IT’S NEAR A FISH

You had spent the past year scrimping and saving for this very moment. The big Silverstone logo came into view as the bus pulled through the entrance. Fans walking through the gates in team kits, bright fluorescent yellow and papaya piercing your pupils. Your son pulled on the hem of your dress and he saw someone with a giant cardboard cutout of Max weave through the crowd. 

“Maxie, mummy!” He called, the grin on his face from ear to ear. 

“I know darling,”

He toddled through the fanzone in his little bright blue Mercedes cap. You stopped to take photos of him at every opportunity. He begged you to make him a miniature race suit so he could “look exactly like George.” It was another round of late nights as you learnt how to use a sewing machine and YouTube became your best friend as you taught yourself how to make a pattern. 

“Excuse me?” A confident voice called from behind you, tapping you gently on your shoulder. Their team kit was obvious, it wasn’t a fan, their uniform was too crisp for it to just be a fan. 

“We’d love to invite you and your son into the paddock to meet George and Kimi, would you be interested?” 

You looked down at their hands, two passes swinging from their fingertips. “Is this a joke or—”

“No! We love your son’s suit, I know George and Kimi would love to see him. And if it’s okay with you, we’d like to film it too? For our socials.” 

Your son cooed by your side, his arms reaching up toward you. You pulled him up into your side, sitting gently on your hip. “Yeah, okay!” 

You desperately tried to contain your excitement but all those late nights, the shifts where you’d cry during your break, it had all led to this moment. 

The turnstiles make that ‘ding’ noise as you swipe the bright blue pass on the scanner, your son’s swinging from his neck as he clings to you. The admin walked slightly in front of you both, capturing the moments as your son points and waves at team personnel, other fans, the big buildings that dominate the paddock. It smells like money, the way expensive perfume and aftershave assaults your nose as you walk past someone with a handbag the same price as your home. 

As expected, the Mercedes garage was buzzing with activity. Mechanics smiling as your son toddled straight over to the car, his eyes wide as he saw the 63. 

“George and Kimi are just coming, they should be about five minutes if you’d like to grab some photos?” 

You nodded, pulling out your phone from your bag and snapping shots of your son standing next to George’s car. Engineers crowded him, aweing over his little racesuit. You couldn’t help but smile, it felt like sometimes you couldn’t give him the life he always deserved, but in this moment, it felt like it was all finally coming together. 

George was waiting for Kimi outside the hospitality suite, scrolling through his phone when the social admin had told him the special guests were waiting to meet him in the garage. She had sent a photo of your son in his suit next to the car alongside you. 

“What’s making you smile like that Russell?” Lando called. 

George turned his phone around, revealing the photo of your son and you as Lando came closer. 

“Wait, wait,” Lando grabbed George’s wrist, stopping him from turning his phone back to face him. 

“Erm, ouch, what the fuck are you doing.” 

“Who’s the chick?” Lando zoomed into your face, pinching his fingers to magnify the image. 

“Classy.” George rolled his eyes, pulling the phone back to his chest. “They’re special guests of Mercedes this weekend. Admin chose them from the crowd apparently.” 

“Do we know her name?” Lando questioned. 

“No, we do not. Don’t get weird about it, not every woman is a Lando-Conquest.” 

“She’s not a conquest…she’s just—hot.” 

“Too hot for you.” 

Lando clutched his chest in a mocking way, acting hurt by George’s comment. “Maybe she’d like to meet the McLaren team too,” Lando called Oscar from the other side of the paddock, waving him off quickly. 

Oscar obeyed, jogging over to them both. “What’s going on?” 

“We’re making someone's day,” 

Kimi finally joined the three of them, George rolling his eyes as Lando and Oscar followed them in toe towards the Mercedes garage. 

George barely made it three steps into the garage before your son had noticed him. 

“Mummy! Georgie!” 

Every mechanic had stopped and turned towards your son now fully running towards the driver. 

“Sweetheart, please don’t run—” 

He abandoned the engineer who'd been showing him the steering wheel, who tried not to look hurt by the decision and took off in his tiny race boots, little legs carrying him as fast as they could across the polished concrete floor.

George laughed before you could reach him, crouching down onto one knee just as your son launched himself into his arms.

"Well hello there."

Tiny hands immediately grabbed hold of George's race shirt. "I match you!"

“You certainly do, little man!” 

He glanced towards you with a grin. "I think yours might actually be better."

You looked over at George with a smile, the admin capturing every moment on film as George picked up your son and showed him around the garage. 

He continued to babble in George’s ear, talking about how he was really fast and something about being blue. Kimi followed them around, trailing behind and high-fiving your son. It was cute, a moment you could never have dreamed of. 

“Ever been to a F1 race before?” 

You let out a breathy laugh before you could stop yourself. “Never–” Lando was standing behind you, Oscar not too far behind him speaking to an engineer. 

“I’m Lando,” he extended his arm to you, your hand naturally falling into his handshake. 

“Yeah– I know,” you smiled, tucking a stray piece of hair behind your ear. “You’re the world champion.” 

He laughed, his smile widening as he heard the word ‘champion’. “Yeah, I guess I am.” 

Oscar pulled his attention away from his conversation to raise his hand in a small wave, his lips pulling into a smirk, before turning back to the engineer. 

“Maybe between us we could convince your son to be papaya instead of blue?” He smiled, cheeky with that twinkle in his eye. 

He was more doe-eyed in person, he was all curls and cute tooth-gaps. Your heart was hammering as he stepped closer. 

“–Or is his dad a hardcore Mercedes fan?” 

