“It was good,” you say, feeling the grin break out across your face. “That last lap, turn-“

“Turn two!” Max says excitedly, eyes lighting up.

You don’t have time to question the fact that he’s seen at least part of your race before he’s off on a tangent, hands dancing through the air as he talks. In his element, suddenly, lit up bright like he is when he talks to his fellow drivers, in the background on tv broadcasts during race weekends. Max is impressive at all times, but Max talking about racing is bright and electric. He draws you in like a current.

At some point, the two of you sit down at a nearby table, electing to ignore the rest of the guests Red Bull invited for you to sweet talk. At some point, Max flags someone down and asks for drinks- a gin and tonic for him, your favorite for you. At some point, you realize it’s been nearly an hour, the party is winding down, and a person you think is probably Max’s publicist is headed your way.

You nod towards her, brows raised at Max. “I think we might be in trouble.”

Max is halfway through explaining his racing team side project. He turns, hands mid air, and frowns, shaking his head at the woman. She nods in response. He waves a hand in your direction, brows raised, and you hide a laugh behind your hand. He’d rather talk to you than whatever she wants him to do. Probably not saying much, but an honor nonetheless.

She walks closer, and they talk quietly for a few seconds. Max sighs heavily, slumping in his chair before he turns to you. She’s smiling politely at you while he pouts.

“I have to go,” he says.

You nod in understanding. “I probably should, too. I’m sure I’m supposed to be schmoozing some big wig exec and batting my eyelashes. You know.”

He nods solemnly and picks up his glass. You do the same, clinking them together.

“To all the eyelash batting we can handle,” he says, giving you half a grin. “I’ll see you soon.”

“Yeah, see you soon,” you say, even if it isn’t true.

…..

Max Verstappen may be electric, but his car is absolutely on fire. You see it for the first time from across the Red Bull garage in Miami, all sleek lines and navy blue, every part so perfectly engineered. There’s a flurry of activity around it, and you crane your neck to catch glimpses- of the front wing, of the seat, of the steering wheel. You want to see it all, but you don’t dare move any closer.

“He doesn’t bite, you know,” Max says, suddenly at your side.

You blink at him, startled. “Who doesn’t?”

“The car,” he says, with a smile. “Rocky.”

“Your car is a boy,” you state. It’s actually quite unsurprising.

“Yeah. The whole sexy girl name for a car thing was weird,” he shrugs. “So. Rocky.”

You smile softly. “Well, Rocky is a sexy car.”

Max’s smile widens. “Yeah. Come closer.”

He hooks his hand in the crook of your elbow for just a second, just to nudge you closer. You go willingly. The crowd of people in Red Bull attire part like the Red Sea for him. He’s right, it’s even better up close. You lean to peek into the cockpit, at the complicated steering wheel and the footwells.

You squint at the gap between the halo. “You know, Indycars have the aeroscreen. Not sure I could get used to things flying at my face again.”

He nods, eyes lighting up. “I was going to ask you- how do you like that? You drove before they added them too, of course. The halo was an adjustment for us-“

“We were against it, at first,” you say, nodding. “But the safety of it-“

“Sure, sure- doesn’t it get hot? We have a race in Qatar this year-“

And it’s just like the night you met- like a match in grass, off and running like a wildfire. And you realize what the difference is between him and most of the other guys you interact with in this world when you jokingly ask if you can take Rocky out for a spin.

“No,” he says, eyes lit up. “I’m afraid you’d beat me, and then I’d be out of a job.”

He means it, is the thing. You’re sure you wouldn’t beat him, at least not on your first lap in the car. But he thinks that highly of you, of your skill. It makes your stomach twist in the best way.

There are a lot of guys out there who think women don’t have a place in motorsport. But Max, who got half his racing passion from his mother, who used to tweet Susie Wolff, who’s always shown support for the women in the series… Max is different.

“You can sit in it, though,” he says, nodding towards the car.

You tilt your head. “Nah. The first time I sit in one of these cars, I wanna drive it.”

Max laughs, bumps his shoulder against yours. “Yeah. It’s a good moment. Save it for then.”

He asks you for your number before you leave Miami, standing in the hotel lobby waiting for a shuttle to the airport. You save his number and figure he’ll forget he has yours by the time he gets on the plane. But he texts you when he gets back to Monaco, a picture of his two cats, curled up on his lap. In the background, the TV is on, and a Red Bull YouTube video is playing. You know what it is because it’s one you’re featured in, taking one of their show cars for a few laps around a track, showing off for the cameras.

Your new biggest fans, he’s captioned it. Then a second text comes through. I’m still number one, though.

…..

Max calls you for the first time the night after the Indianapolis 500. You almost don’t answer, because you’re bone tired and not looking to speak to anyone, but it’s Max. You swipe to pick up.

“Hello?” You say, sitting up slightly against the headboard.

“Hi,” he says, bright and cheery. Like this is a completely normal occurrence. “How are you feeling?”

You laugh. “Like I just drove 500 miles without power steering.”

He laughs at that, and the noise makes your heart stir. You check the time- it’s nearly 9 pm. Which means-

“Why are you up so early?” You ask, frowning. “Or still up so late? It’s got to be, what-“

“3am,” he answers. “Don’t know. Probably all the Red Bulls I drank after the race.”

