By the time you realized agreeing to bring two World Champion Formula One drivers to a rookie initiation was a mistake, it was already too late.

Very, very too late.

The sun was still high over the infield, heat shimmering off the asphalt, when your crew chief clapped you on the shoulder with the kind of grin that meant danger.

“Well,” he said, loud enough for half the garage to hear, “rookie’s here. Means it’s time.”

You sighed, already exhausted.

Behind you, Lando Norris looked around like a kid at a county fair. “Time for what?” he asked brightly.

Max Verstappen had gone still beside you, eyes tracking the movement across the garage—the way mechanics were abandoning their workstations, the way someone was already dragging a cooler into the open, the way a suspicious amount of enthusiasm was building for a weekday afternoon.

Your crew chief’s grin sharpened. “Initiation.”

Lando’s face lit up. “Oh! Like a rookie song?”

A beat.

Someone laughed. Hard.

“That’s adorable,” a mechanic said. “No, man. This is NASCAR.”

You closed your eyes. Just for a second. “Can we please not traumatize the international guests?”

Max tilted his head, curiosity piqued. 

The first sign things had gone off the rails was the mud pit.

You watched in horror as two guys hauled out a tarp and started hosing it down, brown water pooling and thickening with every pass. The heat turned it into something viscous, reflective in the sun.

“That’s not—” Lando started.

“For traction testing,” Max supplied thoughtfully.

“For humiliation,” you corrected.

“Rookie!” someone yelled.

Connor Zilisch, unfortunately, chose that exact moment to wander out from behind the Trackhouse hauler, looking far too clean and far too hopeful for what was about to happen to him.

He took in the scene—the mud pit, the cooler, the growing semicircle of grinning mechanics—and stopped dead.

“…oh no.”

Shane Van Gisbergen appeared at your other shoulder, arms crossed, expression unreadable in the way that meant he was enjoying this immensely. “Welcome to the big leagues, mate.”

Connor looked between the two of you like he was searching for mercy. “You’re not letting this happen, right?”

You shrugged. “I survived.”

“That’s not reassuring.”

“Beer first!” your crew chief called.

A can was shoved into Connor’s hands. He stared at it like it was a personal challenge.

“I don’t even like beer,” Connor said weakly.

“It’s tradition,” Shane replied.

Connor cracked it open, took a breath, and went for it. He made it through—barely—coughing at the end as the garage erupted into cheers. He handed the empty can back like it might explode if he held it too long.

The semicircle shifted, attention drifting to the still-glistening mud pit sitting ominously in the middle of the garage. Someone nudged the tarp with their boot. It sloshed.

Connor’s eyes followed the movement like it was a predator stalking him. “I—uh—I think I’ll stay over here,” he muttered, edging toward you and Shane.

Shane raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Oh, you will get in. It’s tradition.”

Connor groaned. “Tradition is overrated.”

You gave him a pointed look. “You made it through the beer. That’s half the battle. Now you go, or the pit crew starts making rules on the fly.”

Connor’s shoulders slumped, and he cast one last, pleading glance at you. “Do I have to?”

“Yes,” Shane said cheerfully. “It’s part of the initiation. Trust me—it’s mostly embarrassing, not dangerous.”

Connor groaned, looking at the brown, glistening tarp like it was a minefield. He edged closer, boots sinking slightly into the soggy edges. “Mostly embarrassing… that’s reassuring.”

A mechanic stepped forward, grinning. “Alright, rookie. First dare: dunk your hands in the mud, pull out a wrench, and yell your favorite racing term.”

Connor froze. “You… want me to what?”

“Go on!” Shane encouraged, trying not to laugh. “Tradition.”

Connor took a shaky breath, crouched down, and dipped his hands into the thick mud. The moment it touched his skin, he hissed, jerking back slightly, then steeled himself, feeling around for the tool.

“Uh… PIT STOP!” he yelled, wrench clutched triumphantly above his head, dripping mud in every direction. The crew whooped.

“Not bad” Shane yells, clearly amused. “Mate, that was textbook rookie chaos. But round two awaits!”

Connor’s stomach sank. “Round two? What do you mean, round two?”

One of the mechanics stepped forward, holding a length of rope. “Next dare: tug-of-war across the mud pit. Against the pit crew. You can’t touch the dry asphalt, and losing is… embarrassing.”

Connor’s eyes went wide. “You’re joking. There’s no way I can—”

“You can,” Shane said, grinning, “and you will. Tradition.”

Connor groaned, slowly squatting and grabbing the rope with both hands. The moment he leaned back, mud squelched under his boots and hands, sticking like glue. He tugged, slipping a little with each pull, while the pit crew laughed and cheered.