You laughed, again. This time it came from the pit of your stomach. “God no! His dad isn’t in the picture, hasn’t been for a long time.” 

It was at that moment, Lando’s eyes grew wider, his tongue swiping across his lips – almost like the information was exactly what he needed. 

Before either of you could say anything else, your son ran back over to you, hugging himself around your leg. “Mummy,” 

Your attention was pulled away from the champion as you looked down, wrapping your son’s tiny hand around yours. 

“I think we have everything we need,” the social media admin announced, shoving their phone back into their pocket. “Please feel free to stay in our hospitality suite and help yourself to food, drink, whatever the little fella needs for the duration of the day. And you can meet us back here before the race starts to watch it with the team.” 

Your son jumped up and down as much as his small legs allowed. You squeezed his hand gently, unsure of who was more excited, you or him. 

“It was lovely to meet you both,” George leant down and fist bumped your son, making him wince with excitement.

"Thank you," you managed, your voice quieter than you'd intended. "This means more to him than you’ll ever know."

"Enjoy the day, you both deserve it," George smiled warmly before disappearing back into the controlled chaos of the garage, Kimi following close behind.

Lando lingered for just a heartbeat longer. "Maybe I'll see you after the race?" he said hopefully, flashing you one last smirk and wink before jogging after the others.

You watched him disappear into the sea of team shirts before looking down at your son, who was still clutching George's signed cap to his chest as though it were made of gold.

For the first time in a very long time, life didn't feel so impossibly heavy. 

The afternoon became a blur of the noise of engines, cheering grandstands and the sound of your son’s laughter as he watched his favourite driver race around the track that he used to watch from the TV.

The Mercedes hospitality had become your second home for the day, team personnel stopping to wave every time they passed while your little boy proudly told anyone who would listen that he was "Mini George Russell" He'd somehow accumulated enough chocolate and lemonade to feed a small army before the lights finally went out.

The race itself seemed to pass in the blink of an eye.

Every overtake had the garage erupting into applause, every safety car sending everyone scrambling towards strategy screens. Your son squealed each time the silver cars flashed across the timing tower, clapping so enthusiastically you worried his little hands might hurt.

When the chequered flag finally fell, the hospitality suite burst into celebration. Kimi had driven a faultless race once again, with another win for the Mercedes team.

Laughter filled the garage as Kimi climbed from the car to congratulations from every direction, his first Silverstone victory feeling just as special for everyone watching.

You stayed long enough to watch Kimi, Lewis and George celebrate on the podium, your son waving furiously up at George, catching his eye from a brief moment as the cameras panned down to the Mini George Russell in your arms. 

It felt like closing an extremely sad chapter as you walked toward the paddock gates that only a few hours you buzzed yourself in through. Your son heavy in your arms as he desperately tried to stay awake. 

“Hey,” he called, jogging after you before you reached the paddock exit.

He held out a bright orange gift bag, full to the brim of merchandise.

"What's this?" you laughed.

"Bribery."

Inside sat a signed papaya cap, another signed by Oscar, a miniature McLaren Hot Wheels car, a hoodie far too big for your son to wear now but perfect in a few years, and enough team merchandise to make his entire week.

"Thought he deserved some orange too. Can’t have George getting all the attention this weekend.” 

He pulls a pen from his team hoodie, scribbling on the side of the gift bag. Messy handwriting carefully tracing the letters of his phone number. 

"In case you ever come to another race. Or–you know, fancy a chat or something.” 

You looked back at him, the number now etched into the side of the gift. “I might just do that,” you replied, trying to act coy. 

You watched as he made his way back to the McLaren hospitality suite with a grin. 

“Come on baby, let’s go home.” You gently pressed a kiss into your son’s forehead, turning back to the paddock gates.

“Hey, Y/N,” you turned back to follow the voice calling your name. George was making his way through the crowd of people trying to leave the paddock. 

“How are you getting home?” He had ditched his race suit, now donning a pair of crisp linen trousers and clean Mercedes team jersey. His hair was falling perfectly across his forehead. 

“We’ve got the bus booked,” you smiled, shuffling your son on your hip. 

“Why don’t I just take you back?” He shrugged, trying not to seem too eager. 

 “No, it’s too much. You’ve all done so much for us today.” 

“It’s not too much, honestly. It’d make me feel better knowing my Mini-Me and his beautiful mother got home safely.” 

You looked toward the sea of people all leaving the circuit, knowing the bus journey would take an even bigger toll on your son’s energy levels that were already faltering. 

“Only if you’re sure,” 

“I’m always sure.” 

The drive back to the hotel was surrounded in a comfortable silence, conversation flowing between whispers as your son fell asleep in the back of George’s G-Wagon. You’d never sat in a more luxurious car, carefully shutting doors and trying not to touch anything. 

You finally reached the hotel, slightly disappointed in how short the journey actually turned out to be. 

George walked around to open the rear door, carefully lifting your sleeping little boy into his arms before placing him back into yours. You couldn’t help the pang in your heart as you watched him gently handling him, like he was precious. 

"Thank you," you whispered. "Seriously...thank you for today."

“You don’t have to thank me, little man really made my day too.” 

“Thanks, George.” He watched you take the steps up to your hotel entrance, hosting yourself up each step with a weighted toddler nestled into your chest. 

"One second."

George pulled a pen from the glovebox and wrote a number on the corner of a Mercedes team card. He jogged up the stairs two at a time, as if it would help to reach you quicker. 

“Maybe we could go out for a coffee during my summer break? Only if you–” 

“–I’d like that.” You finished. 

