enchante, mon ami

Until age 35, Daniel had never much considered kissing guys outside the confines of homoerotic jokes with friends and the few gay friends in his peripheral circle.

Retirement was weird. In a moment’s notice, Daniel’s life transformed from being planned by the minute with a colour-coded schedule coordinated by a whole team behind him into endless stretches of free space to think and do and decide.

His explorations into a future without racing began with slow allowances. Fries on the side instead of salad. Workout routines that built visible muscle instead of shaping him into the leanest version of himself. Hits from his friend’s joints, then ones of his own, maybe a line or two every so often now that he wasn’t subject to drug tests and didn’t frequent sleazy places with potentially laced substances.

Guys took the longest. When he realizes he’s staring at the guy in his porn, he jerks his hand back, holding it in the air as if offended by its willingness to rub his cock while thinking of a man.

With time though, it comes. He lets himself relax into the thoughts with a fully locked house and bedroom door, and then with the door open, and then in response to a guy he’d seen in real life that day.

By the time the dude approaches him at the concert, Daniel has wrapped his brain around the possibility a bit. He presses himself to Daniel’s side, fingers dancing on Daniel’s waist and teeth flashing between stubble. The guy is hot and clearly interested, and Daniel pointedly does not look at a single one of his friends when he follows the dude to the toilets and they jerk each other off in a stall.

Daniel rejoins his friends with come freshly washed off his wrist, arm hairs still damp, and sure that everything he’d just done is written across the guilty hands twisting back and forth.

Jack just smiles at him, elbows his side encouragingly. “You probably gave that poor guy beard burn with that disaster on your face,” he teases, and that’s all that’s said of the matter.

By 36, when Daniel meets the broad, muscular Brian, he isn’t looking for anything serious. It isn’t real, not at first. They hook up, and then hook up again, and Daniel thinks his friends might really like Brian if he brought him around. He’s chill and a bit of an adrenaline junkie just like them. He played D1 college football, so he shoots the shit with Daniel about Bills games — first via text, quickly via bet-based sex games. Daniel once gets the final score prediction so wrong that he can barely walk the next day. The memory of Brian’s hand inside him follows him with every pained step, and Daniel lightly whacks Brian’s torso when he snickers at Daniel’s winces.

So it’s not serious, in a way. Daniel isn’t planning to marry the dude, really. He isn’t planning on marrying a dude, period. Women are still an option to him, and while he’s wrapped up in the newness of guys, he maybe shouldn’t make that choice. It doesn’t feel truly available to him, even though he’s retired and never has to dictate his life around other’s judgment and orders again.

For now, though, he can choose Brian. He can choose to call him his boyfriend, even though the words take ages to stop sticking in his throat. He can stumble around the language with his mum, until she finally gets what he’s saying and hugs him so tightly that he’s sure he must have visible cracks and she sees it as her mission to hold his delicate pieces intact.

His friends know and like the guy, and the ones who don’t like it politely fade into the background of Daniel’s life. He’s Daniel Ricciardo, boyfriend haver, and the people who need to know, know.

He doesn’t think about the fact that racing people aren’t aware. It’s not like he has a reason to see or talk to them outside polite birthday texts or the odd congratulations message when he stumbles across a particularly impressive feat in his social media algorithm. He doesn’t want to have anything to do with F1, and the whole reason he gets to have this is because he’s done. Free. Never has to worry about their opinions again.

It’s Scotty’s fault, in the end, that he ever has to tell Max.

Daniel never wanted to be around Monaco again if he could help it, but he agrees to visit Scotty there for a few days before trekking back to Australia for Christmas, a promise he regrets immensely.

Scotty doesn’t like Brian very much and does a very poor job hiding it. He gets a look like he’s sucking a very sour lemon, mouth puckering in little creased lines across chapped lips as he tries to explain to Daniel why he’s bothered by Brian in a non-homophobic way.

