucking great. Beside him, George sat loosely, almost relaxed—and somehow even that looked insufferable. His team polo's collar sat too perfectly straight, the watch on his wrist looked expensive, and the fingers wrapped around his water bottle were unnecessarily long. Max caught himself staring at that hand and immediately snapped his eyes forward.
He was looking because he hated it. When you hated something, the irritating parts just naturally stood out—
"George, what did you think of your battle with Max in the last race?"
George smiled as if he'd been waiting for that exact question. The second Max saw it, he swore internally. That wasn't a friendly smile. That was the expression of a surgeon selecting his scalpel right before dissecting someone cleanly with those pale blue eyes.
"Max is an incredibly talented driver. We all enjoy racing alongside him."
So far, so fine. A compliment, of all things? Max shot George a suspicious sideways glance.
"Though talent doesn't always come paired with good judgment."
Knew it. Max let out a disbelieving laugh. George enunciated every single word too clearly. Maybe he was hiding an accent, maybe it was some kind of compulsion, who knew—but there was something about that particular George Russell brand of crisp British English that got under Max's skin. Judgment. Paired with. Doesn't always. Like he was laying each word out neatly on a table for Max's inspection—here, go on, take a good look at your own flaws. It was genuinely insufferable.
Max picked up the microphone.
"George is always going on about respect. Great. Sport does need respect."
George's eyebrow ticked up, barely perceptibly. Max didn't miss it.
"But to get respect, you have to know how to give it first."
The air in the room shifted, subtly. Somebody sucked in a breath. Somebody else swallowed a laugh. George kept smiling, but the pale blue of his eyes went a shade colder. Max felt a strange satisfaction watching it happen. There it is. That cold look. The exact moment the composed, dignified mask cracked, just slightly. Watching that happen was pretty great. No—not just great, it was deeply satisfying. There was nothing quite like the feeling of successfully getting under the skin of someone you hated!
"Interesting, Max."
"Always am."
"Though I do think there's a difference between disrespect and pointing out dangerous driving."
"You seem to think every criticism you make is automatically correct."
"And you seem to think every reckless thing you do can be dressed up as instinct."
They both laughed at the same time. Neither laugh was, by any measure, a happy one.
The irritation didn't fade even after the press conference ended. Max pulled off his Red Bull cap on his way backstage, then jammed it back on. The corridor was packed—cameras, crew, PR handlers, all tangled together in motion. A little further ahead, George was talking to someone from Mercedes. Max glared at the back of his head and found something new to be annoyed about. Why does even his walk look that straight? George moved like he genuinely believed there was an invisible line drawn on the floor and he was obligated to walk exactly along it. Exhausting human being, Max muttered to himself.
"Hey, Max!"
Lando's voice came from behind him. Max turned to see him approaching, phone in hand, wearing a deeply suspicious grin. That particular expression usually meant somebody was about to get bothered.
"What."
"So the FIA built this new booth for the weekend, apparently it's some kind of hyper-realistic simulator experience. They want a few drivers to try it out. You in?"
"No."
"You don't even know what it actually is yet."
"The FIA built it, you're grinning like you're up to something, and it's obviously going to be annoying for me. No."
Lando clutched his chest, feigning heartbreak.
"Wow, how can you be so cold."
"Because it's you."
"George is doing it too, though."
Max stopped walking. Lando's grin got wider. Max hated that he'd just reacted. He really, really hated it. It wasn't that George doing it made him interested—it was that thinking about whatever smug thing George might pull annoyed him. And it was best to get ahead of things that annoyed him.
"Why are you even telling me that?"
"No reason?" Lando's grin turned downright devious. "I just think it'd be funny if you two did it together."
"Please go find some other source of entertainment."
"No. This is the best one."
Max sighed. Lando already knew, of course, that Max would come along. That pissed him off, too. In the end, Max followed Lando to the FIA promotional booth. It was decked out with a pointless amount of flair—silver panels, blue lighting, touchscreens displaying who-knew-what, and a capsule-shaped simulator in the middle. Beside it hung a large warning sign.
PLEASE DO NOT PRESS BEFORE CALIBRATION
Max read the sign. He'd grown up speaking Dutch, but his English wasn't so bad that he couldn't understand a warning label. But buttons that said don't press tended to look exactly like buttons you wanted to press. Especially when the button in question was bright red, perfectly round, and shaped like the kind of cylindrical switch that would sink in with a satisfying click under your finger.