As you carried your little boy inside, your heart felt lighter than it had in years, and somehow, for the first time in a very long time, the future didn't seem quite so frightening.

For years, life had been measured in overtime shifts, overdue bills and wondering whether you were doing enough. If you’d ever be enough.

You tore the number from the bag, carefully placing both of them into the back of your phone. 

One thing about Vegas lights, is they pulsate, like a physical heartbeat, when you’re drunk. You stumbled out of the Little White Wedding Chapel, Oscar’s hand gripping around yours tightly. He’d won the race, dominating that street circuit like it owed him money. That quiet, relentless precision that made him completely unstoppable on track. The podium champagne had turned into tequila shots, then more at a private club. Somehow the laughter had turned into dares, dares turned into stolen glances, and stolen glances turned into a gold wedding band on your finger and a matching one on his.

You were his social media manager, the one scheduling his posts, converting his conversations into perfectly curated posts, capturing smiling moments for fans to swoon over. And now you were married to him in the most impulsive and chaotic way possible.

The pair of you stumbled back to his penthouse suite, the door slamming shut behind you. Your back hit it a second later as Oscar crowded you against the wood, mouth crashing into yours. No hesitation, his tongue pushing past your lips, claiming it as his own. His strong, calloused hands yanked your dress above your thighs and cupped your arse, lifting you so your legs were wrapped around his waist.

“Oscar—should we–” you gasped between kisses, but your body was already betraying you, grinding against the bulge forming in his trousers.

He pulled back just enough for you to see how dark his eyes had become, nothing like the reserved and quiet driver you knew.

“Thought I’d be shy?” he growled against your throat, teeth scraping at your pulse. “All those interviews where I’d play it safe and PR trained. You have no fucking idea how long I’ve wanted to fuck you.”

He carried you to the floor to ceiling windows overlooking Vegas, setting you down on your feet, only to spin you around. Your clammy palms slapped against the cool windows. His chest pressed to your back as he ripped the zipper of your dress down. The fabric had pulled at your feet, leaving you in just your black lace thong. He hooked his fingers around the waistband before he tore it off with a sharp rip, the sound making you jump.

“Osc—”

“Keep your hands on the glass,” he ordered, voice low and commanding. One of his hands tangled in your hair, wrapping it around his wrist, tugging your head back while the other slid between your legs. His fingers found your entrance already dripping wet. “So fucking soaked for me. You’ve been wet all night thinking about me, haven’t you angel?”

Two thick fingers hooked inside of you before you had a chance to answer, curling against the perfect spot. You cried out, hips jerking towards the city below. He continued to finger-fuck you relentlessly, thumb pressing firm circles on your swollen clit. Your breasts pressed against the glass, nipples hard and aching as the city watched below.

You came fast and brutal, thighs now shaking, his fingers slick with you. He didn’t stop though, adding a third finger to stretch you wider as he bit down on your shoulder.

“First time was for you,” he murmured, his hot breath against your skin. “The next one will be on my cock.”

He spun you again, lifting you onto the edge of his bed. In seconds he removed his clothes – t-shirt tossed aside, jeans and boxers shoved down to release his cock. All you could think was how thick and flushed it was, the vein was glistening with pre-come. You’d never really thought about what Oscar looked like naked before, but now you’d never be able to forget it.

“Legs wide, show me my beautiful wife’s pussy”

You obeyed, spreading your thighs as far as they would allow. Oscar knelt between them, lined himself up and thrust himself deep into you with one brutal stroke. The stretch burned, filling you completely like no one else has before. He groaned, his hips snapping forward as he set a punishing rhythm.

“Fuck me–you’re so tight,” he hissed, pounding into you. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room. He pinned your wrists above your head with one hand, the other gripping your hip hard enough to leave a mark. Every thrust was deep, his cock dragging against your walls.

You moaned helplessly, shocked by how dominant he was. There was nothing shy or gentle about Oscar. This was raw and controlling, possessive. He leaned down, sucking a nipple into his mouth, teeth grazing before biting just hard enough to make you gasp. As he smirks, he changes positions, hooking one of your legs over his shoulder so he could fuck you deeper.

“Say it,” he demanded, voice rough and hoarse. “Say you’re my wife while I fuck you.”

“I’m–I’m your wife,” you sobbed, pleasure coiling again. “Oscar, oh my—”

He slammed into you harder, grinding against your clit with every thrust. Your second orgasm ripped through you, pussy clenching and fluttering around his thick cock. Oscar swore blue, pace faltering as he chased his own release. With a deep groan he buried himself to the hilt and came, hot spurts of cum flooding inside of you, filling you until it leaked around his shaft.

He didn’t pull out straight away, instead he stayed within you deep, rocking slowly, pushing himself deeper whilst he kissed you.

After a few minutes, he flipped you onto your stomach, pulling you up by your hips so you were arse-up on the bed. “Again,” he said quite simply, sliding back into you with one smooth thrust. This time he fucked you slower but with no less intensity. One hand reached round to rub your oversensitive clit while he fisted your hair.

You lost count of how many times you came that night. On his cock, around his fingers, once with his mouth devouring you as he grinded against his face as he gripped your arse and pulled you down harder.

“You thought I’d be shy?” he repeated, lips now brushing your temple, a hint of his dry humour returning. “Told you I wasn’t.”

By the time the sky had started to turn blue, you were both trembling, thighs sticky, throat raw from moaning. Oscar had finally collapsed beside you, pulling you against his chest with surprising tenderness.

“Morning, wife.” Oscar mumbled.

Hi to my amazing followers.

