Try harder pt. 2
Pairing: Max verstappen x fem!reader
Summary: You were 19 and he was 17 when you got pregnant. You were just starting your engineering degree, and Max was a rookie at Toro Rosso. Before Max could even find out, Jos Verstappen told you to have an abortion. Years later, you return to the paddock with your 9-year-old green-eyed son… and Max starts doing the math.
Disclaimer: This was made with AI. If you don't like people writing with AI, that's okay, I understand your point.
What I'm not going to do is pretend I wrote something that I didn't. I tried to write it myself a million times, but writing has never been my strongest skill. I'm much better at reading than putting my thoughts into words.
So, to the people who are genuinely upset about it, I'm sorry, but I honestly don't care enough to change what works for me. If you don't support it, just don't read it. Simple as that.
Now, sorry for the wait! This is part 2 and not the last! Expect more drama, next part will be next week.
The rain over Northamptonshire didn’t fall; it hung in the air like a cold, gray shroud, soaking through the fabric of team kit and settling into the bones.
Inside the Red Bull Racing hospitality building, the atmosphere was thick with the suffocating silence that usually followed a double retirement or a catastrophic pit-lane blunder. But the race was over. Max had stood on the podium. The trophies were packed. The data had been uploaded.
Christian Horner had looked at Max during the post-race debrief and had silently signaled the engineers to leave the room. Max hadn’t spoken a single word. He sat in the corner of the briefing room, still in his Nomex undershirt, staring at his racing boots with an intensity that could have burned through the floorboards. His hands were tucked between his knees to stop the faint, rhythmic twitching in his fingers.
“Maybe he knew exactly who you would become.”
The words weren't a phantom echo; they were a physical pressure in his skull, rhythmic and brutal, timed to the beating of his own racing heart.
The door to the private room didn't click; it rattled. Jos Verstappen stepped inside, a heavy leather jacket slung over his broad shoulders, his face lined with the sharp, weathered calculation of a man who spent his life analyzing margins. He didn't look at his son with concern; he looked at him with an analytical frown.
"You looked like an amateur on the podium," Jos said, his voice flat, devoid of any warmth. "Your head wasn't in the final stint. If Lewis had pushed three tenths harder on the hards, you would have dropped to third. What happened?"
Max didn't move. He didn't look up. The silence in the room stretched until it became a physical weight between them.
"Max," Jos barked, his tone hardening. "I'm talking to you."
"Did you know?"
The voice didn't sound like Max. It was low, hollow, stripped of the sharp Dutch inflection that usually carried across a garage.
Jos narrowed his eyes, stepping further into the room. "Know what? The floor damage on the left bargeboard? The engineers said it was within parameters—"
"Did you know about Theo?"
Max finally lifted his head. His eyes were bloodshot, the brilliant blue obscured by a glassy, frantic film of unshed tears and absolute ruin. The name—the boy’s name—felt foreign on his tongue, like a jagged stone he had swallowed and couldn't dislodge.
Jos froze. The movement was minor—a mere tightening of the jaw, a slight shift in his posture—but to Max, who had spent seventeen years reading his father’s body language like telemetry data, it was a confession.
The older man didn't blink. He slowly pulled out a chair, sat down opposite his son, and leaned forward, resting his thick forearms on the table. The hesitation lasted only a second before the cold, unyielding armor returned to his face.
"So," Jos said softly. "She came back. I told her what would happen if she ever brought her face back into this paddock."
A sharp, choked sound left Max’s throat—a laugh that sounded like a fracture. "It was you. It was really you. In Monaco. 2015."
"Of course it was me," Jos said, his voice completely level, completely steady. He didn't deny it. He didn't offer an excuse. He spoke with the terrifying calmness of a surgeon explaining a necessary incision. "You were seventeen years old, Max. You were a child. You had just stepped into a Toro Rosso seat, and the entire world was watching to see if you would break. You think you could have handled a pregnant teenager? You think Red Bull would have kept their investment in a boy who spent his nights in a hospital room instead of the simulator?"
"She was nineteen," Max whispered, his fists clenching so hard the knuckles clicked. "She was nineteen, Dad. We were kids. We loved each other."