A splash hit his shoulder, then his chest, and he yelped, nearly falling face-first into the mud. “This is… brutal!”

“Use your legs! Find your footing!” you shouted, trying not to laugh.

Connor gritted his teeth, pulling again, sliding forward, sliding back, until finally—by some miracle—he lurched the rope just enough to knock the pit crew forwards. They tumbled into the mud with an exaggerated yell, and the garage erupted in laughter and cheers.

Connor stood there, chest heaving, mud dripping from every surface. “I… I did it?”

“Yeah, mate,” Shane said, clapping him on the shoulder, mud splattering onto both of them. “And you didn’t even cry. Yet.”

Connor’s legs wobbled as he tried to shake the mud off, sending little splashes flying onto anyone standing too close. He glanced around, dazed, and realized the crowd wasn’t thinning—if anything, more people had gathered, phones out, laughing and filming.

“Alright, rookie,” a mechanic called, still chuckling, “one more. Final challenge. You have to… sprint across the pit lane carrying a bucket of ice water and dump it on your new crew chief. No spilling, no slipping, no excuses.”

Connor froze. “Wait… what?”

Shane grinned like he’d just revealed the best part of the day. “Tradition, mate. You survive the pit, you earn the glory. And the cold water.”

Connor groaned, letting the rope slide from his hands and landing ungracefully on the edge of the mud pit. “This is… I’m not sure I can survive this.”

“You can,” you said, shaking your head in disbelief. “It’s all about commitment. Just… run and don’t look back.”

Connor scooped up the bucket, grimacing at the weight and the ice rattling inside. Every step across the soggy asphalt made a squelching sound, mud dripping from his boots, and the pit crew jeered and cheered in equal measure. 

He swung the bucket, water splashing everywhere—on the crew chief, on Shane, on the mechanics—and let out a triumphant, muddy roar. “There! Happy now?!”

The garage exploded. Laughter, cheers, whistles—it was deafening. Connor leaned over, hands on his knees, chest heaving, mud dripping from his hair and face.

Shane stepped up, patting him on the back with enough force to send another splash flying. “Welcome to the team, rookie. You’re officially one of us. Mud, sweat, and all.”

Connor just groaned again, wiping mud from his eyes. “I… I need a shower. And maybe a new identity.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Don’t worry. By next week, this’ll just be a funny story you tell the other rookies.”

Connor looked like you’d suggested he move to Antarctica. “Funny… sure. Right. I’ll laugh after the trauma therapy.”

“Alright, enough suffering for one day,” you said, grabbing the nearest hose. The cold water hit Connor’s back, making him yelp and flinch, but he stayed put as you aimed carefully at the tarp. Lando and Max joined in, holding hoses of their own, laughing as streams of water washed brown sludge off boots, jeans, and arms.

“Careful with the eyes!” Max called out as Lando accidentally sent a jet straight at Connor’s face.

“Not that face!” Shane groaned, dodging the spray himself.

Within a few minutes, the tarp was mostly cleaned, the mud pit reduced to a sad, watery puddle, and Connor—while still streaked with mud—was finally able to stand without slipping. He shivered, but there was a hint of a grin.

“Okay,” you said, drying your hands on a towel and smirking at him, “you survived the rookie mud gauntlet. But the real fun is next.”

Connor blinked at you. “There’s… more?”

“Oh, yes,” Shane said, already leading the way to the trucks. “Tradition extends beyond the track.”

Half an hour later, the now clean five of you piled into your truck and headed down a dusty road to a nearby country bar. Neon lights flickered over swinging doors, and the faint smell of fried food and beer hit the cab of the truck before you even got out. Connor looked apprehensive as he saw the pit crews waiting out front.

You all stepped inside, and there it was in the corner: the mechanical bull, glowing under multicolored lights, ropes coiled neatly, leather saddle shining.

Shane clapped his hands. “Welcome to round two: the mechanical bull. You’ve survived mud, ice, and beer—now it’s time to test balance and dignity. If you last ten seconds, you’re officially the rookie king. Less than that…” he smirked, “…well, we’ll just call it a learning experience.”

Connor stared at the bull like it might charge him if he blinked wrong.

“Ten seconds,” he repeated faintly. “That’s… that’s a long time.”

“It’s really not,” Lando said cheerfully, already hopping up onto the low fence around the pen. “Max once stayed on one of these for—what was it—”

“Eight seconds,” Max replied flatly. “But it was aggressive.”

Connor’s head snapped toward him. “Why are you both talking like you’re considering this?”

Shane’s grin widened. “Oh, mate. You didn’t think you were riding alone, did you?”