You may or may not have noticed I’ve been a bit quiet - I realise to most of you this isn’t really important and I get that, but I did want to explain myself to those who have requested, waiting or just wondered where I am.

As my followers and mutuals know, in April I had sepsis after surgery and took some time off to heal and look after myself.

I then came back to celebrate reaching 1k followers! Which I couldn’t believe, I found this community after being in a really tough and lonely space and to reach 1k followers, was something I never expected! But I was then greeted but some really mean messages - of which some I shared, others were blocked and deleted and I decided to turn off my anonymous messages and haven’t turned them back on since.

It left a sour taste in my mouth and made me see the darker side of the community. I write because I have real love and passion for the sport and have been privileged enough to make some amazing mutuals on this app. But after receiving those messages to ‘end my life’ because I didn’t choose someone’s story just takes it too far.

After attending the British GP last week, the spark came alive again for writing. Something about seeing those cars in person, seeing the other fans, sitting amongst people who love Lando, Max crashing right in front of me, it all came alive again!

Somethings on this blog will change, only because I feel like I’ve grown out of certain things and also because of what’s happened over the last few months. I want to get back to writing, I have so many ideas; but a part of me feels like I’m not welcome.

You may see a few new blog posts about rules, a change in them etc. But I hope you’ll stick around. And to those who are new to my blog, hi 👋 I’m Mia! Welcome, I hope you’ll love it here 🤍

Monte Carlo. When people tell you that Monaco is a place separate from the rest of the world, they’re right. 

Even after all these years, even after countless race weekends spent alongside George, you still found yourself breathless every time race weekend arrived. The Mediterranean sea glittered beyond the harbour, yachts bobbing beneath the afternoon sun. This place looked like a painting on the front of a postcard or a framed piece of artwork you’d see in your Grandmother’s lounge. 

You stepped outside of the Mercedes hospitality suite and watched the hustle and bustle of a busy and iconic race weekend. Only Monaco would smell like expensive perfume and fuel, all at once. 

“Please don’t disappear again,” George wrapped his arm over your shoulder, appearing from somewhere behind you. 

You raised an eyebrow. “I’m old enough to explore on my own, in a place I’ve lived in for four years.” 

George snorted at your reply. “Yeah, and last year you didn’t get lost and ended up panicking into Charles’ shoulder, no?” 

Your gaze dropped to the floor as you remembered your awkward encounter with the Ferrari garage. But before you could answer, George’s phone buzzed. 

“Shit, I’m late,” he placed a gentle kiss into your hair before running back into the suite and up the stairs. 

You laughed as he rushed away, already slipping back into ‘racing driver George’ and out of ‘big brother George.’ But to you, he was simply, George. He was the one who helped you through heartbreaks, who celebrated birthdays and once drove over six hours to your university after you got a B on a test. Truth was, regardless of being adopted, George never treated you anything but blood. 

Before you could even take in the anticipation of the race weekend starting again, a laugh drifted across the paddock. You didn’t need to look to know that sound. He was standing outside the Red Bull suite, can in hand, skinny jeans sprayed to his legs and his cap pulled low over his blonde hair, but you could recognise his blue eyes anywhere. He was talking, laughing, animated in the way only Max Verstappen could when he was describing something he loved. So probably sim racing. 

You’d met him before, of course. It was pretty unavoidable. And you knew enough about him – he liked racing, he hated losing, and he hated your brother. 

He and George could barely survive sitting in a media room together without creating enough tension to make everyone incredibly uncomfortable in the vicinity. 

Max had always existed in the edge of your life, rather than in it. You grew up alongside Lando and Alex, you lived in the same building as Charles – you were even close with Oscar. But Max, he was like forbidden fruit. 

But as though sensing you looking, Max glanced across the paddock. You could feel how your eyes widened and your throat bob. For a brief second, neither of you looked away, and just slightly, his mouth twitched. Not exactly a smile, it was more of acknowledgement. You returned it politely before yielding and looking away first. The interaction wasn’t more than three seconds but by the time you looked back, he had already resumed his conversation. 

You could’ve sworn you imagined it, a symptom of the Monaco heat. But the fate of Monte Carlo always has other plans. 

By the time the sun had started to set over the harbour, golden and unhurried, you were overlooking the track from above on a  balcony, looking down at the mechanics buzzing around like ants.

You sipped on a cold bottle of water, the icy liquid sliding down your throat as you heard him again. Not a laugh this time, it was his voice. Low and husky as he switched between Dutch and English. You didn’t mean to watch him but your eyes couldn’t pull themselves away from the tall blonde as he effortlessly strided through the paddock. 

And like the moon pulls the tide to the shore, his eyes reach yours. 

You could feel your body react, your legs weak, your hands trembling, head swimming. 

“Media all done!” George exclaimed, snapping you from your trance.

You quickly turned on your heels, your brother walking towards you with his arms out stretched. Instinctively, you fall into step with him, turning as you walk away, Max’s eyes still firmly gazed upon you. 

– 

You could already hear the party as you ascended in the lift. Music was reverberating off of the walls, laughter rising like waves and the unmissable sound of a champagne cork popping. It was the true birthday party of the rich and famous. Charles had a gift for the best parties. 

“Happy birthday!” you said when you finally found him amongst the crowd. Pressing a kiss to his cheek and handing over the bottle you had brought with you. 

Charles' eyes lit up immediately. “You came alone, cheri?” 

 “Yeah, well George is–” you searched for the right word and not the version he used earlier. “Decompressing after the race.” 

Charles laughed, the kind that came from his chest and the type that only comes from knowing George too well. “Yeah, he wasn’t too happy about the DNF.” 