You sigh in commiseration. “Been there.”

Max hums. “Congrats, by the way.”

You scoff. “I barely made the top ten.”

“But you did,” he says. “10th from 18th. Impressive.”

“You won Monaco today.”

“Yesterday, technically, so it’s old news.” he says, dismissively. “Besides, you can’t pass there. I would have had to really mess up to lose. I watched your race. It was impressive.”

“You watched?” You ask, sitting up a little straighter, some weird jolt of adrenaline running down your spine.

“Of course,” he says. You hear him muffle a yawn, and you and smile softly. “It was a good race.”

“You sound bored,” you tease.

“You sound like you’re deflecting,” he retorts. “I mean it, you know.”

You sigh, running your finger over the mountains and valleys of the comforter. The TV is playing in the background, something mindless and boring that was supposed to put you to sleep an hour ago. Maybe you can put on a replay of Monaco, fall asleep to the sound of Max winning.

“I know,” you answer him. “I am proud. It’s just. It’s over now.”

The Indy 500 isn’t just a race- it’s a spectacle. They call it the Month of May, with events leading up the race spread over the weeks before it. It’s all been building- the tension, the adrenaline, the electricity. And now, 250 laps later, it’s over. And while many of your competitors will be back in a racecar next week, you won’t. Just a guest driver for the biggest spectacle, left to try and leverage this into a full time seat for next year. It hurts.

He blows out a breath. “Yeah. That’s tough.”

Tough. That’s an understatement, but you’re sure he knows it. He just doesn’t know how to say it. Max has spent his career getting every chance possible. He skipped a whole feeder series. And here you are, stuck clawing for every opportunity to drive a racecar. Two drastically different lives, and yet-

“You didn’t go out to celebrate,” he says.

“Celebrate 10th place?” You ask.

“No,” he says. “Celebrate the end. Even when you’re sad it’s over, you can be happy it happened.”

“‘Max Verstappen, you cheesy motherfucker,” you giggle. “Did you steal that from a motivational sign?”

He laughs right back. “No. I would never. I am a poet, you know. Secret side job.”

You laugh at that- a full laugh that shakes your shoulders and chest. The two of you talk for a little longer, but Max’s pauses get longer and his words softer and rounder. You know he’s falling asleep, so you say goodnight.

You stare at the ceiling for a couple minutes after he hangs up, and then you pick up the phone again. This time, you’re the one to make the call. Max is right- you can celebrate the end. You’re sure someone’s hosting a party, somewhere, whether it’s in celebration or in pity. Besides, a bit of tequila fixes everything.

…..

You spend your time between sponsor appearances and endurance races doing a mix of things- training, asking sponsors, calling race teams, calling your management to see if they’ve heard back from race teams. The whole nine yards. You spend what time you have leftover after that posting bullshit on social media that has your fans- despite your frustrations, you do have fans- highly entertained. You post about gym workouts, about the sand still stuck in your shoes after a video shoot driving a car across dunes for Red Bull, and about a glitch you had while playing iRacing that sent you careening across one of the tracks. An hour after the iRacing tweet, you get a text from Max.

Max: You have a sim?

You: yeah! was a covid thing & I kept it around.

Max: Are you busy Tuesday?

You’re not, so he sets up a private iRacing group, and the two of you add each other on Discord, because, in Max’s words, it’s more fun when you can talk shit. He answers the call, but seems to struggle with something- there’s a lot of static, some typed out expletives in the chat, some of them in Dutch, leaving you to google the meaning. But finally, after a few minutes of microphone feedback-

“— hear me now?” he says, raspy voice spilling through your headphones.

You jump, a bit startled. “Oh, yeah! There you are!”

“There you are,” Max echoes. You swear you can hear the smile in his voice. “Sorry. Technical difficulties.”

“Cat chew the wire?” You ask.

“No, they would never,” Max replies. “This one was all on me. Anyways. Where should we race?”

The two of you pick a level playing ground- a track you’ve both raced at before, Circuit of the Americas. He tells you about one trip to Austin while the race screen loads, something about cowboy hats and boots that were too tight. You hum in sympathy as you fidget with the buttons on your sim steering wheel.

“Nervous?” He asks. When you make a questioning noise, he laughs. “I can hear you messing with the wheel.”

“You’re too perceptive,” you grumble. “But yeah, of course I am. I’m racing Max Verstappen.”

He hums. “And I’m racing you. Good news is, we’re the only ones who’ll see any of it.”

“So I could send you into the wall turn one and you wouldn’t have any proof,” you suggest.

“Sure,” Max answers. You swear his voice drops an octave on the next sentence. “But you won’t.”

The cars appear on the screen before you have a second to reply. You swallow down your words and your nerves and steel yourself for the start, finding you’re more nervous for this than any recent race start you can remember.

When the lights go out, though, it disappears. It’s not about Max anymore, not about his voice in your headphones, not about the way he yelps when he nearly bottles it at the start. It’s about you and the steering wheel in front of you, the -albeit fake- course on the screen. It’s about keeping the rear end of Max’s car in your sights.

Until lap 10, when he speaks up again. “How’s the dirty air?”