The pit crew whooped immediately, chants starting up out of nowhere. Someone slapped a ten-dollar bill on the bar. Someone else raised their phone.

You leaned in toward Connor, lowering your voice just enough to sound sincere. “Here’s the thing. This part? This is actually fun. The mud was hazing. This is… bonding.”

Connor eyed you suspiciously. “You say that like you didn’t just spray me with a hose 20 minutes ago.”

“That was cleansing,” Lando said, hopping down from the fence again. “Spiritually.”

Max nodded once. “Also physically.”

Connor looked unconvinced, but before he could argue, the operator waved from the booth. “Alright, who’s up first?”

Lando’s hand shot up immediately. “I volunteer as tribute.”

“Of course you do,” you muttered, but you were already smiling.

The bar crowd shifted, attention snapping to the pen as Lando swung himself onto the bull with exaggerated confidence, one hand gripping the rope, the other raised theatrically.

“Be gentle,” he called to the operator. “I’m fragile.”

The bull lurched to life.

For about three seconds, Lando looked like he had it—laughing, loose, hips moving with the motion. Then the bull snapped sideways, hard, and Lando yelped as he pinwheeled off, landing in a heap against the padding.

The bar erupted.

“Three-point-eight seconds,” the operator called.

“Robbed,” Lando declared, staggering to his feet.

Max had already stepped forward.

Connor stared. “You’re actually doing it.”

Max shrugged. “I want to know if it’s predictable.”

“It is not,” Shane said cheerfully.

Max mounted the bull without ceremony, posture immediately different—centered, balanced, like he was settling into a cockpit. The bull started slower this time, testing him. He adjusted instinctively, jaw set, eyes focused.

Six seconds.

Seven.

The bull tried to buck him forward—Max leaned back.

Eight seconds—the crowd was yelling now.

At nine, it twisted violently, and Max finally lost it, hitting the padding with a grunt before rolling to his feet like nothing had happened.

He glanced at the operator. “Increase difficulty next time.”

The operator just blinked.

Connor let out a breathy laugh. “You people are insane.”

Shane clapped him on the shoulder. “Your turn, rookie.”

Connor hesitated, then squared up, rolling his shoulders like he was about to climb into a car. “Okay. Okay. Ten seconds. I can do ten seconds.”

You handed him his hat. “For luck.”

“For dignity,” he corrected, then climbed on.

The bull kicked immediately—harder than it had for either of the others. Connor yelped, gripping the rope with everything he had, legs flailing for half a second before he found a rhythm.

Five seconds.

Six.

The crowd counted with him now.

“SEVEN—EIGHT—”

Connor’s face was pure concentration, teeth clenched, every muscle engaged.

“NINE—”

The bull snapped sideways.

Connor flew.

He hit the padding flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling, chest heaving.

The bar went silent for half a heartbeat.

Then Connor started laughing. Loud, breathless, uncontrollable.

Shane hauled him up by the arm. “Nine-point-something. That’s practically ten.”

“Practically doesn’t count!” someone yelled.

Connor wiped his face, still grinning. “I don’t care. I survived.”

You handed him a drink, and he took it without hesitation this time, lifting it toward the crew. “Okay,” he said, voice still buzzing with adrenaline, “I get it now.”

The chant didn’t start right away.

It never did.

It crept in—low at first, a few voices near the bar, then louder as someone elbowed someone else and nodded unmistakably in your direction.

“Uh oh,” Connor said, eyes widening. “Why are they looking at you?”

You stared into the amber liquid in the shot glass that had appeared in front of you without your consent. Then at the second one beside it.

You didn’t sigh. You didn’t groan. You smiled.

Connor watched you the way a man watches a fuse burn toward dynamite. “I don’t like that smile,” he said. “That is not a normal smile.”

Lando peered over your shoulder at the bartender. “Is this where everyone chants and someone regrets life choices?”

“Sometimes,” you said. “But not tonight.”

You reached behind the bar—because of course you knew where it was—and pulled out a battered, spiral-bound notebook. The cover was warped from humidity and beer spills, corners curled, TRACKHOUSE scrawled across the front in Sharpie with a dozen signatures layered over it.

Connor frowned. “What is that?”

“The book,” Shane said reverently. “Team record.”

Max leaned in, interest sharpening. “A record of what?”

You flipped it open. Pages full of names. Dates. Events. Short notes written in wildly different handwriting.

Ross — 6.2 seconds — questionable techniqueDaniel — refused, cited ‘personal dignity’ (boo)Pit Crew Dave — 11.4 seconds — absolute menace

Connor’s eyes widened. “Those are—”

“Mechanical bull times,” Lando said, delighted. “Oh this is excellent.”