“Ohh–I’m aware.” You laughed. 

He shook his head, already being pulled away by someone else, his hand briefly squeezing yours before he disappeared into the crowd. You watched him go with an easy smile and let yourself settle into the back of the room. You knew most of these faces. Lando was already in the corner doing what Lando has always done at parties – performing for a small audience who were in awe of him. Alex caught your eye from across the room and raised his glass in greeting. 

For a short while, it was easy. A passing waiter handed you something sparkling and you stationed yourself near the window where the harbour was glittering navy — you let the conversations come to you, rather than chasing them. Monaco was different once the sun had set, it became softer somehow. More honest. 

You were deep in conversation with Pierre about nothing and everything when the air in the room became thicker. 

It was almost like you felt it before you saw it — it was like the entire room shifted. A few heads turned, the music didn’t pause, the record didn’t scratch but it might as well have. 

He had a specific quality of not seeming to try, and yet being impossible to ever miss. 

He came in unhurried, pausing briefly to greet Charles with a handshake that pulled into something warmer; old friends who have been with each other since the start. Charles and Max had a history that predated all of this, karting circuits from when they were barely teenagers and the whole world was still ahead of them. 

You desperately tried to concentrate on what Pierre was saying. Nodding along at the right times, but your eyes kept wandering back to the tall blonde by the door. Max moved through the room with an ease. You somehow ended up outside, the cool evening hair prickling your skin as the waves crashed into the shore. Your body leaned against the pillars, hair sweeping behind as the wind picked up. 

“You’re George’s sister,”

His accent wrapped around the words. It wasn’t a question – he knew who you were. 

“I am,” you replied, carefully sipping on your drink. 

“I’ve seen you at race weekends,” his head titled slightly. “You cling to George, huh.” 

“I don’t cling to–” 

His smirk stopped you from finishing your sentence. “You like watching from balconies. Specifically above pit lanes.” 

Your stomach did something inconvenient — swirling around like a washing machine on a spin cycle. 

“I like the view from up there.” 

“Mhm.” He hummed. “It’s better from the pit wall.” 

There was nothing in his voice to suggest he meant anything from it, but your heart didn’t know the difference. “I don’t like to get in the way.” 

He didn’t say anything, he just smiled as he took another sip of his beer. 

Your brain hadn’t registered the next words that uttered from your mouth, having no time to take them back before he had heard them. “You’ve been watching me, watch you.” 

Max’s mouth pulled at the corner. “You were watching me first.” 

You opened your mouth but closed it. 

Lando had materialised beside you, with the same supernatural timing only Lando could perfect. “Finally, I’ve been trying to find you!” He looked briefly between you and Max before his eyes narrowed. “We’re bringing out the cake.” 

You giggled at the excitement of a 20-something-man still being excited about cake. “Okay, okay, I’m coming.” 

Lando’s hand carefully placed in yours. 

Max’s eyes caught yours before you were led back into the room. He didn’t speak, just a small wink with his signature smirk before he turned back to face the view of Monaco. 

“You know you’re playing with fire, right?” Lando muttered. 

“What are you talking about?” You shrugged, pretending that there was absolutely zero chemistry between you and your brother’s sworn enemy. 

“Just be careful. There’s only so much saving I can do.” He placed a gentle, friendly kiss on your cheek before heading straight to the table where the cake was carefully being sliced. 

—

It was three weeks later before you saw Max again. 

Silverstone was always the same, in a blink of an eye the sunshine would turn into a storm. 

You hid under an awning next to the Red Bull garage when the heavens decided to open. Your poor choice of outfit for the Great British weather had found you hiding away from the downpour as you watched it beat off the tarmac. 

“Who decides to wear sandals to the British Grand Prix?” 

“Someone who’s lived in Monaco too long.” You laugh. 

There was a brief moment where you both just smiled, the only noise was the rain hitting the floor, before either of you spoke again.

“Will you get in trouble again for speaking to me?” 

Your brows furrowed together, unsure of what he meant by it. “I didn’t–I wasn’t–” 

“I heard what Lando said to you at Charles’ party.” Max fiddled with his fingers as he spoke to you. Was the great Max Versappen…nervous?

“They’re just…protective,” you muttered softly. 

“I would never…I wouldn’t hurt you?” His voice cracked, as if he was upset at the thought of others thinking he would break my heart. 

You reach your hand out to place on his shoulder, the gentlest of touches sending sparks through your nervous system. 

“Let me take you on a date.” It was less of a question and more of a statement. “Let me take you on a date and prove that I wouldn’t hurt you.” His words tumbled out of his mouth at the same speed he drives his car. 

“Max–” you wanted to say yes. Whatever had taken control of your body had won.

“You don’t want to?” 

“I do–it’s just–my brother wouldn’t like it.” 

He opened his mouth to attempt to defend but with perfect timing, you could hear your name being called. “I’m sorry Max.” 

The entire race weekend, it rained. You hoped it would wash away whatever these feelings were for Max. Instead it just brought them to the surface. It was like the universe was dangling a very beautiful carrot in your face. Everywhere you would turn, he would be there. 

You spotted him outside of the Red Bull garage on Saturday morning, his race suit tied around his waist as he laughed at something one of the engineers had said. You saw him again during the drivers' parade, rain dripping from the brim of his cap as he stood talking to Oscar and Lando. Then again after qualifying, when George had been midway through a conversation and Max had appeared on the television screen mounted above the hospitality suite. He rolled his eyes and huffed out of the room. Each sighting felt ridiculous.