You’ve left your mic open. You know he hears your scoff. You roll your eyes a little bit, but you have to focus back on the track for the next turn. “You mean the dirty pixels?”

“That sounds like something different,” he echoes back. “It’s not that kind of game.”

“Should’ve put you in the wall when I had the chance,” you snark, shifting gears, eyes narrowed.

“You wouldn’t, though,” he says, firmly.

It’s a side of him you haven’t seen much, having interacted with him at events before this. He’s confident, sure, but this is different. So open. Easy. You wish you could see his face. Could see the look in his eye, the raised brow, the part of his lips when you-

“Fuck!” He yelps, and you break into laughter as you nudge the nose of your car past his. “Where the fuck did you-“

“Hey, pixel COTA is pretty accurate!” You say, feeling the excitement buzz in your bones.

“How did you-“ he huffs. “I’ve never made a pass work on that turn!”

“I’ll teach you later,” you promise. “After I beat you.”

The Max that everyone talks about would be fuming mad, driving angry, chasing you down. But this Max- your Max, you catch yourself thinking- is anything but. He’s happy. He’s laughing. The love of racing. You know the feeling.

Two laps later, he figures out your trick and passes you back for the lead. You trade off a couple times, but in the end he sees the checkered flag first- of course he does, it’s Max. When you log off it’s nearing midnight, even later for him.

“Past my bedtime,” he says, and you laugh.

“Nothing a little morning Red Bull won’t fix,” you suggest.

“Yeah. Hey,” he says. Then pauses. Like he’s unsure- the first time he’s been unsure all night. “Are you busy the weekend of June 30th?”

The weekend of the Austrian GP. You flip through the calendar on your nearby desk, but you’re pretty sure you’re free.

You fiddle with the paddles again. “No. Are you?”

He laughs. “A little. In Spielberg, you know. Wanna come?”

You’ve been to races before. You’ve been at one earlier this year. As a guest of Red Bull. Which is different, right? It’s definitely different. Those have been scheduled appearances and promotional opportunities and a publicist reaching out to your publicist. This is… this is Max, inviting you.

“Yeah,” you say, not bothering to hide your grin. He can’t see it anyways. “Sounds like fun.”

“Lovely,” he says. “I’ll text you, then.”

“Cool,” you agree. “Talk soon.”

…..

If the race in Miami was a cool experience, Austria is ten times the excitement. You step off the plane on Wednesday, grab your luggage, and find a man waiting for you with a sign with your name on it. Then there’s a fancy car ride to an even fancier hotel near the track. Max texts halfway through your drive from the airport, asking if you’re in yet. You reassure him that you’re on the way. He apologizes for the long trek from the airport, and you send him back a picture of the glass of wine you’d been handed, and a message that says: endurance driver, remember?

The drive there is beautiful. The racetrack is nestled in the green hills just outside of Spielberg. You gaze out the window the entire time, enamored with the countryside. As you near the hotel, you catch a glimpse of the iconic bull statue, and it makes your smile grow. It’s weekends like these that make you thrilled about racing all over again.

You step out of the car at the hotel and someone is already rushing over to unload your luggage. It feels strange. You stretch a bit, breathe in the fresh air, and when you turn around Max is standing there, waiting, hands in his pockets. He’s smiling, too. You can’t help but smile back.

He greets you with a hug and a kiss brushed against each cheek- how European of him, you think. His cheeks are flushed rosy pink, from sun or something else, you’re not sure. His hair glitters golden in the sunlight. It’s only been a little over a month since you last saw him, but he looks different- more tan, maybe. You ask what he’s been up to.

“Had a week off,” he tells you a few seconds later, “between Canada and here. Spent a lot of it on a boat.”

“Fancy,” you tease. “I was in New York. Watkins Glen.”

“I saw the race,” he says. Your heart flutters when you look up at him, at the eagerness in his gaze. “Bullshit move that other team pulled in the last stint.”

You let out a stream of air through pursed lips. “Mhm. But we’d have lost it anyways.”

Max shakes his head. “Not if you’d been behind the wheel at the end.”

You laugh, shake your head at him, and turn to grab your bags. They’re gone. You blink, perplexed.

“They’ve taken them up to your room for you,” Max explains, nudging your side. “I know you’d probably like to get settled in, but would you want to get dinner after? With me, I mean?”

When you turn back to look at him, you’re a little bit surprised. Max Verstappen looks nervous. He’s rocking back and forth from one foot to the other, hands shoved in his pockets. Like he’s unsure. You’ve never known him to be unsure. You’ve watched him make calculated move after calculated move on the track and off it, too. It’s your first sign that he feels it too- the butterflies in your gut, swirling up into your chest, threatening to choke up your throat.

“That would be really nice,” you say, softly.

The grin that breaks across his face is infectious.

Max is still nervous in the lobby an hour later, still hesitant when he offers you his arm and walks you towards the hotel restaurant. But one gin and tonic and a couple appetizers later, he’s the Max you’ve come to recognize again- lit up, bright, electric. He’s animated and funny and his cheeks are even redder than before.

By the time the entrees show up- which look delicious, of course- he’s different. Easy, you think again. Like when the two of you raced against each other. His guard is down. He’s open- it shows on his face. This is the Max not many people get to see. The biting comebacks and confident remarks are gone, replaced with such a genuine curiosity it nearly knocks you breathless.