You tapped the page with your finger. “The rules are simple. Rookies get logged. Veterans defend their spot if challenged.”

Connor slowly turned toward you. “Why are they looking at you then?”

You finally picked up the shot glasses and downed them. Then you turned the book around so Connor could see the top of the page.

At the very top, boxed and underlined twice:

Longest Ride — 14.7 seconds

Your name.

Connor stared. Once. Twice. Then laughed, short and incredulous. “No way.”

Shane snorted. “Oh, way.”

Lando’s jaw dropped. “Fourteen seconds? On that thing?”

Max nodded slowly. “That explains a lot.”

Connor looked between the bull, the book, and you. “You did that?”

You shrugged. “Different bar. Meaner operator. I was angrier back then.”

“That is not reassuring,” Connor said faintly.

The crowd had figured it out now. Someone slapped the bar. Someone else yelled your name. The chant shifted—not teasing, not mocking. Expectant.

The operator leaned out of the booth. “You defending?”

You rolled your shoulders once, like loosening up before a stint. “Looks like it.”

Connor grabbed your arm. “Wait—hold on—why do you have to—”

“Because,” you said, gently prying his fingers loose, “this is the part where the rookie learns two important things.”

You handed him the book.

“One: tradition isn’t just about embarrassing the new guy.”

You stepped toward the pen as the bull powered back on, lights flickering brighter.

“And two,” you added over your shoulder, “never assume the calm one didn’t earn it.”

The crowd roared as you swung up onto the bull, settling in like it was familiar territory. You adjusted your grip, feet planted, spine loose.

From behind the fence, Connor stared, wide-eyed.

Shane leaned down beside him. “Watch closely, mate.”

The bull lurched.

Hard.

Not the gentle warm-up it had given Max—this was a deliberate test, a sharp snap meant to unseat anyone who thought confidence alone would carry them.

You adjusted without thinking. Hips loose, core engaged, eyes forward. The noise of the bar blurred into something distant, like crowd noise through a helmet. The bull spun left. You leaned right. It kicked upward, sudden and mean. Your boots lifted for half a second before you settled back down, grip tightening just enough to matter.

Connor’s mouth was hanging open now. “She’s not panicking.”

Shane’s grin widened. “That’s because she won’t.”

The operator cranked it faster. The bull twisted, bucked, then spun again, trying to throw you off rhythm. You let it—then took the rhythm back, moving with it instead of against it.

Lando had climbed up on the fence again, shouting encouragement like this was the best entertainment he’d had all year and Max, who’d been quiet until now, was leaning just a little forward, eyes narrowed, studying the way you moved. Not the bull. You.

The counter above the operator’s booth ticked past ten.

Then eleven.

The noise in the bar changed—not louder, just sharper. Phones lifted higher. Someone stopped mid-cheer, realizing what they were watching.

“Twelve!” someone shouted.

Connor’s hands were gripping the fence now, knuckles white. “She’s—she’s not even fighting it,” he breathed. “She’s letting it move her.”

“That’s the trick,” Shane said quietly. “You fight it, it wins. You listen, you stay.”

The bull snapped into a brutal spin, faster than before, a move designed to throw even experienced riders. The operator leaned forward, eyes narrowing, fingers dancing over the controls.

You slid with it, smooth and deliberate, weight shifting just enough to stay centered. Your free hand hovered—not flailing, not stiff—calm, precise.

The timer hit thirteen.

The crowd was counting now, unified, loud.

The bull kicked upward, violent, the sharpest move yet. For a split second, your boots lost contact.

Connor gasped.

You dropped back into the saddle like gravity had simply remembered you existed.

Fourteen.

The chant fractured into pure chaos.

“FOURTEEN—FOURTEEN—FOURTEEN—”

The operator hesitated. You felt it—the moment where he decided whether to stop or go for blood.

He went for blood.

The bull snapped sideways and bucked hard, an ugly, unpredictable motion that finally broke your rhythm. You flew—but you twisted midair, landing cleanly on your feet inside the padding before momentum carried you back a step.

For half a heartbeat, the bar was silent.

Then it exploded.

You laughed, breathless, adrenaline humming under your skin, and raised a hand in acknowledgment as the operator slapped the kill switch.

“Time!” he yelled, disbelief clear in his voice. “Fifteen even!” 

Shane was the first one to reach you, laughing outright as he hauled you into a one-armed hug. “You absolute menace,” he said into your ear. “You just broke your own damn record.”

Lando looked feral with excitement. “FIFTEEN,” he crowed, climbing down from the fence. “Do you know how long fifteen seconds is on that thing? That’s, like—three lifetimes.”