"Max, they said not to press that."
"I know."
Max pressed it. Lando's face twisted into a ridiculous what-are-you-doing expression.
Nothing happened at first. Max raised an eyebrow at Lando, see, nothing. Then, the very next moment, a low mechanical hum rose from inside the simulator. The booth's blue lighting began flashing in an urgent rhythm, and unreadable characters started scrolling rapidly across the screen.
"Uh—uh?"
Lando muttered beside him, flustered. Somewhere behind them, someone yelled Cut the power! Max felt the floor drop out from under him—not physically falling, exactly, but like his insides had suddenly dropped away. His vision bled white. The last thing he saw was the shape of Lando's mouth forming what was probably we're fucked.
When Max opened his eyes again, he was standing in the middle of the paddock.
Nothing seemed particularly wrong. Familiar faces moved around him, the surroundings looked untouched, and somewhere he could hear engines and equipment powering down. The sun was hot, heat shimmering up off the asphalt. Max blinked. He'd been inside the FIA booth a second ago, and now he was outside. That, at least, was definitely wrong. He looked down at his own hands first. Five fingers. Two legs. Red Bull shirt. Even the skinny jeans. Seems fine.
Then someone spoke from behind him.
"Verstappen. Why are you just standing there this early in the morning?"
Max turned around on reflex. And froze.
George Russell was standing there.
No—wait, was it George Russell?
It was George Russell, and it wasn't.
The posture was still that same infuriating perfect straightness. The eyes were the same—wide, blue, deep-set with a distinct crease, framed by long, thick lashes, settled into that cool, evaluating look, like they were constantly grading someone. The lips were the same soft red, their corners politely upturned.
But the jawline was rounder now, softer. The neck was long and smooth, somehow slimmer. The brown hair was pulled up into a tight, high ponytail, and even the loose strands framing the forehead curled like they'd been styled that way on purpose. The team shirt was the same, but the lines of the body underneath it weren't. Max looked away before he could take in the difference any further. There was absolutely no reason to look any closer.
...But there was nothing to be done about where his eyes kept going. The shoulders were still straight, but the chest was slightly... different, curved in a way that had nothing to do with a man's build. Shorter than the George he knew. Roughly Lando's height, if he had to guess. Long, slender legs. Overall, still mostly sharp, straight lines, but with something softer, more composed, threaded through it. Max blinked, very slowly.
She was a woman.
George Russell was a woman.
For a moment, Max genuinely thought his brain had finally broken.
"...What?"
George, in her new form, arched one eyebrow. Ah. That, at least, was unmistakably George Russell. Whatever the gender, that particular way of raising an eyebrow was so purely him that it was almost unsettling.
"I asked because you're acting different than usual."
Max shut his mouth. Strangely, that was reassuring. It's George. Definitely, unmistakably George Russell, judging by the sheer level of insufferable. The world seemed to have gone a little wrong, but the fact that George Russell was capable of pissing him off had not changed one bit. Max hated that he found that constant so absurdly comforting.
"You—"
"Me?"
Max looked at George's face, then jerked his gaze aside. He felt like he shouldn't be looking. No—there was no reason to look at all. George Russell was someone he hated looking at, always had been, and this female version of George Russell was supposed to be exactly the same. But regardless of how much he hated it, his eyes kept betraying him anyway. The nape of her neck, bared beneath the tied-back hair. The fingers laced together over crossed arms. The slender wrist just visible under the sleeve. The faint movement of red lips while she talked. Max swore internally. This is observation. Drivers need good observational skills. That's all this is.
"What's with you today? Are you actually sick?"
"No."
"So you just naturally look this stupid, then?"
"Guess your tone doesn't change even when your gender does."
The words were out before Max realized his mistake. This George—whether that was even the right way to put it anymore—narrowed her eyes. Ah. That, too, was a distinctly George Russell expression.
"...Gender?"
"...Nothing. Never mind."
"Verstappen."
"What."
"Did you hit your head really hard yesterday, by any chance?"
Max didn't answer. He couldn't, honestly. He had no idea whether he'd dropped into some parallel universe, whether he was dreaming, or whether the FIA had finally built a simulator so deranged it could hijack the human mind. The only thing he knew for certain was that the George Russell standing in front of him was, currently, a woman—and that she was every bit as insufferable as a woman as he was as a man.