"Love is a luxury for people who finish tenth," Jos snapped, his voice cutting through the room like a whip. "You think Michael won titles by being a family man at nineteen? You think Ayrton did? You were built for one thing, Max. To win. My job was to clear the track. She was debris. A variable that would have dragged you down into the midfield before you even tasted a podium."
"He's nine years old," Max slammed his hand down on the table, the plastic water bottles rattling against the Formica. His voice broke, the anger finally bursting through the numbness. "He has my face! He has my eyes, Dad! He was walking through the paddock in Spain, holding a toy car, and I signed it like he was just another stranger! I looked at my own son and I didn't even know his name!"
"And look at what you achieved because you didn't know," Jos said, leaning in, his voice dropping into that lethal, persuasive register that had guided Max's entire life. "Three World Championships. Sixty victories. You are the benchmark of the entire sport. If she had stayed, if you had played the little family man in a flat in Milton Keynes, you wouldn't have half of that. You'd be stressed, distracted, worrying about school fees instead of apex speeds. I saved your career, Max."
"You lied to me!" Max roared, standing up so fast his chair skidded across the floor and hit the wall. He was shaking from head to toe, the Nomex fabric clinging to his sweating skin. "You told me she took money! You told me she left because she didn't want to be with a driver! You made me hate her for ten years!"
"Because hatred makes you fast," Jos said coldly, standing up to meet him. He didn't flinch. He didn't look down. "If you were pine-eyed and heartbroken, you would have lifted off the throttle in Spa. You needed to be angry. You needed to think the world was against you so you would destroy everyone on that grid. I don't regret it. Not a single second of it. I would do it again tomorrow."
Max looked at his father. Really looked at him. For twenty-eight years, this man had been his god, his coach, his tormentor, and his savior. And now, under the harsh fluorescent lights of a temporary hospitality unit, Max saw the absolute, terrifying void behind his father's ambition.
"Get out," Max whispered.
Jos frowned. "Max, don't be stupid. We have a test in Paul Ricard on Tuesday—"
"Get the fuck out of my room!" Max screamed, his voice tearing at his vocal cords.
Jos stared at him for a long, silent moment. Then, with a slow, dismissive shake of his head, he picked up his jacket. "Grow up, Max. You're a champion because of what I did. Remember that when you're looking at your trophies."
The door clicked shut.
Max collapsed back into the chair, buried his face in his hands, and for the first time since he was a boy crying in the back of a karting van in Italy, he wept. He wept for the nineteen-year-old girl who had been thrown to the wolves. He wept for the nine years of bedtime stories he would never get back.
And most of all, he wept because of the terrifying, sickening truth: he was scared. He didn't know how to be a father. He only knew how to be a driver.
The Silent Night
The clock on the wall of the luxury hotel suite near the circuit read 3:42 AM.
Max hadn’t moved from the edge of the king-sized bed for nearly three hours. The room was dark, save for the faint, clinical amber glow of the streetlamps filtering through the heavy drapes. The silver podium trophy sat on the dresser across from him, its polished surface catching the sparse light, looking entirely meaningless.
His skull throbbed with a relentless, dull ache—the kind that settles in after a weekend of pulling massive G-forces, compounded by a total psychological collapse. Every time he closed his eyes, the shock hit him all over again. He didn't see telemetry lines or apex markers. He saw a nine-year-old boy with a miniature Red Bull car, looking up at him with unblemished, vibrant blue eyes.
My eyes.
Then the image would warp, shifting into your face in the engineering truck. The absolute certainty in your voice. He was trapped in a terrifying, claustrophobic loop. The discovery of his son had completely paralyzed him. He hadn't slept a single minute. His mind was a chaotic storm of unresolved anger toward his father, overwhelming confusion about his own life, and a deep, paralyzing fear of what it actually meant to be a parent.
He didn't know what to do. In a race car, if the rear snaps, you apply counter-steer. There was always a mechanical input for a physical problem. But how do you calculate the input for nine years of a missing child? How do you process a reality you never even knew existed?