Scotty gets clingy and possessive about his years of knowing Daniel when Brian is around, and it gets worse when Brian is unbothered and unthreatened by it. He just raises his eyebrows at Daniel like, “can you believe this shit,” and Daniel raises them back, quietly feeling bad because he thinks — maybe, maybe Scotty is feeling about Daniel the way Daniel always felt about guys and couldn’t have until now.

“How about padel?” Daniel suggests to break the tension in the room. Scotty grumpily refuses, but Chloe is thrilled for the excuse to shoo Daniel and Brian out of the home. She probably craves a fraction of peace without the weird passive-aggressive shit filling the room, so Daniel pays a pretty penny to get them a last minute court.

It should be safe, Daniel thinks. The chances that he’d overlap times with another driver are already minimal, if they’re even still in Monaco this close to the holidays. He has fun showing Brian how to play, giggling at watching his normally coordinated boyfriend flail and fail at it, then ham up his struggles to keep making Daniel laugh.

The eternal truth of the universe is that Daniel has shit luck in all circumstances, and he’s tying up shoelaces when Max Verstappen playfully smacks his side with a padel racket.

Max looks good. Really good. His hair is grown out and sticks against his flushed face, eyes crinkling and sparkling like finding Daniel crouched on the court ground has brought him a lifetime of joy.

“Hi, Daniel,” he beams. His sweaty top clings to the shape of his torso, still racing-season fit instead of relaxed into the g&ts and pasta of the offseason, but it stretches tight against his chest like always.

It’s weird to realize he’d been noting all these things about the shape of Max’s chest, had spent years unconsciously documenting way his arm muscles bulge when he stretches his arms over his head and reveals a pale strip of skin and hair leading into his ugly mesh shorts.

All this time, Daniel had looked, and he’d admired, and he’d touched Max and joked and quietly wanted and he thought that was a normal feeling everyone had about their male friends.

“Max,” Daniel says, skin stretched thin over an unnatural smile. “Hi, mate. Sorry, I would’ve messaged but I figured you’d be gone for the holidays.”

“I had a final factory visit yesterday, about the engine,” Max explains. “We go to Brazil tomorrow. Very luck timing, that I found you.”

“Yeah. Lucky,” Daniel echoes hollowly, letting Max fill the empty air with chatter about the logistics of traveling with a baby, and can you believe how much stuff they require Daniel, let me show you, and all he can think about when he’s oohing and awwing over Max’s cute chubby lookalike baby is that his boyfriend is going to appear any minute now.

If Daniel doesn’t introduce him as such, he might hurt Brian and will definitely offend Max when he eventually realizes that Daniel lied to his face. The faceoff is inevitable, unless Max fucks off right now. He won’t, because he’s kind and good and too excited by finding his washed-up former teammate when he has a family to get home to.

Maybe Max knows already, Daniel faintly hopes. Martin does. Still, Martin is very nice, and very with the times, and probably wouldn’t say anything without Daniel’s explicit permission that he did not request. Plus, it’s a bit narcissistic to think that Max and Martin spend any time together discussing Daniel at all.

When Brian reappears, fresh water bottle gripped in his big hands and blood washed off his knee from a final dramatic lunge, he falters for only a second at the sight of Max. Brian obviously recognizes him immediately, and darts his eyes to check Daniel up and down for signs that he wants an out.

He never pushes Daniel to talk in too much detail about his career, but it was Daniel’s life for so long. It inevitably enters stories, and so many of those revolve around Max. He’s seen photos, heard Daniel talk about him, knows that Max matters to Daniel and also knows that Max doesn’t yet know.

Max introduces himself as he would to any of Daniel’s friends, polite but a bit reserved while he waits to assess whether he actually likes them or if they are, as Max has happily proclaimed them before, a bit of a dickhead.

Before Brian can respond with an introduction of his own, probably to give Daniel a pass and call himself a friend, Daniel shakes his head. This is his thing to tell, and he does want Max to know even if he’s anxiously made blood well up on the surface of a cuticle in the span of this conversation.