"Don't worry about it."
"I'd love not to."
"Then just don't."
"I would, if you weren't standing in the middle of the paddock like a lost cat."
Max narrowed his eyes.
"Cat?"
"What, did you want me to say bull instead?"
Ah. There it was. That's George. Max was almost moved. How was it possible to get under someone's skin that effectively, no matter which universe you dropped him into? At this point, it had to count as a genuine talent. It wasn't just typical British dryness—it was too specifically George Russell for that. He hated to admit it, but it was true. Just as Max opened his mouth to fire something back, a Red Bull PR handler called out to him from behind—the official press conference was starting soon. Max shot George one last glance and walked off toward the Red Bull garage. The back of his neck itched the entire way. It felt like George was watching him. No, she probably actually was. That was just how George looked at people—analyzing, assessing, like he'd already found three logical holes in whatever you'd just said.
Max hated that look. Genuinely hated it. Which was, naturally, exactly why it bothered him this much.
The press room looked almost identical to the one from before. The lighting, the chairs, the water bottles, the expressions on the journalists' faces—all exactly as he remembered. The only difference was that the George sitting next to him was now a woman. Max tried to look straight ahead as much as possible. But the harder he tried, the more overwhelming her presence beside him became. Female George sat calm and loose, exactly the way male George always did—shoulders open, hands resting with that same effortless elegance. At this point, it probably wasn't even about gender. It was just a defining trait of the species known as George Russell.
A journalist asked:
"George, what did you think of your battle with Max in the last race?"
The exact same question. Max chanted internally, Don't. Don't say it. Don't you dare— Female George smiled.
"Max is an incredibly talented driver. We all enjoy racing alongside him."
Max wanted to close his eyes.
"Though talent doesn't always come paired with good judgment."
The whole room shifted at once—the clatter of keyboards, camera shutters, a scattering of quiet laughs. Judgment. Paired with. Doesn't always. Not a single word out of place. Apparently, no matter which universe he'd landed in, George Russell had carried over the exact same script for pissing people off. George Russell was equally insufferable across every possible reality. Max was furious. And yet, at the same time, that voice reached his ears with startling clarity—lower and steadier than male George's, somehow. The exact same words, start to finish, and still they cut in a way that felt, somehow, softer. A soft knife. The second the thought crossed his mind, Max got angry at himself. What the hell is a soft knife. Knives are knives. Have I lost my mind.
The microphone passed to Max. He looked at George. She was already looking back at him, perfectly composed, wearing an expression that said, well, let's hear what you've got. Max hated that expression. He hated it more because it was so familiar.
"George always does have a way with words."
George's mouth curved up, just slightly.
"Not sure why that would be a problem."
"Speaking well and speaking correctly are two different things."
"That cuts both ways, doesn't it."
"At least I know exactly what I'm doing."
"Do you, though."
The journalists practically held their breath. Max laughed. The press in this world apparently loved watching other people fight just as much. Humans were pretty much the same everywhere, it seemed.
"Yeah. You think you respect people, but really you just think anything that isn't your way of doing things is wrong."
George's eyes went cold. Max felt that strange satisfaction again. Right, this was the familiar game—attack, deflect, strike again. Except today, oddly, everything carried a slightly different temperature. Every time her gaze landed on him, Max felt angry and, at the same time, found himself wanting to sit up straighter. It was a ridiculous impulse. Why? Because George was looking at him? Don't be absurd.
After the press conference wrapped, Max tried to slip out and grab a moment's rest. The world, unfortunately, was not that kind. The driver's parade had been moved up in the schedule, which meant several drivers had to squeeze into small electric carts together. And of course—of course, ridiculously—Max ended up in the back of the same cart as George. Why? Kimi Antonelli, that's why. Kimi liked him a little too much, and the second their eyes met from across the paddock he'd come sprinting over, and wherever Kimi went, so went his teammate. Which meant George. Why did the three of them have to end up grouped together, of all combinations!
Kimi, in the driver's seat, suddenly went visibly tense, his brown eyes flicking nervously between Max and George. George spoke, calm and unbothered, as if nothing were out of the ordinary.
"Kimi, just drive safely, alright."