You weren't sixteen. You weren't developing some embarrassing schoolgirl crush.

You were a grown woman who knew perfectly well that pursuing anything with Max Verstappen would be complicated at best and catastrophic at worst.

Yet every time your eyes found him, your stomach betrayed you.

By Sunday evening, after the race had ended and the paddock had begun its usual process of packing itself away, you were exhausted.

Not physically. But emotionally.

By the time you finally reached your hotel room, all you wanted was sleep. Unfortunately, sleep seemed to want nothing to do with you.

It was pathetic. Every time you commanded your body to sleep, it ignored you. You groaned and buried your head in your pillow. 

Your phone buzzed from the nightstand. You ignored it first, thinking it would be an email or a notification you could deal with in the later hours of the morning. 

A few seconds later, it buzzed again. You rolled over, reaching for your phone. The bright light stinging your retinas as you adjusted them to read the message. 

Unknown: One date. It can be our secret. Unknown: Well and Charles’ because he reluctantly gave me your number. 

You smiled at the thought of Max begging Charles for your number. Adjusting the pillows behind your back, you rested against the headboard and typed back. 

You: Where would this date be?

Three dots appeared quickly. 

Max: I have a spot. Max: Is that a yes?

You pondered it for a moment. It was just a date. It wasn’t a declaration of love. George would never have to know. 

You: It’s a yes.

You placed your phone back on the nightstand, gently sliding yourself back under the covers and onto the cool pillowcase. Even with the butterflies flapping their wings inside your stomach, your eyelids became heavy and finally drifted to sleep. 

—

He had sent you the location two days before your date. You chose a specific day when you knew George was preoccupied with a Petronas sponsor dinner and he would be far away from Monaco for at least two days. 

Max gave you a deliberately vague location and two very clear messages. 

Max: Wear something warm. Max: And no sandals.

You laughed, a small, understated laugh that made the butterflies appear in your stomach again. 

The taxi driver dropped you at the bottom of a winding path that climbed steeply behind the city, the kind of route that tourists never found and locals kept to themselves. Monaco from below was one thing. Monaco from above, you were quickly realising, was something else entirely. Even after four years of living in this beautiful city, there were still hidden gems to be found – like this one. 

You climbed the winding path, the Monaco skyline rising behind you. He was already there when you finally reached the top. 

Max was sitting nervously across a checkered blanket, a small picnic basket laying next to him. You’d been only plenty of dates in your time, but never quite as thoughtful as this.

He stood once he saw you emerge from the foliage that covered the path. 

“You came.” There was almost relief in his voice. 

“Didn’t you think I would?” 

His eyes dropped to his shoes, which suddenly became very exciting to him. "I thought maybe you changed your mind." 

"I nearly did," you admitted. "About twelve times."

That made him smile. His mouth did that thing, the corner pulling upward. "But you didn't."

"But I didn't,” you echoed. 

You awkwardly settled next to each other on the blanket, focusing on your breathing as Max pulled out a crusty-loaf of bread, the kind from that little bakery facing the harbour, and a selection of cheeses and spreads – it was like he already knew what your favourite foods were. 

“Apart from following George–” Max stopped, winking as he teased you, “what else do you do?” 

You chewed on a piece of the bread, drowned in a mountain of salty butter. “You mean what do I do for a job?” 

“Mhm,” Max nodded. 

“I’m a writer,” you admit, like you were keeping it a secret. “It’s no F1 driver, but there’s something about writing that perfect article and seeing it printed, sitting on the stands as you walk to work, there’s nothing like it.”

“Would you write about me?” He asked, his teeth grazing his lip as he looked into your eyes. 

You laughed, most likely from nerves of being this close to him. “I write about politics and business, Max, I’m not a sports journalist.” 

“There’s always a first for everything right?” He joked. 

For a moment, you simply sat together, comfortable in the silence. The world beyond the blanket seemed to fade away as he leant closer, his thumb brushing softly across your lip, wiping away the last trace of butter. Your breath caught. The space between you seemed to dwindle until it was almost nonexistent, your heart hammering against your ribs as his gaze flickered to your mouth. Then, finally, his lips met yours.

The kiss was soft at first, tentative in a way that surprised you.

For someone who has spent his life hurtling into corners at impossible speeds, Max kissed like he was afraid of startling you.

Your hand found his arm without thinking, fingers curling into the sleeve of his jacket as his thumb remained against your cheek. The world seemed to narrow to that single point of contact. The distant hum of Monaco below faded. The yachts, the traffic, the endless noise of the city disappeared until there was only him.

When he finally pulled back, neither of you moved very far — his forehead resting lightly against yours.

“I had it all planned out, but turns out the best things happen naturally,” he whispered. 

“You had it planned out?” you repeat, smiling at the image of Max planning the ultimate romantic moment. 

“Every guy does. The moment they plan to kiss the girl they like.” 

You could feel your cheeks turn crimson. “You know,” you start. “You’re not what everyone says you are.” 

“Mad Max?” His eyebrow raises. 

For a second you just looked at him. The world around you completely melting away. 

But the moment was ruined when the realisation hit you like cold water. The thought of your brother finding out. If he would ever forgive you, if he would ever speak to you again. If he would punch Max square in his extremely chiselled jaw. 

“We don’t have to continue tonight,” his lips raised, but not in a smile.

The words should’ve relieved you. Except they didn’t, they hurt. 

You looked away, down at the city stretching beneath the cliffside. Attempting to convince him that the lights sparkling below were far more interesting. 

He didn’t press, he just linked his hand with yours. “Let me take you home.” 