“What’s your goal, for racing?” He asks, softly.

He’s moved his chair halfway around the round table, just to be a little closer to you. So the two of you can talk quietly and be heard. So he can nudge his shoulder against yours when you say something funny.

You smile. “I’ve got a lot of them.”

“What’s next?” He asks. “Besides stealing Rocky from me.”

“That’s actually why I’m here this weekend, you know.”

“I do, I’m one step ahead of you,” he says, pointing at your nearly empty second glass of wine. “You’d never drive drunk.”

“I’m not drunk!” You squeak, though you wonder if the looseness of your syllables gives you away a little bit.

“Tipsy, then.”

“Sure.”

“Your next goal,” he reminds you. “After Rocky.”

You hum, shoving a bit of pasta around on your plate. “Trying to get a permanent seat in Indycar next year.”

He nods. “Instead of just for the 500 and a couple extra races here and there.”

“Yeah,” you nod.

“Is it hard?” He asks. Your gaze flickers up to meet his, and he chews on his lower lip. “I mean. You are a good driver. Very good. They should be flocking to you, of course.”

“I’m a good driver, for a woman,” you say, softly. Max’s brows furrow. “That’s what someone said in a meeting last week. For a woman.”

Max sinks lower in his seat. You rub your thumb against the silky fabric of the tablecloth. Suddenly, you feel out of place. It’s nothing Max did. It’s just a reminder of how he’s at the top of his game, at the top of your shared sport, while you fight tooth and nail for every opportunity. Max has overcome his own hardships to get there, you know it. But it doesn’t take the sting away from yours.

“I did the feeder series, but there just wasn’t a seat available to make the jump,” you explain. “So for a bit it’s just been all about getting drive time whenever I possibly can.”

“I know some of the other drivers, you know. I would offer to try and pull some strings,” he says, “but I get the feeling you wouldn’t like that.”

You smile at him, because despite it all, he really does get you. “I would not.”

He nods. You nod back.

And then you sigh. “Sorry. I brought down the mood.”

He shakes his head. “I asked. Because I wanted to know.”

Still, you change the subject. He lets you. The ease seeps back in. You forget that the two of you are drivers- for a while, it’s just you and Max in that warm, comfortable bubble. And maybe that means more than he really knows.

You order another drink after dinner- Max switches to water but insists he’s fine to hang out, just needs to not be hungover the next day. You venture out onto the open patio behind the hotel. Down the hill, you can see the racetrack, lit up in the dark night. The Bull, the logo you share with Max, seems to float above it, silhouetted. You kick your heels off, pull your feet up onto the chair. Max sinks down next to you, dragging his chair closer.

If it was easy on the sim and even easier at dinner, here, it’s like you’ve known him forever. The night chill makes you shiver. He slips his jacket off, drapes it over your shoulders. You lean into him, your head against his upper arm, bridging the gap. He sighs happily.

“What’s your goal?” You ask. “Just gonna drive F1 cars until you’re old and grey?”

His responding laugh shakes his shoulders. “God, no.”

He tells you, then, what his plan is. All the other things he wants to get the chance to do. He tells you about that crash, Silverstone, 2021. How he’d seen others crash but never understood until that moment- that there is more to life than Formula 1, that even though he’d worked his whole life to get there, there was more he wanted to do after it. You’re amazed that someone who’s two championships in, barreling headfirst towards a third, still wants more. When you tell him that, he laughs again.

“I also just want to retire and play iRacing and let myself get fat and old,” he says.

“And spend more time on the boat,” you suggest.

He hums. “Maybe. If I could spend it with the right people. Person. You know.”

You wonder, for a fleeting moment, if he means you. If you could fit into that puzzle. If he really is feeling it the way you are. But the moment feels so nice, so comfortable, that you’d hate to say the wrong thing and ruin it.

“Sounds perfect,” you say.

You nearly fall asleep there, leaning on him. But he laughs when your head starts to slip, walks you up to your room, carrying your heels for you like a real gentleman. He kisses your cheeks again, bids you goodnight. He has to be at the track early tomorrow. You wonder, really, how much you’ll actually see of him the rest of the weekend before you leave for home. But maybe tonight will be enough to hold you over.

You spend most of the rest of the weekend being wined and dined by Red Bull hospitality, which is honestly hilarious to you, considering that they already pay you- though you suppose it’s a different marketing branch, different budgets. You watch the practices with eager eyes, taking in one from the viewing area and one from down in the garage. There’s something electric about watching them zip around on track, something adrenaline spiking about the quiet of the garage until the cars come rolling back in.

Max has a team dinner that night, but he texts you when he’s done, and asks if you’re still up. You’re at the pool for a late night swim, the only person still daring to even be in the water. He joins you ten minutes later, not dressed for a swim. You grin up at him from the edge of the water, your arms on the pavement.

“How’s the car feel?” You ask.

He grins. “Feels good.”

He must be right- qualifying goes well for him. He puts it on pole. You celebrate after with salads and electrolyte drinks. It’s nice to go to a race with no obligations, no media duties. To enjoy motorsport for the love of motorsport. Watching Max, cheering for Max, makes it all the more fun.