“Yes, sis.”
Max paused at the word. Sis. Right. Apparently that was what Kimi called her here. Still, George Russell? Sis? The words sounded ridiculous together. If anything, the only title that actually suited George was that insufferable Brit. Or maybe—diva—
Max cut that thought off immediately. Dangerous territory.
The back of the cart was absurdly cramped. Not built for two drivers, certainly not two with limbs this long and egos roughly the size of their cars—which described both Max and George perfectly. Max hooked one arm over the edge and pressed himself as far to the side as physically possible, but their shoulders touched before the cart had even started moving. George spoke immediately.
"Don't press up against me."
"You think I want to be pressed against you?"
"Why are you getting mad at me because you're huge?"
"Because you're too long."
"'Long' is usually a compliment."
"Not this time."
"Then your vocabulary needs work."
Max swallowed a dry laugh. Genuinely impressive. Even with the world flipped inside out and gender swapped, George Russell was George Russell. His ability to get under someone's skin held steady across every conceivable timeline. That, at least, was almost admirable. Not admirable, exactly. More like the specific kind of awe you feel looking at an exceptionally well-engineered torture device.
The cart was small. Absurdly small. There wasn't even a handle to hold onto in the back—the only remotely graspable thing was the top edge of Kimi's seatback up front, and reaching it meant leaning forward. The problem was that leaning forward meant pressing even further into George.
The moment he realized that, Max gave up on the idea entirely. He'd rather fall over than get any closer to George Russell. Even this version of George Russell. If anything, that made it worse. If it had been the George he knew, he could've just cursed about a shoulder bump and moved on. But the George sitting next to him right now was a woman, with a ponytail, a neck that looked unnecessarily long, and lines running beneath the team shirt that were similar to the George he knew's and yet entirely different. Max hated the mere fact that he'd noticed the difference at all.
He was looking because he hated it. That's all.
Things you hate just naturally stand out.
"Here we go."
"Slowly."
"Yes. Please."
Kimi nodded with grim determination, gripping the steering wheel with both hands like he'd genuinely forgotten this was a golf cart and not the Grand Prix start. He went to press the accelerator with the utmost caution.
He really did try—
—but the cart lurched forward with a violent jolt. Whoa, whoa! Kimi's flustered voice cracked from the front seat. In that brief jerking motion, Max's body rocked backward. He tensed his left arm on reflex, trying to catch the edge—but the tiny cart barely had anything to hold onto, and the front seatback was frustratingly out of reach.
That was the moment something clamped down hard on Max's right thigh.
A hand. George's hand.
George Russell's long, slender, infuriatingly neat fingers were gripping Max's thigh.
Max went completely still. What. The. Fuck.
The cart had already steadied back onto its path. Kimi was up front repeating sorry, sorry, over and over, but none of it really registered with Max. The world had suddenly and strangely narrowed down to almost nothing—Kimi's voice, the tires rolling over asphalt, the distant laughter of the crew, all of it shoved one layer back. What remained was only George's hand, resting on his thigh.
Fingers, to be precise. No—the palm. No—the pressure.
It had gripped hard. Genuinely hard. Max found that baffling. George looked slim, all long limbs and thin wrists, with fingers that looked like they belonged on a pianist, and yet the strength behind that grip had been unexpectedly firm. He could still feel the exact press of those slender fingertips digging into the denim of his jeans. For a split second, he felt the muscle of his thigh tense in response, almost against his own will.
Christ.
He hated how specific this piece of information suddenly was. What George Russell's finger pressure felt like when gripping his thigh, how warm the palm had been, exactly where that hand had been pressing right up until it pulled away with startling speed—none of that was information Max Verstappen ever needed to know for the rest of his life.
And now he knew it. Knew it far too well.
George had yanked the hand back like it had been scalded—at least, that's how it looked to Max. She was doing her usual routine of looking elegant and unbothered, but the speed at which she'd retracted her hand hadn't been elegant at all. And, naturally, Max hadn't missed it.
"That was an accident."
George said. Too quickly. Max, already on edge, turned his head slowly.
"I didn't say anything."
"Your face did."
"Don't read my face."
"Your face is honestly too simple to even count as reading it."
"Not sure that's something the person who just grabbed my thigh gets to say."