You nodded, excepting that the both of you knew this relationship would be nothing more than stolen moments. 

Max’s car stopped idle outside your apartment building. The engine cut to a stop as he pulled the key from the ignition. 

“Thank you for tonight, Max.” You could feel your cheeks burning as your eyes met again. 

“For what it was worth, if this was the first and last date of ours–” his hand gently laid rest on your cheek. “I will remember it forever.” 

–

Work became the perfect excuse. Deadlines piled up, meetings ran late, and attending race weekends with George became increasingly difficult. But that didn't stop Max. The messages continued, slipping into your day when you least expected them, and before long they turned into late-night FaceTime calls, stretching far longer than either of you intended.

At first, the calls were harmless. Well at least that’s what you told yourself. 

He'd call from the hotel he happened to be in that week, still wearing his signature Red Bull polo, his hair damp from a shower after media duties. You'd answer from your apartment, curled beneath a blanket with a laptop balanced on your knees.

You tried to convince yourself that it was friendly. But your heart begged to differ. 

The more you learned about him, the more impossible it became to reconcile the person the world saw with the man you spoke to every night.

He was funny and protective and undeniably loyal – to everyone around him. 

You spoke about your childhoods, the pressure of your careers, dreams and aspirations you’d never told anyone else. 

There was a four week break between Zandvoort and Monza. George was locked in at Brackley working on the car with Mercedes, which meant you were in Monaco with your laptop and a deadline. 

You padded over to the kitchen, treating yourself to a pint of Ben & Jerry’s after finishing an article for a paper you were asked to guest write on. You pulled the spoon to your mouth, the cold ice cream the perfect reward after pouring your heart out onto the page. Before you could curl yourself onto the sofa, the buzzer chimed. 

The only people who came to visit your apartment in Monaco were either George, who wasn’t even in the country, and the postman, who already visited this morning. 

You picked up the telecom. “Hello?” 

“Hi, uhm, it’s Max.” 

You smiled, your eyebrows joining together in an emotional pattern of confusion and happiness. 

“Hey, I’ll buzz you up.” 

You frantically ran around your apartment, closing the lid of your laptop, throwing away chocolate wrappers and hiding your notes before the knock came at the door. You fixed your shirt, an old band-tee you pulled on along with your joggers – considering you weren’t expecting any company. 

Max stood at the door, an overostentatious bouquet of flowers in one arm and an expensive box of chocolate in the other. 

“I thought you might be on your own,” he smiled. 

You stepped back to let him in.

He handed you the flowers first, and your fingers brushed his when you took them. You both pretended not to notice.

“Thank you, Max.” 

You found an empty vase and placed the flowers on the kitchen table, opening the chocolates as you took an awkward seat next to him on the sofa. Both of you sat there in silence, for what felt like an eternity. Speaking over the phone for the last few weeks had felt easy but suddenly, face to face with him again, your nerves had gotten the better of you. 

The both of you sat trying to think of what to say. You thought about opening your laptop and sharing the article you’d finished, or turning on the TV to drown out the silence. 

Max shifted on the sofa, setting the box of chocolates on the coffeetable, his knee gently brushing yours. You watched his striking blue eyes, they seemed to look straight through you, lingering across your face, searching for something. 

“I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you,” he said quietly, voice low and rough around the edges. 

You could feel your breath catch in your throat. You turned back toward him, and that was all it took. His hand came up, softly cupping the side of your face. His thumb brushed your cheekbone, and before you could register, he leant in, slow enough that you could pull away if you wanted to. You didn’t though. 

The first kiss was soft, almost hesitant. It was just the warm press of his lips, the faint taste of his toothpaste. When you sighed into it, he deepened the kiss, still careful, still giving you every chance to stop. Your fingers found the front of his t-shirt, curling into the fabric as you pulled him closer. 

Max made a quiet sound in the back of his throat and wrapped his arms around you, drawing you into his lap as you started to straddle him. His hands slid down your back, mapping the curve of your spine through your old band tee. 

“You’re sure?” he murmured against your lips, pulling back just enough to look at you. His voice was husky, but his blue eyes glimmered as they stared into yours. 

“More than sure,” you whispered. 

He leaned in and kissed you again, deeper this time, tongue brushing yours slow and sensual. His hands slipped under your shirt, palms resting warming against bare skin, stroking up your side before tugging the worn fabric over your head. He tossed it across the apartment, and pressed another kiss along your collarbone and down to the swell of your breasts. 

You automatically arched into him with a gasp as he took one nipple into his mouth, sucking gently, his tongue swirling. His other hand cradled your breast, thumb brushing over the sensitive peak. Every touch was electric. He worshipped you with his mouth, switching sides until you were trembling in the palm of his hands. 

“Max…” His name came out of your mouth, needy and breathless. 

He lifted you effortlessly, standing with you in his arms, your legs wrapped around his waist. “Bedroom, schatz?” he asked against your neck. 

You nodded, and he carried you to your bedroom, not stopping the press against your lips. He laid you down on the bed like you were something precious, then pulled back to strip off his own shirt and jeans. The pure sight of him – the lean muscle, the faint lines on the lower part of his stomach, the obvious bulge in his boxers, it made your mouth salivate. 

He joined you on the bed, covering your body with his, keeping most of his weight on his forearms. His mouth found yours again as his hand slipped down your stomach, slipping beneath the waistband of your joggers and panties. He groaned softly when he felt how wet you already were. 