You find out just before the race starts that your pass will get you pretty much anywhere, so you sneak into the grandstands, up at the highest level, to watch the start. It brings you back to the very beginning. Suddenly, you’re a wide eyed little kid again, sitting in the grass at the Indy 500, feeling your bones rattle as the cars roared by. At that moment, part of the crowd at the largest sporting event in the world, you knew you wanted to be behind the wheel. In this moment, you know you’ll never be satisfied watching from the sidelines.

You tell Max that, after the race, after he wins and gets his trophy and gets doused in champagne. And he nods in understanding, squeezes you into his chest, tucks his chin atop your head.

“Hold onto that feeling,” he reminds you. “That’s how you’re going to beat them all.”

Your flight leaves late the next afternoon. In the morning, Max knocks on your door with one more trick up his sleeve. You slip into the passenger seat of yet another fancy car and head down the road from the hotel, driving around the outskirts of the racetrack. The circus is already packing up to leave town, equipment being loaded onto trucks. Max pulls into a parking lot- a karting track covered with Red Bull logos. You start to laugh.

He’s apparently booked the whole place out for the morning- it’s just the two of you and a couple staff members. He helps you pick a kart, because “they’re not all equal, of course,” and sends you off to get suited up and put on a helmet. You meet him on the track, buzzing already.

“You ready?” He asks, patting the top of your helmet.

“Are you ready to eat my dust, Verstappen?” You taunt.

Even behind the helmet, you can tell he’s smiling.

It’s been a while since you’ve been in a vehicle this small, but you adjust pretty quickly. The two of you do a warm up lap and then line up at the start, tiny engines raring to go. And the track is new to you, but when the lights go green, it almost feels like muscle memory. Two laps in and you’ve found the racing line. 5 laps in and you start to challenge Max. By lap 10 of 20, you’ve taken over the lead.

When you see the checkered flag first and skid to a stop shortly after the line, you can already hear him laughing. He climbs out of his kart and walks over to slap the side of your helmet affectionately. You can see his crinkled eyes where he’s flipped the helmet visor up.

“Again?” He asks.

You nod, feeling that rumble deep in your chest. “Again.”

You could stay forever, but Max drags you out of the kart around lunchtime, both of you grinning ear to ear. In the year so far, you’ve done a handful of endurance races, a NASCAR race on a dirt track, and competed in the Indy 500, and yet this is what’s brought that thunder back to your bones. You know Max feels it too. Racing for the joy of it. For the fun of it. Just to prove you can still do it. No obligations, just speed and pavement and rubber.

“Let’s call it the Bull Shit Cup,” Max suggests, over sandwiches at some restaurant just a few minutes away from the track. “Make it an annual thing.”

“Okay,” you agree. “You owe me a trophy for it, then. I won, fair and square, even though I could have pushed you off in turn one, and nobody would’ve known.”

“You could’ve,” he agrees. “But you wouldn’t.”

He looks at you with a smirk, blue eyes through long thick lashes, and you hate to admit that he’s right. You would never. You like him too much to send him careening into a wall just to win a race. You care for him too much. Your stomach twists.

You think about kissing him, in the car, before he drops you off at the airport. His hand is on your knee, where it’d fallen when he stopped to listen after telling you an animated story full of hand gestures. It’s probably meant to be a signal, him touching you like this. But you chicken out when he pulls up to the curb. Probably for the best, anyways.

Then Max leans over, cups your cheek in his hand, and presses a soft, sweet kiss to your cheek. Just one. Very not European. Different from the others. His hand stays put, thumb brushing against your skin. You take a breath, try to steady yourself.

“Thanks for having me,” you say. “It was really fun.”

“Thanks for coming,” Max says back.

“I’d invite you to my next race,” you say, quietly. “But I think you’ll be in Qatar that weekend. Or still recovering.”

Max pouts. “Yeah. I think you’re right.”

You sigh. “Well. It’s okay. I’ll see you soon, I’m sure. At some event, or something.”

“Right,” Max agrees. “We’ll find something.”

The flight home leaves you exhausted and empty feeling. You do your best to shake it off, but you worry missing Max is the type of feeling that sticks around.

yourusername: danke Austria, danke redbullracing, and danke maxverstappen1

maxverstappen1 You’re welcome back anytime

redbullracing thanks for being a good luck charm!

liked by maxverstappen1

…..

There’s a gala in New York, one that’s full of people with important names with deep pockets. You end up there, nursing a glass of awful wine, trying to flatter your way into the important conversations. You’re mildly successful a couple times, and manage to make some good connections. Your publicist will be proud. You just hope one of them works out how you’d like.

You’re up at the bar, trying to decide what else to order, when someone says your name. You recognize the voice, but it’s the tone, too. Everyone else who’s said your name tonight has had expectations for you. The way Max says it is different, though you can’t quite put your finger on how it’s different. You just know.

Max smiles at you when you turn to him. His hand falls to your lower back, smoothing over the black silk of your dress as he leans over the bar. He orders a gin and tonic for himself, and a very expensive sounding glass of wine that he hands off to you. You take a sip and smile, relieved when it tastes good.

“This old man ordered a drink for me,” you tell him, whispering conspiratorially. “It was awful, but I had to finish it.”