Someone shoved a drink into your hand—no argument, no ceremony—and another appeared in Connor’s before he could protest. The notebook slid across the bar again, stopping in front of you like it knew where it belonged.

You opened it, flipped back to the top of the page, and added a new line beneath your name.

15.0 — defended

You capped the pen and handed the book to Connor.

He looked down at it, then up at you, something different settling into his expression now. Not nerves. Not awe. Understanding.

“So this is… the point,” he said slowly.

You nodded. “Yeah. You get embarrassed. You get tested. And then you earn your place.”

Shane raised his glass. “To Connor. Survived the pit. Survived the bull.”

Lando clinked his glass against Shane’s. “And survived witnessing that,” he added, nodding toward you like he’d just seen a magic trick explained and still didn’t believe it.

Max lifted his drink last. “Welcome,” he said simply. It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be.

Connor took a breath, then laughed again—quieter this time, steadier. “Okay,” he said. “Yeah. I get it.”

The bar slowly settled back into itself. Music crept up. Conversations restarted. The bull sat dark and harmless in the corner like it hadn’t just rewritten a hierarchy.

You leaned back against the bar, adrenaline ebbing, muscles finally reminding you they existed. Shane stayed close, elbowing you lightly. “You know you didn’t have to defend.”

You took a sip of your drink. “I know.”

“Still glad you did.”

Connor drifted back over, notebook tucked carefully under his arm like it was something fragile. “Hey,” he said, a little hesitant. “Thanks. For… y’know. Not letting it be mean.”

You studied him for a second, then nodded. “There’s a line. We don’t cross it.”

He smiled, genuine and unguarded now. “I won’t forget that.”

Later—much later, when the night had cooled and the crowd had thinned to just your group—you all spilled out into the gravel lot. Someone laughed too loud. Someone else fumbled their keys.

You hovered near your truck, keys warm in your palm, when Lando drifted closer—unprompted, casual, like gravity had done the math for him. He bumped your shoulder lightly with his.

“Still alive,” he said, voice low and loose, a little worn around the edges.

“Barely,” you replied, smiling despite yourself.

Max appeared on your other side without announcement, presence settling in like a steady line through a corner. Close enough that you could feel the residual warmth of him through your jacket, close enough that it didn’t feel accidental. He looked at you for a second longer than necessary. Not assessing. Just… checking.

“You okay?” he asked.

The question was simple. The way he asked it wasn’t.

You nodded. “Yeah. Tired. But good.”

Lando hummed thoughtfully, rocking back on his heels. “That was… actually kind of perfect, wasn’t it?”

You glanced at him. “Your definition of perfect includes being thrown off a mechanical bull.”

“Details,” he said, grinning. 

You snorted, the sound slipping out before you could stop it. The tension you hadn’t realized you were still holding loosened a notch. Lando noticed—he always did—his grin softened into something familiar—fond, a little sleepy, the version of him that only showed up once the adrenaline burned off. 

“Alright,” Max said, voice low, calm, carrying that subtle authority that always made Lando stop mid-thought, “let’s head home.”

“Home?” Lando echoed, eyes half-lidded with sleep and a grin that was all soft warmth.

“Yes,” Max said, a small smile tugging at his lips. “No more crowds, no bull, no mud… just us.”

You blinked, heart doing a little flip.

Lando hummed, “Sounds perfect,”.

You all moved toward the truck in a slow, easy rhythm. Lando opened your truck door for you and made sure you were all the way in before closing it carefully and climbing into the backseat. Max slid into the passenger seat without a word, settling in with that quiet composure that made the world feel smaller somehow.

The night air was cool as you pulled onto the quiet streets, headlights cutting through the darkness. The city around you felt distant, irrelevant, like it existed in another world. Here, in this truck, it was just the three of you—your laughter from earlier still lingering like smoke in the back of your mind.

Lando murmured softly from behind you, “You know… I could fall asleep like this forever.”

Max glanced over briefly, lips twitching into a small, fond smile.

When you pulled into your driveway, the house was dark and welcoming, porch light flicking on automatically like it knew you were coming. Inside, everything fell into place with the ease of routine: shoes kicked off, jackets abandoned, lights dimmed without discussion.

You barely made it to the bed before Lando flopped down and tugged you with him, laughter muffled against your shoulder. Max followed a second later, settling behind you, arm draped around your waist, solid and sure.

The world narrowed to warmth and weight and quiet breathing.

Lando nuzzled into your neck, voice already half-asleep. “Missed this.”

Max pressed a soft kiss to your hair. “Me too.”