By 6:30 AM, the pale, miserable dawn of a Monday morning began to bleed through the curtains. Max didn't shower. He didn't look in the mirror. He pulled a heavy, dark gray team hoodie over his head, grabbed his leather duffel bag, and left his room. He looked entirely hollowed out, his shoulders slouched, his gait slow and heavy with an exhaustion that went far deeper than his muscles. He just needed to get to the airport. He needed to escape the sheer weight of what he was feeling.
Downstairs, the hotel lobby was quiet, smelling of expensive polished wood and the damp, earthy scent of the British countryside outside the glass doors. A few early-rising team members from various outfits were checking out, their rolling suitcases clicking softly against the marble floor.
Near the grand reception desk, you stood with your back to the entrance. You were dressed in a simple, dark rain jacket, your McLaren team polo peeking out from underneath the collar. Your hair was pulled back, and your eyes were heavy with the exact same sleeplessness that had plagued Max. You were speaking in a low, polite murmur to the receptionist, sorting out the final invoice for your room before the team transport arrived.
Beside you, Theo was standing by a plush velvet armchair. Despite the early hour, he was holding his favorite racing magazine under his arm, his little sneakers squeaking slightly as he shifted his weight.
Then, the elevator doors at the far end of the lobby chimed and slid open.
Max stepped out, his head down, his team cap pulled low over his eyes to avoid recognition. He looked utterly broken, his skin a pasty, translucent pale under the bright lobby chandeliers.
Theo’s sharp eyes caught the familiar gray hoodie and the unmistakable profile instantly. The boy didn't hesitate. He didn't know about the screaming match in the engineering truck, or the massive burden Max was carrying. To Theo, this was Max Verstappen—the hero from the television screen, the driver he completely idolized.
"Max!" Theo chirped, sliding past the chair.
Before you could turn around, before you could realize what was happening, Theo was already running across the marble floor, his small hand raised in a wave.
"Max! Mr. Verstappen!" Theo gasped, stopping just two feet in front of the driver, his face split into a wide, brilliant grin. "Are you going to the airport too? Did you see the weather forecast for the next test? I think it’s going to rain!"
Max stopped abruptly. The sudden, high-pitched voice sliced through his sleep-deprived, racing thoughts like a siren. He snapped his head up, his vision blurry, his mind completely disorganized. He was a raw nerve, entirely exposed, operating on pure survival instinct and defensive panic after a night of mental exhaustion. He felt cornered by the situation, completely overwhelmed by a reality he didn't know how to handle.
He didn't see a sweet little boy asking an innocent question. He just saw the terrifying weight of his own confusion and guilt. The immense pressure suffocated him, and he completely snapped under the strain.
"Get the fuck out and leave me alone!" Max snarled, his voice incredibly sharp, biting, and violently cold. He glared down at the boy, his blue eyes flashing with a harsh, defensive fury. "Get away from me before you give me more troubles than you have already given me!"
Theo froze instantly. The words didn't just hurt; they completely paralyzed him.
The boy didn't reply. He didn't say a word. He stood completely still, his little arms dropping to his sides, his chest hitching as he stared up at his idol in a state of absolute shock and profound disappointment. The pure admiration that had lived in his eyes for years vanished in an instant, replaced by a hollow, heartbroken realization that the man he looked up to was nothing but cruel. A single heavy tear leaked from his eye, but he kept his mouth tightly closed, just staring at Max as if he were looking at a complete stranger.
Slowly, without a sound, Theo turned away and walked back toward you, his head hung low, his little spirit completely crushed.
Max stood entirely frozen. The moment the venomous words left his mouth and the echo died down in the quiet lobby, the fog in his brain violently cleared, replaced by a sickening, horrific realization. He looked at Theo’s retreating, slumped shoulders. He remembered the look of pure disappointment on the boy's face—a look that mirrored his own features from his worst childhood memories.
What did I just do?
The weight of his mistake hit him like a physical blow to the chest. His heart stopped, a suffocating wave of absolute self-loathing flooding his veins. He had let his panic and fear turn him into a monster. He had taken his anger out on an innocent child who just wanted to talk to him.