Daniel moves to throw his arm around Brian’s broad shoulders, then thinks better of it and goes for the waist. Less subtle. More believable, more immediately obvious he isn’t joking when his fingertips are curled into Brian’s hipbone, both from affection and a desperate need to stay upright.

“Max, this is Brian.” He swallows, the words gummy and trapped in a tangled knot at the base of his throat. It’s nearly impossible to breathe through the limited space left in his airway, but Daniel finds the words a second before the pause between statements would be weird. “My boyfriend.”

To his immense credit, Max controls his surprise well. His eyes widen, scanning over Daniel’s face for any hint that this is a joke.

When he finds no such indication, no cracks around the corner of his lips to suggest that Daniel is about to break into laughter, he just nods and shakes Brian’s hand like this is nothing, like former teammates end up being some shade of gay and bringing around their not-totally-secret boyfriends every day.

He’s a bit stiff, and he keeps glancing at Daniel’s hand placement. He’s perfectly nice though, the version of himself being introduced to guests in the garage where he makes an effort and pretends he doesn’t want to get back to the mechanics and talk about his car.

“Want to play a round of doubles?” Max politely offers when his padel partner appears, already showered and ready to go. Daniel shakes his head. He feels shaky, weak, still trembling slightly with the adrenaline drop of having said the scary words to a person he really didn’t want to lose.

“It was great to see you,” Max enthuses, hugging Daniel with intense force.

It’s his way of letting Daniel know that this changes nothing. He squeezes Daniel just as tightly as he did at Daniel’s last race, as warmly the first time they saw each other after at these very padel courts, as excitedly as the conclusion of drinks after where Max told him he was having a little baby and Daniel had pretended he was fine and normal about the flood of emotions that brought.

Max wraps both arms around Daniel and holds him close against his neck until Daniel is surrounded by Max’s sweat-damp shirt and the lingering tang of salt on Max’s skin, and Daniel luxuriates in the eternal appreciation that he gets to be one of Max’s people.

“It was nice to meet you,” Max says to Brian with a little smile and head nod. Brian returns the sentiment, and then Max is gone, long legs and tapered waist off in the Monaco night and back to a home full of children’s toys and trophies.

Brian nudges Daniel’s side, tugs him in close. “Proud of you,” he says simply, because he does get it. He didn’t go pro — medical retirement his senior year after a horrible ACL tear (“Not that I would’ve even made so much as practice squad on a team to begin with,” he always self-flagellates, and Daniel lets him because he thinks Brian letting himself believe that helps).

Still, he was a gay dude in a 2000s locker room and now assistant coaches for a college team. He knows how much harder it is to tell this category of people the truth.

Daniel huffs out some air. “I want pizza,” he says, instead of anything real. He wants Monza pizza, actually, the eager anticipation of a race ahead and the thrill of a rare treat instead of what’s now a diet staple, but those days can’t exactly come back to him.

"I came here because I wanted to ask," Max started, then stopped himself. They breathed, together. In the stillness of the late afternoon, the feeble rays of sunlight casting low shadows on his parent's porch, Daniel thought about warming up a wooden bench with someone he used to love. 

"I wanted to ask," Max tried again, this time sounding more determined, his nasally voice pitched down in a way that betrayed his nerves, "I wanted to ask if this was still what you wanted. To be so far away, Daniel. From- from the sport, and from us all" he said, a peace offer more than anything. 

From me, the silence added for him. 

When it became clear Daniel wouldn't answer, Max continued with his pitch, something in his words robotic and rehearsed. Daniel wanted to laugh at the mental image of the great Max Verstappen using the small mirror at his private jet to prepare his speech. He wondered if he'd come with cameras, but he shook the thought off. Grandiose gestures, possibly, but breach of privacy? Max? Never. 

Then again, who knew. This sport had an awful way of sweeping past personal boundaries and leaving you to puzzle out the dried-out remnants of yourself in the aftermath. 

