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Lewis Hamilton isn’t a loser because of 2021, but Oscar Piastri is a bit of a loser for 2025. Sebastian Vettel isn’t a loser for 2018, though he came close, but Mark Webber is certainly a loser for everything from 2010-2013, and a bit before that. Daniel isn’t a loser. Alex is. That’s just how these things work.

“You’re a misogynist,” Daniel says, and Max scoffs.

“Spell misogynist,” Max retorts.

“M-I-S-S—”

“Absolutely not,” Max snorts, “You’re a dumbass.”

“You don’t care,” Daniel grins, “You love me.”

“Fuck you,” Max rolls her eyes, shoving at him again. “I’m not a misogynist. I don’t even care about that sort of thing.” Daniel frowns slightly, tilting his head bemusedly. 

“You’re no feminist,” He mutters, and it’s almost a question but they both know it’s not. It’s true, really. Max isn’t a feminist. She hangs around Horner and Helmut despite... everything about them. She hangs around Daniel, who sounds like the spirit of a man from the old workplace harassment tapes they rolled out when Max first got hired is speaking through him half the time; tits and ass and sex and ugh. Max doesn’t exactly put herself out there for womens rights, womens representation, womens anything. She’s a woman, and that’s about as far as her activism goes. But, still, she’s not actively awful to women. She’s not, like, a sexist. It’s certainly not Alex’s womanhood that she hates about Alex, and she says as much.\

“I don’t think Alex is a loser because she’s a girl,” Max protests, even as Daniel raises an eyebrow, “I think she’s a loser for entirely unrelated reasons.”

“You don’t think Pierre is a loser, and they’re practically in the same situation. Frankly, Pierre’s the bigger loser than she is, if you really think about it.” Daniel hums, pondering it for a moment, before wincing. “Ah, shit,” He says, “Nothing against Pierre. But, well, you know—”

“Pierre’s not a loser,” Max huffs, interrupting him, “He’s just French.”

Daniel squints at her. She’s getting real tired of him thinking she’s wrong. It all started when he retired, really, all of his protests and pushback and... being a bitch. He’s annoying her. He’s not agreeing with her. It’s pissing her off.

“Everything pisses you off,” He says, when she tells him just that. He’s all smug, with sunglasses covering his eyes like an American, like an asshole. She hates him. 

“I hate you.”

“I know,” Daniel grins, “Now, explain it to me.”

“Explain what?” Max hisses, stubborn. 

“The Alex thing,” Daniel elaborates, “The anger. The pettiness. The bitchiness—”

“I’m not a bitch,” Max snaps, and it’s important that he knows that. It’s important that she says that. Max doesn’t get called a bitch. She’s an asshole or a dickhead or a motherfucker, but she’s never, not ever, a bitch. That word is reserved for real bitches, people like the journalists she doesn’t like or the girls on the social media team who gossip about her shitty attitude or Georgia Russell—

“Is this about George?” Daniel asks, eyes guileless and innocent, in a way that tells Max he knows exactly what he’s asking.

“No,” Max lies, “It’s about Alex.”

“What about Alex?”

“She’s a loser.” Max turns around then, flipping her head to the side and ignoring Daniel’s weedling and whining and bitching for the next twenty-three minutes. The reason why she does this is simple — It is easy to ignore Daniel, and it is hard to explain Alex.

Mostly because Max doesn’t know Alex. Not really. They were two women on the same team, and Alex was a rookie but she was older, and none of that mattered because Alex didn’t matter, because Alex was never not going to be playing second fiddle, runner-up, cannon fodder. Alex was never going to matter. At least, not to Max.

But, well, Alex matters to Georgia Russell, and that’s something.

Max grinds her teeth. It’s certainly something.

It’s nothing to be jealous of. Georgia Russell is obnoxious, and knowing her is difficult even for Max, who tries her best to spend as little time with her as humanly possible. Georgia Russell is pretentious and prickly — She’s prudish, sure, but she primps and she preens, attention-hungry, desperate. She’s annoying, up her own ass, and Max hates her. Max really hates her, like nothing else. She’s British and she’s a bitch and she’s really, really beautiful, and Max hates her. God, Max hates her.

And, well, it all works out, because Georgia hates Max.

But, well, Georgia doesn’t hate Alex.

And it starts like this: Max enters Alex’s drivers room early on in their teammate relationship, and George is beautiful, hair tumbling down her back in waves, her eyes bright blue, blinding. She’s like nothing Max has seen before, tall and lean and angular, cool and icy and delicate like glass, sharp at the edges. She’s gorgeous. Max immediately hates her. What Max hates more is the way Alex’s hand lingers at George’s waist, the way they duck into each other to laugh and talk and breathe, like they can’t bear to be outside of each other’s orbit. They barely even glance at Max, and when she leaves, she can hear their giggles through the door.

They’re talking about me. Max thinks, hysterical. They’re fucking talking about me.

She doesn’t do anything about it. It drives her crazy. She thanks God when Alex finally leaves. She curses God when Alex leaves for Williams, sitting right back down in the seat George is about to leave.

Is her seat warm? Max wants to ask, nonsensical.

Do you have to share everything? Max wants to ask too, even more nonsensically.

Even a seat? Max is spiraling. You need her seat? Do you need her clothes too? Her underwear? Her skin? Can you even live outside of each other for a day?

Max thinks, briefly: Can you live inside of me?