George's eyes widened, just a fraction. The smallest fraction. Anyone else might have missed it. Max didn't. He decided not to think about why he'd noticed.
"The cart moved without warning. There was nowhere else to grab."
"There's Kimi's seatback right there."
"You were in the way."
"I was?"
"Because you're big."
Max let out an incredulous laugh.
"So what you're saying is, I'm big, so you grabbed my thigh?"
"That is an extremely condensed and distorted version of events."
"Your hand wasn't the least bit distorted. It was right here."
He tapped a finger against his own thigh. George's gaze dropped there for a fraction of a second, then flicked back up. Her expression twitched, just barely. But Max caught it again. Oh, this was fun. George's voice dropped.
"Max."
"What."
"I'd appreciate it if you'd stop repeating that word."
"Thigh?"
"Max."
Max pressed his lips together, biting back a laugh. He had to. If he laughed now, George might genuinely shove him out of the moving cart. But it was funny, objectively funny—George Russell grabbing his thigh and then telling him not to say the word out loud. Parallel universes, apparently, weren't entirely bad. No—they were bad. Extremely bad. The problem was that they were also, somehow, entertaining.
George sat perfectly still beside him, staring resolutely straight ahead. That was funny too. An even straighter posture than usual. An even colder expression. A face that said nothing had happened here at all. But Max had already seen it—the speed of her retreating hand, that brief flick of her eyes down to his thigh and back up, and how fast she'd said that was an accident.
The cart eased slowly around a corner. Kimi was driving with such caution now he practically looked like he was holding his breath. But he couldn't avoid a small bump in the ground. The back of the cart jolted again. This time, George shot a hand out and grabbed the front seatback in time. Max's mouth curled up watching it.
"Nailed it this time."
George glanced at him sideways.
"What do you mean?"
"A stable point to grab onto."
George's lips pressed into a thin, flat line.
"Don't be sarcastic."
"I'm not being sarcastic."
"You are."
"So you can read my expression after all."
"You are actually—"
"Still. You didn't grab my thigh this time."
George closed her eyes. Just for a second. Probably summoning patience from somewhere. Max felt an odd little thrill of satisfaction watching it. If he could rattle George Russell this badly, then this universe wasn't a complete waste. George let out a long breath. To Max, it looked like someone trying, with real effort, to swallow their anger.
"Max Verstappen."
"Full name. Never a good sign."
"Stop."
"Fine."
Max nodded. Then, three seconds later, added:
"Your hand wasn't cold, though."
This time, George actually turned to look at him. Only then did Max register what he'd just said.
Oh.
That was a sentence he should never have said out loud. It was too specific. It meant he'd felt too much.
He snapped his gaze forward. Up front, Kimi drove with his shoulders locked in a rigid, terrified line. Max stared at the back of Kimi's head, doing his best impression of someone unaffected. George said nothing either. The silence was somehow more unsettling than words would have been.
Fuck.
Max swore internally. He wanted to see what expression George was wearing right now. But it felt dangerous to look. Because he'd just announced, out loud, that George's hand hadn't been cold. That was wrong. There was no reason to comment on the temperature of a hand belonging to someone he hated. No reason to remember whether that hand had felt warm or cold against his thigh, either.
But he remembered. Clearly.
"...Your thigh's firmer than I expected, too."
George said, out of nowhere. Max nearly choked on his own breath. Kimi, up front, swerved the wheel and wobbled slightly, as a bonus. George's brow creased.
"Kimi."
"Yes—yes! Sorry!"
Max slowly turned to look at George. She was staring straight ahead. Her expression was too neutral. So neutral it was suspicious.
"...What did you say?"
"If you didn't hear it, never mind."
"I heard it."
"Then why ask?"
Max was speechless. That was cheating. He hadn't expected George Russell to counter like that. Was it because she was a woman? No. No, it wasn't that. This was just George Russell. He'd have caught Max off guard exactly the same way as a man. Max tried not to think about his right thigh and failed completely. The exact spot George's hand had touched, moments ago, was suddenly all he could think about.
"Did you just critique my thigh?"
"You're the one who commented on my hand temperature first."
"That wasn't a critique, it was—"
"An observation, huh?"
Max shut his mouth. George had won. This round, at least. Infuriatingly.
