#ad25

This year hadn’t been about racing. Not in the way he would have liked. Too much was happening. With Christian. With Lily. With GP. It had just been a lot of… not so good things. And despite the title of five time world champion finally slipping from his grasp, he was glad that it was over.

He was tired. That bone deep exhaustion and desire to shut out the world and sleep. Something he had every intention to do. But not right now.

Really, he should be with his family right now. Kelly and Lily and P all waiting for him to be the partner and father they had barely seen in the last three weeks. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Not right now. Not with the cameras off. He would. Later tonight… or maybe tomorrow, he would go back to pretending. He would go through the motions. Say the right things, do the right things. Act unbothered and happy to just be here.

Because he was, wasn’t he?

This wasn’t his championship to lose. P2 was incredible after the season he had.

But he had. He’d lost it. He’d lost the second he’d stepped into the paddock back in January. The air had changed. It’d felt different. Everything felt wrong.

He couldn’t put his finger on why. He’d just won his fourth. Their little miracle was going to be a girl, something he had secretly been hoping for. He’d survived his first season with a shaken team. He should have gone into it hopeful. And maybe he had. He couldn’t remember. It was such a long time ago. Feeling anything other than this deep hollowness was nothing more than a faint memory.

Sometimes he felt sparks of things. Anger of course coming in spurts (or it had, any real feelings of anger had dissipated months ago). Joy really only felt in the moments he held Lily in his arms, though P could always at least pull a smile from his heart. But they were flashes. Like scrolling through a camera role and realizing that you remembered nothing of the moments in between.

This year had been one of the worst of his career. It had also been his best. He didn’t know anymore. It was hard to gauge when he felt so much nothing.

Christian was gone. That was a plus he supposed. He would presumably never have to deal with him again. But that left only two of the people who had gone on to shape him at Red Bull. Well three if you counted his dad.

That was at least a silver lining, his dad wasn’t here.

He’d mocked the reporters, but it was true. Spain haunts him. It has for awhile now. And maybe that was the last time he’d really gotten angry. Black out, the world is ending, I need to hit something, anger. 

He hasn’t felt anything in a long time. And maybe that was good. Maybe that was called growth. The reporters seemed to think so. He was older, more mature, settled. He was told that this new Max Verstappen was good. So he chooses to believe them. 

But sometimes he missed it. Missed the fire, the anger, the love. 

Because it was true. The hatred and anger was gone. But so was the love. He just… didn’t care. 

And right now that was probably a good thing. It was probably for the best. What better time to not care than after missing out on the championship by two points. Two. 

And he wasn’t angry. He should be angry. At someone. At Horner. Or the engineers. Or Lando. Or Kimi. Or even at GP. Maybe at himself. 

But it was like this was all happening to someone else. To a different world champion. Or former. 

He was just… tired. Tired of all of it. 

A part of him knew that this season had been fun. It really had been. Being on the chase. Hunting down Norris. And maybe if he had won it would be different. Maybe he would still feel that rush. But… right now? He thinks he’d be okay if he never drove an F1 car again. Which… made no sense. It made no sense at all. 

And things were only going to get worse. The regulations next season were bad. He’d been warning people for years. Something bad was going to happen with them. Not to mention they just were no fun in concept. But no one listened to him. No one ever listened to him. 

He didn’t have the answers. Not right now. 

Maybe it was the fact that he knew the engineers did not understand the 2026 reg sets. Contrary to popular belief, Max understood them, he just hated them. But the Red Bull mechanics, even if he did love them, they had no idea what they were doing. And he knew next year would be even worse in every aspect. 

Whatever. He was tired. He was done. Next year would be next year. 

But for the first time, he’s really, truly, considering a life without F1. A life at home with his girls. He’d stay in NLS probably. But it wouldn’t be every week. He could just hit the ones he wanted without worrying about the politics of F1. Without worrying about the hatred that seemed lobbed at him every time he stepped foot on the F1 on stage. 

He’d always thought he didn’t care. And maybe he didn’t. Because there was a whole lot of nothing where he thought the hurt was supposed to be. But that was just a sign that it was all finally getting to him. Probably. He assumed that at least. Or maybe he really just was as emotionless as everyone thought. Maybe he was a psychopath with no emotions and no feelings and no care for others or himself. 

Or maybe he’d go home for Christmas and find the love return to him after stepping away for the break. 

Or maybe he’d be retired by this time next year.