Max scowls, his eyes scanning the room like he’ll be able to spot the man in question. “Old men usually do have bad taste.”

“I suppose that explains why he was talking to me,” you laugh.

Max doesn’t laugh. “No, I think that may be where he got it right.”

Max keeps his hand on your lower back and leads you through the crowd. You let him. After a night full of trying to make a name for yourself, you’re quite ready to let someone else be in control for a few minutes. You don’t even question where he’s taking you until you end up on the rooftop, the glittering lights of New York City spread out across the open space in front of you. There’s a small garden, a few chairs, a sparkling blue pool, and absolutely no other humans to be seen.

“Oh, wow,” you say, quietly. “Are we supposed to be up here?”

Max shrugs, makes his way over to a patio chair, and sits down. “Don’t know. All I know is I couldn’t be there much longer.”

You nod in agreement and sit down next to him, kicking off your heels. He smiles and sheds his suit jacket, taking a long sip of his gin and tonic. He toes off his dress shoes, too. Then he sighs dramatically.

“Tell me about it,” you say, letting your shoulders drop. “I’ve been called sweetheart and had my shoulders touched far too many times tonight.”

Max blinks. “I could tell you were getting uncomfortable.”

You don’t really have time to process that- to process that he was watching, that he cared enough to notice, that he maybe came over to save you from it all. All thoughts about that go out the window when he starts to loosen the buttons on the collar of his shirt. The bow tie he had on falls to the ground, atop his jacket. The cuff bracelet he’s wearing follows. He leans forward, elbows on his knees. He’s so close you think you could count his eyelashes. You take a sip of your wine.

“I didn’t think you were going to be here,” you tell him. “My publicist said…”

He smirks and blinks a couple times, lashes tangling together. “You asked your publicist if I would be here?”

You swallow and shrug. “Maybe. It’s nice to have a familiar face.”

His smirk grows. “Tell me about it. I asked my publicist, too. If you’d be here, i mean.”

You turn farther towards him, your legs falling over the edge of the chair. His hand brushes against your bare knee. The strap on your dress slips down your shoulder, and you watch the way his gaze traces your bare skin. Then he looks over your shoulder, towards the pool.

“Maybe we should cool off,” he suggests. “Take a swim.”

“I don’t have a swimsuit,” you tell him, thinking back to the bag you’d packed and if there was anything in it that could substitute.

He shrugs, his finger tracing a featherlight circle against your knee. “We can go in our underwear. I won’t tell if you won’t.”

You’re about to tell him you’re not wearing a bra when you hear the rooftop door swing open. The smirk slips off his face, melting into frustration. His hand fully rests on your knee, now, thumb and pointer finger pressing into the inside of your thigh.

“Max?” Someone calls out. His publicist, you think.

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah. I’m here.”

“Yeah,” she calls back. “But you should be downstairs.”

He lets out a long, heavy sigh. You do the same and push yourself up to sit, slipping your shoes back on as he starts to gather his things. He tugs the dress shoes on with a wince, pulls the jacket on and straightens the lapels. The buttons on his shirt and the bow tie are next, his fingers soft and pale in the night light. You want to feel them on your skin again.

He stands. You do the same. The bracelet is sitting on the chair, glinting gold, and you grab it and then hold it out to him. He smiles softly and takes a couple steps to close the distance.

“I’m sorry we didn’t have more time,” he says. His cheeks are red as he takes the bracelet and turns it in his hand.

“We’re busy people,” you tell him.

He nods, but the frown stays etched on his face. You shiver when his hand trails up your shoulder and slides the strap of your dress back into place, and a trail of goosebumps follow his touch. He reaches up, then, and tucks a stray piece of hair behind your ear, too.

“Max!” The woman calls from the doorway. He groans.

“You should go,” you tell him, even though you want him to stay.

He nods, and then he grabs your wrist. Before you can even realize what he’s doing, the bracelet is around your arm instead. Your breath catches in your chest, your heartbeat kicking up a notch. His cheeks are redder, now, but the smile is back on his lips.

“Hang onto this,” he says. “Until I see you again.”

You nod, holding yourself taught so you don’t lean up to kiss him. He disappears a second later, and you’re left to down the last of your glass of wine, wondering if he’d wanted to kiss you, too.

When you return to the party, you find it’s easier to talk to the important people with the weight of his bracelet on your wrist, and the weight of his gaze on you every time you find him in the crowd.

maxverstappen1: Champions 🙌

yourusername huge congrats, Max! ❤️💙 & well done to the whole team

liked by maxverstappen1

…..

Vegas is glitz and glamor and bright blinding lights. Max hates the whole spectacle with every fiber of his being and never forgets to remind you of that fact. You listen attentively to his complaints over the phone in the week leading up to the race. You get it. He wants to race, that’s all. Not be presented like some celebrity, even if he is one.

Then the race happens and he has a good time, and his opinion seems to change.

You’ve spent your weekend in Vegas, watching from the sidelines and trying not to seem bitter in all the promo content they have you do. At least some of it involves driving a rally car around in the Nevada desert- not a bad bonus. Max texts you and tells you the day after that he saw some of the footage, that you looked badass. Despite being in the same city as him, despite being two floors down in the same hotel, you don’t talk to him in person until after he’s crossed the finish line in first place in the earliest hours of Sunday.