George was still staring straight ahead, but Max thought he saw the corner of her mouth twitch, just barely. No—he did see it. That was the look of someone holding back a laugh. Max hated that he could recognize it. It was too familiar. The George he knew did the exact same thing—scratch someone raw and then act completely unbothered, except for that faint tremor at the corner of the mouth. That was basically the only proof George Russell ever gave that he was enjoying himself. This world's George was exactly the same.
Damn it.
It really was a problem, precisely because she was George.
The cart entered its final stretch. Kimi had stopped talking entirely. Max tried not to think about George beside him, but the cart was too small to allow for that. Shoulders touched. Arms brushed. The afterimage of what had just happened still lingered on his thigh. Eventually, he spoke, low.
"Forget what happened today."
George answered immediately.
"That's my line."
"You're the one who grabbed my thigh."
"You're the one who keeps bringing it up."
"Because I don't think I'll be able to forget it."
Max realized his mistake again only after the words left his mouth. What is wrong with me today? He'd never had much of a filter to begin with, but right now, it was basically nonexistent. Sitting in a cramped cart with George was the actual problem. No—with this George. No. Just with George.
George said nothing for a moment. The cart slowly rolled to a stop. Kimi hit the brakes like a man who'd just been granted salvation. Max expected George to get out right away. Instead, she looked at him—just for a second, the briefest second. Her blue eyes swept across his face and didn't drop back down to his thigh. Whether that was a relief or not, Max genuinely couldn't say.
"Me neither."
George murmured. Max froze completely in place.
"What?"
"I said, I don't think I'll be able to forget it either."
With that, George climbed out of the cart with startling speed, the end of her ponytail swinging behind her shoulder. Max followed a beat too late, still not sure what he was supposed to say. Normally, he'd have had something to fire back with already—something sarcastic, something to laugh off, something to push further. But this time, nothing came out. George was already walking off toward the Mercedes garage—long, lean frame, perfectly straight shoulders, ponytail swaying. Woman or not, she was insufferable. Grab a man's thigh, call it an accident, dress it up as some kind of physical reflex, and then vanish after casually announcing she wouldn't be able to forget it either.
Max looked down at his own right thigh. No mark, obviously. It had only been a hand, and only for a moment.
And yet the sensation lingered.
Even after the driver's parade ended, Max stayed aware of his own thigh for a good while afterward. It was ridiculous, honestly. He'd just been briefly grabbed during a cart ride. Even that had been an accident, technically—the cart had jolted, there'd been nothing to hold onto, and George had needed a stable point nearby, exactly as she'd said. Sure, why that stable point had to be his thigh specifically remained baffling, but the situation itself was, at least, explainable. Being explainable, though, apparently didn't mean he could stop thinking about it.
Back in the Red Bull garage, staring at the data his engineer was pulling up, Max kept replaying the moment anyway. George's hand. The tips of her fingers. The speed at which she'd pulled away. And that voice saying me neither.
What does "me neither" even mean. Why say that at all. Why say you won't be able to forget it. And why say it and then just walk off!
Max glared at the monitor. The numbers refused to register properly. He could see the rear step out slightly through Turn 7. His braking point had been a touch late. He wasn't happy with the balance through Sector Three. Normally, he'd already have brought all of this up with GP. Instead, George's voice kept elbowing its way into the back of his mind.
Your thigh's firmer than I expected, too.
Max was in the middle of cursing internally when—
"You wobbled a bit through Turn 7."
Max closed his eyes. Unbelievable. This person really doesn't quit.
He didn't even need to turn around to know who it was. George. Female George Russell. He could tell just from the voice—which, he hated to note, meant nothing except that George's voice was insufferable. He simply remembered insufferable things well. People remember the noises that torment them best. Max turned around slowly. George hadn't stepped inside the Red Bull garage—she was standing just outside the boundary line, pretending not to trespass into someone else's territory while somehow taking in every last detail with her eyes alone. Very on-brand. The ponytail was still pulled back without a single strand out of place, and her crossed-arm stance was insufferably composed.
"That's not your data."
"I could see it fine from a distance."
"Good eyesight."
"Your car wobbling was even easier to see."
Max glared at her.
"Don't you have anything better to do?"
"I do. Just finished it."
"Then go look at your own car."
"Already did."
"Then go look again."
"Studying the competition is important too, you know."
George nodded calmly toward the monitor and kept going.