"Theo—" Max choked out, his voice cracking violently. He took a frantic step forward, his hand reaching out. "No, wait. Theo, I'm sorry—"
Just Leave Him Alone
It was too late.
You had turned around the moment you heard Max's sharp, aggressive voice ring out across the lobby. You had watched the entire interaction play out in agonizing clarity. You heard the cruel curse words fly out of Max's mouth, and you saw your innocent little boy freeze in complete shock and heartbreak right in front of you.
When Theo reached your side, he didn't say a word. He just buried his wet face directly into your hip, his small hands gripping the fabric of your jacket as silent, heavy tears finally broke through, soaking into your clothes.
A cold, fierce, protective calm washed over you. The time for massive arguments and emotional breakdowns was over. Your only priority was the child clinging to your side. You didn't yell. You didn't make a scene in the middle of the hotel lobby. Instead, you gently patted Theo's head, guiding him toward the reception desk.
"Theo, sweetie, stay right here with the lady at the desk for one second. Look at the invoice for Mommy, okay?"
Theo nodded quietly, keeping his face turned away as he leaned against the counter, his shoulders shaking slightly.
You turned and walked directly toward Max. He was moving toward you, his hands held up in a pleading, desperate gesture, his pale face twisted in a look of sheer, frantic horror.
"Y/n, please, I didn't mean—I'm just so tired, I didn't see—"
"Max," you cut him off, your voice incredibly quiet, dropping into a low, firm, and lethal whisper. You stood right in front of him, your face completely calm, but your eyes burning with a dangerous, absolute finality. "Stop talking."
"Y/n, listen to me, please," Max begged, his voice cracking completely, tears finally spilling over his eyelids. He looked down at you, his broad shoulders shaking, entirely defenseless. "I didn't sleep. My head... I panicked. I didn't mean to snap at him. I didn't realize it was him until the words came out. Please. Let me apologize to him. Let me fix it."
"You are not fixing anything," you said, your whisper razor-sharp and steady. You didn't let your voice rise, keeping the entire conversation entirely private, trapped in the small space between the two of you. "Look at what you just did to him. He thought you were a hero."
"I know... oh my god, I know," Max whispered back, a small, broken sob escaping his throat as his hand came up to cover his mouth. He looked over your shoulder at Theo's slumped back, and the sight seemed to tear him apart. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Y/n."
"If you don't want to be a father, Max," you said, your words delivered with a flat, chilling precision, "if you are too scared, or if having him in your head is too much of a distraction for your championship, then I am setting you free. Truly. You can go back to Monaco, you can win your races, and you can pretend we don't exist. I've raised him alone for nine years, and I can do it for the rest of his life."
"No," Max growled quietly, a flash of desperate, panicked anger flaring up in his eyes as he tried to claw back some control. "You don't get to just erase me. He is my son too. I have a right to see him. I have a right to be his father!"
You leaned in slightly, your eyes locking onto his with a cold, terrifying certainty that made his breath hitch.
"Let's get something completely straight," you whispered, each word dropping like lead. "As far as the law is concerned, as far as the birth certificate is concerned, and as far as that little boy knows... Theo has my last name. Not yours. Until you can prove otherwise, until you can stand up to your father and ensure that man never comes within a mile of my child, and until you learn how to handle your own fear... he is just my son."
Max flinched, his face going an even deeper, ghostly shade of gray. His hands trembled at his sides. "Y/n..."
"So until then? Just leave the boy alone, Max. Get out of our way."
You didn't wait for a response. You turned on your heel, your boots clicking sharply against the marble, and walked back to the reception desk. You picked up your paperwork, tucked it into your bag, and gently took Theo’s hand in yours.
"Come on, sweetie," you said softly, your voice instantly transforming into something warm, safe, and entirely maternal. "The car is outside. Let's go home."
Theo didn't look back. He kept his head down, holding your hand with a fierce, desperate grip, and walked out of the glass doors into the cold, gray morning.
Max stood completely alone in the center of the grand lobby. The tears were streaming freely down his face now, soaking into the collar of his hoodie. He watched the glass doors slide shut behind the two of you, the quiet click of the lock sounding like the final, definitive door closing on a future he had broken before it could even begin.