It’s a fleeting moment. You’re still in the garage by the time he gets back from the podium. He’s soaked in champagne, lit up like a neon sign. He makes his way through a crowd of Red Bull employees, thanking everyone. You stick to the sidelines, to the walls, not wanting to get in the way. It’s his race, his celebration.

But he spots you and beelines for you, hand already outstretched in your direction. You grab on, eagerly, let him pull you into orbit, into a half hug, face crushed against his chest. He smells like car- like engine exhaust and gasoline and adrenaline. You grin up at him. He stares down at you, eyes wide. The atmosphere feels thick. Like you could cut the tension with a knife- suddenly, you understand that saying in a way you never have before. The garage is filled with activity, but there the two of you are, a fixed point in the middle of the chaos. He’s staring, still, like he doesn’t know what to say but he can’t look away.

You’re wearing his bracelet. His fingers trace over the metal where it hangs on your wrist, but he doesn’t make a move to take it back. He just smiles and presses his thumb into the gap on the underside, skin against skin.

Someone tugs at his elbow and calls his name, loudly.

“I have to go,” he says.

You laugh. “I know.”

When he gets pulled away and lets your hand drop, you swear you feel an actual spark.

You slip away, then, to head back to your room. You have dinner and watch the race recap- there’s a lot you miss, standing in the garage. When you check your phone, you have a barrage of missed notifications bearing his name.

He’s out at a club and asking you to join. You don’t know how to explain how much is riding on your public image right now- sponsors, fundings, support. It’s a part of motorsport he wouldn’t really understand, at least not at the level you do. But he’s kind when you say you can’t, asks if he can stop by, and shows up quickly after you say yes, even if it is late. Nobody sleeps in Vegas. You may as well add yourself to that list.

He’s a little tipsy when you open the door to your hotel room- he has every right to be. He’s holding himself taught, but when he sees you in the entryway he loosens up, gaze going soft.

“Hi,” he says, quietly.

“Congrats,” you tell him. “It was a good race.”

“I… I don’t want to talk about racing,” he admits. “I just wanted you.”

You blink at him, silhouetted by the fluorescent hotel hallway light. There’s a bull on his jacket, on the shoulder, tiny, but it’s there. A constant reminder of the thing that ties the two of you together. You step aside to let him in, let the door swing closed behind him. The air crackles around you, goosebumps rising on your arms. He runs a hand through his hair, his other hand falling to his hip.

“Tell me you feel it too,” he asks, almost begs.

You kiss him as a reply- you lean in and up, wrap your arms around his neck, hold on for dear life when he kisses you back. He’s warm and he tastes like gin and he still smells like the racetrack, like melted rubber that even a shower can’t scrub away. You like it that way. He won the race, but he just wants you. You let him back you towards the bed as you fiddle with the zipper on his jacket.

“I feel it,” you say, when he breaks away for a second, gasping for air. “Fuck, Max-“

He hums, dipping down to mouth at your jaw, your neck, your pulse point. “I know.”

His skin is hot on yours, hotter still the more the two of you get undressed. He gets you laid out on the bed beneath him, takes you apart with skilled precision the way he drives his precious car. But things get heated, and the composure slips away. He gets more open, eyelids fluttering as he gives in to you, too, as you wrap around him and pull him in. Your Max appears, the bravado of a race day melting away, leaving everything you love about him in its place.

Afterwards, he kisses you just to kiss you, holding you in his arms in the bed. You’re both freshly showered, teeth brushed, and he seems to have no plans to go anywhere. You’re happy, even if it might make the morning awkward, even if he needs to leave early the next day for Abu Dhabi.

You realize, then, that you never congratulated him on his championship, other than the comment on the instagram post you know he didn’t even write. But he didn’t want to talk about racing, so you don’t say anything. You just rest your head on his bare chest, his arms banded tight around your middle. You can hear the soft thud of his heartbeat. Steady, now. You wonder if his heart had kicked up a notch earlier, when yours did, if they beat in sync for just a moment.

“Do you ever get scared?” You ask, drawing a nonsense shape on his skin, just under his collarbone. “Or are you numb to it?”

He hums. “Not often, but. There’s this moment. Right before the lights go out. Where it hits me, what I’m doing, how absolutely stupid I am to put myself in that car.”

You nod in understanding. “I’ve had that. How do you get past it?”

He laughs, shrugs. “I don’t. But then the lights go out and I drive anyways.”

He traces shapes across your skin while you listen to his soft breaths.

“I was scared tonight, too,” he tells you, while you rub your eyes and he twists his fingers with yours. “When I knocked on your door. So I think sometimes being scared means you’re doing something good.”

“Me too,” you admit.

Then you lean up to kiss him again, and what little fear that was left melts away when he kisses you back. You can feel the smile on his lips. He leaves in the morning with a toothpaste tinged kiss to your lips and a promise to talk soon. You try to convince yourself he’s telling the truth.

yourusername viva Las Vegas!

maxverstappen1 🕺

liked by yourusername

…..

You wait for him to reach out and try not to be upset when it doesn’t happen right away. His schedule must be insane. He’s probably jet lagged and exhausted and being thrown into the next race weekend far too quickly for his liking. You get it.

