Sassy F1 Princesses

Bahrain Pre Season testing 

Walking into pre-season testing felt like standing at the edge of a cliff, the unknown stretching out beneath you. Terrifying and exhilarating all at once. You sat in the stillness of your car for a moment longer, fingers clenched around the steering wheel. With a deep breath, you adjusted the brim of your Red Bull cap.

Your cap.

Your number embroidered into the fabric.

Yours.

A nervous smile settled on your lips as you opened the door and stepped out into the heat and noise. The fans were already gathered, their cheers rising like a wave, while the press pack swarmed like bees beyond the barrier. Cameras flashed. Voices called your name. Some excited, others demanding.

You waved politely, forcing calm into your posture even as your heart pounded against your ribcage. Every step toward the paddock felt heavier than the last. You didn’t need to hear the questions to know what they were asking — you’d heard them since the day your signing was announced.

“Do you really think you’re ready for Formula 1?” “How will you cope alongside Max Verstappen?” “Can a woman genuinely fight for podiums?” “Aren’t you going to distract the other drivers?”

The doubt wasn’t new, but the volume of it had grown louder since stepping into the spotlight.

As soon as you crossed into the Red Bull Hospitality, everything felt right. The space was cool, crisp, familiar. Christian Horner looked up from where he sat chatting with Max and GP. The moment his eyes met yours, he stood without hesitation and pulled you into a quick, grounding hug.

“Feeling good? Ready to take on the circus?” he asked, his voice light but kind.

You grinned despite the tension still coiled in your chest. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

Max offered you a quick fist bump. Over the winter, you’d spent a lot of time in Milton Keynes, training, working through data, and learning everything you could. You and Max had become something unexpected. Not just teammates, but a kind of chaotic harmony. He was calm, calculated, and fiercely competitive. You were fire, energy, and laughter. Somehow, it worked.

“Media day ready?” Max asked with a teasing tilt to his head, as if he already knew the answer.

You groaned. “Uhhhh…”

Christian chuckled. “You’ll do fine. Brett’s with you the whole time. If anyone crosses a line, we shut it down. Full stop.”

Max leaned back, smug grin in place. “Yeah, gotta protect our princess.”

You rolled your eyes and swatted his hat off his head, making everyone at the table burst into laughter. 

Princess.

A nickname that clung to you like perfume: sweet, but impossible to shake off. You loved it. You kinda hated it. It had started innocently enough, a quip from Toto Wolff at the F175 Live red carpet event.

“Ah, the Red Bull princess,” he had murmured with a grin, kissing your cheek in a gesture as old-world as it was cheeky. “At least now there’s some class on the grid.”

You sat sandwiched between George Russell and Lando Norris on the couch, your fingers absently flipping a microphone from hand to hand. The media team bustled around, adjusting lights and cameras, prepping for your first official press conference as an F1 driver. Nerves hummed beneath your skin, but you took comfort in your company, two British drivers with sharp tongues and playful smiles. If anyone could keep the spotlight from settling too harshly on you, it was them.

“Question for Y/N,” a reporter's voice cut through your thoughts. You looked up.

“How are you feeling going into testing tomorrow?”

You straightened slightly, voice calm and practiced. “Honestly, I’m really excited. I’ve done a ton of SIM work during the break, but nothing compares to actually being in the car. I just want to get out there and see how we stack up.”

The follow up came quickly. “Are you concerned that, of the six rookies on the grid this year, you have the least experience in an actual F1 car?”

A pause. You didn’t flinch. “Yeah… that’s fair. I’ve never driven a real F1 car… no test runs, no Friday sessions. Even Kimi’s had more seat time than me. But I’m confident I’ll be okay once I find my rhythm.”

“She says that like she hasn’t just come off two back-to-back championship titles,” George chimed in, chuckling. “Princess, I think you’ll be more than okay.”

The word slipped out before he realized it. You saw his eyes widen, mouth twitch as he cursed himself silently.

“This is George laying the groundwork,” Lando added quickly, “so when Y/N’s beating him on track, he can pretend he saw it coming.”

A couple of hours later, George found you backstage, sheepish and apologetic.

“Y/N, I’m really sorry about earlier. The whole ‘Princess’ thing… I  didn’t mean to…”

You waved him off. “It’s okay. It was bound to come out eventually.”

And come out it did, viral on social media, scrawled on fan signs, printed on unofficial merch. Some embraced it with charm. Others used it as ammunition.

The next morning, you walked into the paddock flanked by Max, Charles, and Lewis. Practice 1 and 2 had gone better than expected, your pace promising, your feedback sharp. But today, the air felt heavier.

The crowd outside the gates was louder, more agitated. Cheers mixed with sneers. You kept your head down until you heard the first one:

“Get out of here!” “F1 isn’t for girls!” “Oi, Princess who’d you have to sleep with for that seat?”

The words hit like stones, sharp and deliberate.

Max tensed beside you, jaw clenched, eyes scanning the crowd like a predator on the edge.

“Leave it,” you whispered, grabbing his wrist. “Just ignore it.”

And he tried. He really did.

Until something flew from the crowd and struck you squarely in the face.

You staggered back, hand flying to your eye. “Shit…”

A pink plastic tiara clattered to the ground.

Charles was at your side instantly, pulling you away from the barrier. “Y/N, are you okay?”

Max turned, fury radiating from him like heat. But before he could take a step, a deep, commanding voice cut through the chaos.

“That one,” Toto Wolff said coldly, pointing. “Security, remove him. Now.”

Guards moved fast, seizing the man who had thrown the tiara. The crowd parted as whispers spread.

Toto stepped forward, voice raised just enough to carry. “Let me make one thing perfectly clear: there is no room in Formula 1 for hatred. For misogyny. Y/N earned her seat—every lap, every win. If I ever see behavior like this again, I will make sure you never set foot near a race circuit.”

Silence.

You bent down, picked up the tiara, and with deliberate calm, placed it on your head.

Then, chin high, steps steady, you walked into the paddock like it was a throne room.

Princess? Maybe.