"You probably think you handled that corner on instinct, but really, you just dragged a balance that had already broken down back in Sector Three through it by force."
Max opened his mouth to argue and found nothing to say. Because it was right. The problem hadn't been Turn 7 itself—the rear had already gone slightly unstable before that, and he'd muscled through the corner entry anyway. GP had said something similar just moments ago. And George hadn't even properly looked at the data. She'd caught it from a distance, in a matter of seconds.
That made him even angrier. He wished she'd been wrong. If she'd been wrong, he could've just laughed her off like always. But George had this uniquely maddening habit of being right in exactly the way that got under his skin. It wasn't that George didn't understand him—it was that she understood far too much, and he hated that. It didn't feel like she was critiquing him because she failed to understand his driving. It felt like she was critiquing him precisely because she understood it completely.
"What do you even know."
"Quite a lot, actually."
"No."
"When a car goes unstable on corner entry, most drivers back off for a beat. You don't. You push harder instead. Sometimes that works. Sometimes it doesn't. The problem is, sometimes you're too slow to tell the two apart. Maybe you just trust your instincts a little too much."
Max said nothing.
"That's why you're fast," George paused, then added, "...and that's why you're dangerous."
There it is. The first half sounded like a compliment; the second half was a critique. A textbook George Russell sentence. Max glared at her.
"You're always like this."
"Like what?"
"You act like you're complimenting someone while judging them."
"You're always like this too."
"What."
"You get defensive the second someone points anything out, and you act like admitting fault means you've lost."
Max was, for a second, at a loss for words. Genuinely insufferable. Genuinely, genuinely insufferable. What made it worse was how familiar it felt. Max realized he'd had this exact conversation dozens of times before—with George, back in his own world. Different words, different circumstances, different places, but the same underlying structure every time. George saw him with unnerving accuracy, and Max, hating how accurate it was, reacted with more force than he needed to.
George watched him quietly. Looking into those eyes, Max felt that strange feeling again. Same color as the George he knew's eyes. Cold in the same way. Cutting in the same way. And yet they looked different. No—they weren't allowed to look different. George Russell was George Russell. Insufferable as a woman, insufferable as a man.
That was supposed to be the whole of it.
"You hate me, don't you?"
George said, out of nowhere. Max answered instantly, the words out before his brain caught up.
"Yeah."
"Then why do you watch me so carefully?"
"What?"
"Every time I talk. Every time I walk. Every time I comment on your driving. You always wear this face like you hate it, and somehow you never miss a single detail."
"Because you're irritating."
"You remember an irritating person's braking points too?"
"You're a driver. I have to."
"An irritating person's hand habits, then?"
Max shut his mouth. George didn't step any closer. She kept her distance, exactly right. But her gaze was locked squarely on him, unwavering. He hated that look. It felt like a question he couldn't dodge.
"My breathing pattern when I talk, too?"
"Stop."
Max's voice dropped, coming out almost hoarse. George watched him for a moment, then let out a small, quiet laugh. Not a mocking one. Which, if anything, was worse.
"It was just easier for you to hate me."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"It looks less stupid than liking me would."
Max should have shot something back immediately—told her to stop with that ridiculous bullshit, that she was analyzing him however she pleased again, that she was genuinely insufferable. But no words came out. Instead, a rapid series of images flickered through his mind. The way George looked at him across a press conference table, back in his own world. The way his mouth would tighten, faint and involuntary, every time they crossed paths in the paddock. Those long legs closing the distance toward him, furious, after a race. That voice, cold as ever, still landing precisely on the exact flaw in his driving.
And, just now, the hand that had gripped his thigh inside the cart.
He hated it. He hated all of it. But it was too vivid to write off as simple hatred. He remembered too much. Max hated George. That much was certain. But was it normal to remember which hand someone you hated reached for their water bottle with? How thin their lips pressed when they got annoyed? That their voice actually dropped lower when they were truly angry? How fast their hand pulled away when they were caught off guard?
Max didn't know the answer. He didn't particularly want to, either.
That was the moment the world lurched again. The same sensation as back in the FIA booth—the floor dropping out beneath him, the color of the air bleeding white. George's face blurred out in front of him. Max reached out on reflex. He had no idea why. His fingers found nothing to hold onto.
The last thing he heard was George's voice.
"Don't run away, Max."