When he finally calls, three days after you wake up with him, you pick up on the second ring.

“Hi,” you say.

He lets out a soft sigh. “Hi. I’m sorry I had to leave so quickly. And that it took so long to call.”

You’re a bit relieved that he’s jumping right into it. Not shying away, not pretending like it didn’t happen. You’ve been trying not to think too much about it- your bare skin against his, the way the rise and fall of his chest feels against your cheek. It’s stuck in your head, though.

“It’s okay,” you say, quietly. “You’re a busy man.”

“Not too busy for you,” he says, the words stilted. Like he’s not sure how to get his point across. “I want to spend more time with you.”

You want it too, but. “Max…”

He sighs. “I know. I know things are not simple.”

You laugh. “That’s an understatement.”

“But look at us,” he says.

You reach up, press your finger to the mark he left on your collarbone a few days before, just to feel the ache.

“Has anything you’ve ever done been simple?” He asks.

You blink, suddenly a bit taken aback. He’s got a point, you suppose. From the very beginning, you’ve been fighting an uphill battle, swimming against the current. And yet, you wouldn’t trade it for the world.

“I live by this sort of motto,” you tell him. “That the best day of your life is right on the other side of the hardest thing you’ve ever done.”

You think of Max, of all the stories you’ve heard about him. Of anger running deep in his bones. Of fighting for everything he’s ever wanted and still being hungry for more. You know the feeling all too well. You've had your fair share of your own races gone wrong, of angry debriefs with the team, or wanting to hurl your helmet at the wall and say fuck it all. You’re a bit envious that he could give in to the feeling. You don’t hold it against him, though.

“Yeah,” he says. You can hear the smile in his voice. “Yeah.”

“How about you call me when you’re done in Abu Dhabi,” you suggest. “And we’ll figure it all out.”

He hums. “How about you tell me where you want to go and I book a couple plane tickets.”

Your heart twists in your chest. “I… My schedule is about to get a little crazy.”

“It’s the off season,” he points out. “You’re supposed to be on vacation.”

“I know.” You pinch the bridge of your nose. “I have a good reason. I have meetings and some interviews and some travel-“

“Oh my god,” Max says, quietly. “You got a seat.”

“Shh!” You say, though you can’t fight the grin that slips across your lips. “God I hope you’re alone- I’m really not supposed to talk about it-“

“-I called you, of course I’m alone-“

“-Oh, are you going to ask what I’m wearing?” You tease.

“You’re trying to change the subject,” he says.

You sigh and nod, even though he can’t see you. “It’s like the lights are about to go out and I’m realizing how crazy I am. But on a bigger scale.”

He sighs in response. “I wish I was there with you.”

“You have a race to win,” you tell him. “You know. Good things on the other side of hard days. I’ll be okay.”

“I know you will,” he says. So sure of it. Like he’s known it for years, like he’s known you for a lifetime. Kindred souls, matching sparks in your chests. “And as soon as you’re ready, you call me and tell me everything.”

“Okay,” you agree.

“And then you tell me where you want to go,” he adds. “And we book the tickets. To celebrate the end of the waiting.”

You could cry. You don’t, but you could.

“I think I’d go anywhere with you,” you tell him.

“Okay,” he says. Now you can really hear the smile in his voice. “I’ve never been to anywhere, but I hear the weather is lovely.”

“Now you’re deflecting,” you tease.

“Mhm,” he agrees. “I’m saving all the sappy shit for when I can say it to your face.”

…..

You spend a week in mid-December on a beach with Max, with nothing but the sun and him to worry about. He holds true to what he said on the phone. He picks you up from the airport, drives to the hotel with his hand laced with yours. And then, in the safety of the hotel room balcony, looking out over the ocean in the dark of the night, he pulls you close.

“I’m proud of you,” he says. “I’ve been amazed by you since the day we met. And I know it won’t be easy, but I’ll go anywhere with you, too, if you let me.”

He’s being vulnerable. You can feel his heart racing under your hand, pounding at his ribcage. So you lean up, press your lips to his cheek in a very not European way.

“Nothing good is ever easy,” you say.

He smiles, and you swear it’s bright enough to light up the night sky. And then he kisses you and lights you up from the inside, too.

For the rest of the trip, the two of you leave your phones on do not disturb, leave the TV in your hotel room turned off, leave the outside world, the fast paced shit, behind. For a few days, it’s just him.

You’ve known him for nearly a year, known of him for far more than that. And the two of you are nowhere near done yet- the finish line is still miles ahead. But you find that there’s something in Max that you didn’t know you were missing the entire time- he has that spark, too. The hunger to just keep driving. To push past the moment of fear and find the good on the other side. He’s been one of your biggest supporters since the day you met- since he complimented your driving.

“Now that the season’s over,” you say to him one night at dinner, over the rim of your cocktail glass. “Can I drive Rocky?”

He laughs and hooks his foot around your ankle under the table. “Sure. But only if you let me drive yours.”

You suppose it’s a fair trade.

a/n: fun fact! the karting track with the Red Bull theming really does exist near the track in Austria. so. new travel bucket list item added. anyways. hop you enjoyed! if you made it this far, ty so much for reading!!

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