“You’re so perfect,” he whispered, kissing the corner of your mouth, your jaw, the sensitive spot beneath your ear. Two fingers parted your folds, circling your clit with featherlight strokes before sliding inside you. He pumped them slowly, scissoring and stretching you while his thumb kept up the pace against your clit. Your hips rocked against his hand, moaning into his shoulder as he whispered praise against your skin. “Just like that, you’re so good for me.” 

When you came for the first time, it rolled through you, thighs trembling around his wrist. He kissed you through it, mumbling about how beautiful you looked. 

He barely gave you a moment to catch your breath before he was sliding down your joggers and thong, kissing every inch of exposed skin. His boxers shortly joined the pile of clothes on the floor. His cock was heavy and flushed, curving up to his stomach. He took it in one hand, stroking once as he looked back at you. 

He settled carefully between your thighs, rubbing the throbbing head of his cock through your slick folds. “Tell me if it’s too much,” he said softly. Max pushed in slowly, inch by inch. You both moaned at the stretch, filling you to fullness. 

“Fuck, you’re incredible.” He breathed. 

You wrapped your legs around his waist again, heels digging into the small of his back. He rolled deep thrusts that dragged against your sensitive spot. One hand laced with yours, the other cradled your hip, angling you so he could go even deeper. Every thrust was accompanied by a kiss across your body. He whispered your name like a prayer, telling you how long he had thought about this moment. 

You came with a broken cry, clenching around him tighter after burying himself deep with a low groan, his hips stuttering as he spilled inside of you, the sensation of him pulsating inside of you. 

For a long moment you stayed like that, tangled together, breathing in each other. Max pulled out carefully and disappeared into the bathroom. He returned with a warm, damp cloth and a glass of water. He cleaned you gently between your legs, pressing soft kisses to your inner thighs, then helped you sit up to sip your drink. 

He pulled you into his chest once you were both settled under the covers. His big arms wrapped around you, one hand stroking along your arm. He kissed the top of your head, a little press of affection that made your heart ache in the best way. 

“You okay?” he asked quietly, tilting your chin up so he could see your eyes. 

“More than okay,” you whispered. You moved in to snuggle closer, his skin was warm, heartbeat steady under your ear. 

He smiled, pulling you in tighter. You fell asleep like that, wrapped in Max’s arms, feeling safe and cherished. The rest of the world and its complications felt like a million miles away. 

– 

The weeks that followed blurred into one another. Your work schedule had begun to swallow you whole. Between deadlines, meetings, late night edits, flights to different time zones, and your offer to write a guest article, your work had consumed every single moment of your spare time. 

You finally submitted it. You knew that your brother wouldn’t necessarily appreciate the Russell name being attached to it, but you thought of plenty of ways to get around it – one of them using your signature ‘puppy dog’ face. 

The season had continued to move, and between races across the world and your job taking control, you never saw Max after that night. 

Phone calls and texts became few and far between; you told yourself that you were just both busy. That your jobs were demanding this side of the year. 

Abu Dhabi came round quickly, the final race of the season. George had practically got on his knees and begged you to come along. 

“You’ve missed half the season now,” he complained one evening. “People are starting to think you’ve disappeared.” 

You laughed and reluctantly agreed to come along. A part of you scared to face Max, another part excited to see him again. 

The paddock during the last race of the season always had a particular buzz about it. The media were relentless chasing the championship leaders, fans running after the drivers for them to sign caps and Netflix cameras desperate to find the drama. 

But the world seemed to stop when you finally saw him. He was talking to a reporter when you caught eyes, a smile started to slowly creep across your lips as you remembered the taste of his against yours. Except, as you got closer, a woman stood beside him. Her hand rested in his, her long, sleek, black hair sweeping behind her. She was the kind of woman you see photographed on the front of a magazine. 

Max was completely still. Like a deer caught in the headlights – or a man who had finally been caught out. 

The entire paddock seemed to fade into one spotlight on them both. 

George followed your gaze, blissfully unaware of the real reason. “That’s Kelly,” he started. “Max’s girlfriend.” 

“Oh, right.” It was all you could summon. Words now unable to be formed as the lump in your throat formed. 

When you both made it to the Mercedes suite, George ran off to a meeting with the team, leaving you alone with your thoughts. The night air was warm, too warm. You weren’t sure if your hands were clammy from the humidity or the nerves of seeing him with another woman. 

“Hi,” his voice was quiet. 

You couldn’t look at him, you just watched the string of mechanics buzz by. 

“Hi.” 

He scooched closer to you, his shoulder brushing yours. The sparks were still there, but they didn’t feel as bright now. “I was going to tell you.” 

“Really, Max? Because from the looks of it, you got what you want from me and now you have a beautiful model on your arm.” 

He moved in and held onto your hand, careful to look around if anyone would notice. “It’s not like that–she–Kelly, she’s a long time family friend and my dad–” 

“Just stop, Max.” 

“We would never have worked.” His words felt like a slap. “George would never have let you. You know that.” 

Your whole body felt like it was shaking now. You pulled out the completed article from your handbag. “I was going to give this to you after the race,” you pushed the papers against his chest in a fist of rage. “I wrote about you.” 

You could feel a single tear slip down your cheek. “The man nobody else sees off the track.” 

He caught the papers, just before they began to fall from the floor. The headline read ‘The Man Behind the Lion.’ 

“Goodbye, Max.” 

He looked down, his eyes blurred by the tears that had begun to form, but he focused on the final line of the article. 

‘Perhaps the most remarkable thing about Max Verstappen is not because he’s fearless, but somewhere between the trophies and champagne fueled podiums and impossible expectations from fans and the team, is that there is a man who is loyal and pure of heart.’