On the wooden bench while the sun set behind them, this is what Max said, the words surely scribbled out on a Hermès notepad somewhere in his jet: "I ask because I know you say this is what you want, but it seems a little dull, and I know, Daniel, you like the thrill of racing. The adrenaline of it all. Of course, I know you are still hurt, and the way that you left was unfortunate. But Horner is gone. There's new people. I tell the rookies about you and I think they don't believe the things I say, maybe I am too generous, but I don't think so, not with you, Daniel, I just say the truth and it's so wonderful it sounds like a lie. But I think they could use your guidance as well. You were always better than me at that" 

Daniel thought. He breathed deeply, in and out, tried to count but the numbers melted together in his head. The colors of the sunset were dancing behind his eyelids as he spoke, "So you want me to go back to the grid to play babysitter?" 

"No!" Max immediately said, and he had the audacity to sound bewildered. "Not at all, I just mean... You were always good with people. And every year, the people get worse and worse, and we are more tired than ever, and I think I'm getting tired as well, and I'd like- I think I just- it'd be nice to have you around" 

"Oh, okay, I get it now. You want me to babysit you?" Daniel replied, and that would've been enough, plenty of snark already, but the loneliness and the frustration made the next words sneak past his lips without his permission, "I thought you had Kelly for that" 

Max rolled his eyes at that, Daniel could tell. He still hadn't opened his eyes, but he heard Max's long, exasperated sigh, and they'd been this... thing, this thing, for long enough for him to know his tells. 

Yeah, he totally got an eye roll out of Max. 

"Your mom says you don't do much, nowadays" Max said, in a much gentler tone, and Daniel regretted his snark because all it had gotten him was pity. Yikes. 

"Yeah, well..." Daniel stalled, rolling his neck slowly, "I'm just looking for my thing. The thing, you know? You know... Something to do that really captivates me" 

Something to give it all purpose, the silence added for him. 

"You used to have a thing, Daniel, of course it was your thing, the thing, our-" Max paused, and then audibly gulped, the wood creaking under them as he rearranged himself. "I do not understand why you have given up so abruptly on racing. Even if you don't want to come back, you could do the hyper cars, or the American racing if you love that wretched country so much, or... anything, really. Something for the sake of something, yeah?" 

"No, Max, it can't be racing. I don't- I can't do that again," I won't survive it, I'm not strong enough, Daniel wanted to scream. In the stillness of the late afternoon, the feeble rays of sunlight casting low shadows on his parent's porch, Daniel thought that he didn't have the luxury of his parents, of telling himself he'd do it all again. "I need something that, like... Loves me back, you know?" 

"Daniel, you are being ridiculous" Max tried, but it was clear he wasn't really in it, didn't believe his own words. "You can, of course, do it again. If you get back on the sim, with the regulation changes in 2026 and the-"

"You don't understand, I'm so old, I'm so tired, I need something that loves me back" Daniel insisted, voice pitchy and croaky as he finally opened his eyes, staring straight into Max's, trying to convey his pain when words failed him. "I need to be loved back, Max" Silence. Deafening, terrifying silence. Max sighed, and he was the first to break eye contact, the brave, proud lion turning with its tail between its legs. He was fiddling with a silver bracelet, a small piece of jewellery that was probably stupidly expensive, because Max couldn't imagine ever not racing and having millions upon millions to spend unabashedly. Daniel stared at the bracelet, too. 

'P+L', it read, and Daniel knew he'd lost before the race had even started, felt that same powerless anger that he used to feel a lifetime ago, like fire in his veins whenever he started to lose positions, seeing the car ahead getting farther away from him while he could do nothing but watch and writhe and whine to be saved from another humiliating defeat. When Max stood up, the wooden bench creaked again. He probably hadn't sat down for long enough to warm the wood up for the next visitor. If Daniel had to guess, he didn't plan on staying long enough to see the rain. 

In the stillness of a winter night, sitting on an empty bench, Daniel hung his head low, closing his eyes with a sigh. 

Dead fucking last.