Summary: Max makes his intentions clear, that he wants to pursue you, so much so that he's already planning your future with him.
Warning: This is part two of The pretty Interviewer.
The next morning in Monaco, the paddock buzzes with energy. You barely reach the Sky Sports tent before your producer rushes up to you, smiling like she just won the constructorsâ championship.
âDonât look now,â she says, âbut thereâs already a crowd outside. They want to see if Max will charm you on live TV again.â
You bury your face in your notes, trying not to blush. âHeâs just playing with the media. He loves stirring things up.â
Your producer laughs. âRight, and Iâm really Toto Wolff. You two broke the internet last night. Even the official F1 account is in on it.â She holds up her phone, showing you a meme: Max in his race suit, captioned, âFind someone who looks at you the way Max looks at the Sky Sports reporter.â
Suddenly, the crowd outside parts with excitement. Max appears at the paddock entrance, scanning the area until he spots you. Before anyone can react, he jogs overâhelmet in hand, a big grin on his face.
Reporters and fans begin to murmur, cameras turning your way. Max doesn't care. He reaches you in an instant, taking your hand, warm and confident. The world seems to pause as he pulls you beside him, walking through the paddock together, fingers intertwined as if itâs perfectly normal.
Cheers and whistles follow you like confetti. Someone shouts, âGo on, Max!â He just squeezes your hand, glancing down with that charming, lovestruck smile that makes your heart skip.
âYou didnât think Iâd let you handle this chaos alone, did you?â he whispers, just for you.
Your producerâs jaw drops. The Sky cameras are rolling. Itâs Monaco, and for a moment, it feels like the whole world is watching Max Verstappen stroll hand-in-hand with you to the biggest race of the year.
Youâre still groaning when Max shows up, surprisingly relaxed for someone about to race in Monaco. He flashes you a grin that promises troubleâexcept this time, thereâs a softness to it, one that doesnât fade when the cameras are on.
âReady for your exclusive?â he asks, keeping his eyes on yours, ignoring the crowd of reporters pretending not to listen.
You try to remain professional. âMax, youâre starting on pole for the Monaco Grand Prix. Any nerves?â
He leans in close enough for you to catch a hint of his cologne. His eyes linger on your face just a beat too long. âOnly if youâre nervous. I think thatâs the only thing that could throw me off today.â
Your producer, clearly done with professionalism, whispers in your ear, âHeâs got it bad for you.â
You push on. âWhatâs the plan for turn one? Itâs usually chaos.â
âStay ahead, avoid chaos, and maybeââ he pauses, giving you a slow look that makes your cheeks flush, âconvince you to have dinner with me again after I win. Monacoâs stunning, but you make it unforgettable.â
You choke, and Maxâs grin spreads wider. He leans in, his voice dropping, âHonestly, Iâd race here every weekend just for a chance to see you.â
âIâm trying to do my job,â you hiss, covering your mic.
He shrugs, completely unruffled. âSo am I. Just⌠my jobâs a lot more fun when youâre around.â
The interview becomes a blurâa mix of technical talk and playful flirting, with Max teasing hints about post-race plans and you doing your best to act like you havenât already agreed to a late-night stroll by the harbor. When it ends, Max lingers as if heâs forgotten thereâs a race to win.
âYou know,â he says, lowering his voice, âI used to hate interviews. Now I look forward to them. Youâre the only one who makes me nervous.â
Your stomach turns. âBecause you enjoy being the center of attention?â
He shakes his head. âBecause when you look at me, I feel like Iâve already won.â
Before you can say anything, he strides back toward the garage, leaving you flustered and the entire F1 Twitterverse moments away from a meltdown.
The race is pure Monaco: tight, intense, impossible to predict. Max leads from the start, but a late safety car changes everything. You watch, holding your breath, as he navigates through the turmoil, the world focused on him.
He wins. Of course he does.
As the Red Bull zooms past the checkered flag, Maxâs radio crackles with his engineer's euphoric shouts. He barely catches his breath before grabbing the radio, his voice filled with adrenaline.
âMax, you legend! Monaco winner! Thatâs how you do it!â his race engineer exclaims.
Maxâs laughter is full of disbelief, almost boyish. But then he shifts his tone, warmer and more thoughtful. He knows everyone is listeningâhis team, the fans, the world.
âThis oneâs for someone special,â he says, steady as can be. âI want to dedicate this win to the Sky Sports reporter who survived my flirting all weekend. You know who you are. Thanks for making Monaco unforgettable.â
The team erupts with cheers and laughter. The crowd, hearing the dedication over the loudspeakers, goes wild.
Max grins into the radio, barely hiding his mischief. âHonestly, the carâs quick, but not as quick as my heart every time you ask me questions.â
His engineer groans, half-laughing, âMax, mate, youâre killing us.â
Max just laughs, a bit smug. âWhat can I say? Sheâs my lucky charm. That dinner offer still stands, by the way. Monacoâs beautiful at nightâalmost as beautiful as her smile.â
The paddock buzzes with chatter. Social media is already going crazy.
When he finally walks into parc fermĂŠ, covered in champagne and smiling, he looks right at you. The worldâs cameras may be on him, but he finds your eyes first.
Later, the post-race interview turns into a frenzy. Reporters jostle, microphones wave, but Max waits, arms crossed, until you stand in front of him. Everything else fades away.
âCongratulations, Max,â you say, trying to keep your voice steady.
âThank you.â He gives you that look that has sparked countless tweets. He leans in close enough that only youâand possibly millions of viewersâcan hear. âYou know, if Iâd known winning Monaco would get me this interview, I wouldâve tried even harder.â
You raise an eyebrow. âYou just won Monaco. Shouldnât you be celebrating with your team?â
Max shrugs, still only focused on you. âIâd rather celebrate with you. Maybe youâll finally say yes to that dinner. Or do I need to win another race?â
He leans in, whispering in your ear with that grin. âCareful, or Iâll have to dedicate every win to you. Might make the other drivers jealous.â
The cameras capture it allâyour laughter, his easy smile, the way he leans in as if heâs about to share a secret. The clip is already being shared, memeâd, and picked apart by the time you both slip away from the paddock, hearts racing, the world watching.
By midnight, Monacoâs streets have quieted down. You and Max stroll along the harbor, the air thick with anticipation and the scent of the sea. This time, there are no cameras, no microphonesâjust two people trying to figure out what happens next.
He stops, gazing out at the yachts bobbing on the dark water. âYou know, everyoneâs going to have an opinion about this.â
You nudge his shoulder. âSince when do you care about everyone?â
He laughs, soft and genuine. âI donât. I only care about you.â
You open your mouth to respond, but heâs already leaning in, gentle and certain. For once, you forget about the world watching, the noise, the chaos, and the next race.
What began as just another paddock interview now feels like the start of something entirely new.
And you wouldnât trade it for pole positionânot even on a street circuit.
Taglist: @bowielovesyou and @lilypat
