#lerstappen

What seemed like an impossible suggestion few years ago, turned into the only glimmer of hope regarding the rest of his career that wasn't completely laced with bitterness. His time, unlike Ferrari's, is not infinite. Red Bull called. Charles answered. And now, he's switched his personal "Monaco curse" for the universal "Red Bull second seat" nightmare.

This morning when he woke up, part of him still hoped this is all just a hazy fever dream.

It's not. The stargazed smile on the receptionists face only confirms it.

He's being led by a similarly nervous intern, who does way worse job than Charles with hiding their fear. But they probably don't have to, as the pressure on their shoulders lies only in getting the floor number right. Momentarily, Charles is jealous of the lightness this young person resonates, how able they are to let everyone know that they are in fact just a bit scared to do their job right. The giddiness he lost somewhere along the way.

He nods to everyone they pass. Not a single familiar face yet. Every time he's met with somewhat starstruck surprise, giving it all that more away that this late December visit is a secret one, not for the outsider eyes to know about. Only the deeply core team. Red Bull wants to get ahead of the game and Charles appreciates that. Still, it stings just bit to see that nobody comes over and asks for a photo – many did when Lewis first came to take a look around Maranello. Why would they. There already is a multi-year World Champion under their roof. And it's not Charles Leclerc. Max is embedded in the walls of this place, already breathing at the back of Charles' neck. It's his home, Charles left his way back in Italy.

They finally reach the destination of a mediocre meeting room, where Charles' new chapter begins and at last, he recognizes some of the faces.

Smiles spread around the table as he enters – there are engineers he's seen around the paddock, managers he remembers from the Zooms prior to his signing and in the middle of them all sit Christian Horner and Helmut Marko. Charles comes alone, only his trainer and manager following him to the new team. Everyone else stayed behind, swayed by the story Ferrari is able to sell so well. Fresh start. A lonely one. He shakes hands with everyone and tries to burn their names into his memory. He doesn't know who he'll have to impress, or win over, or conquer. But he intends to do all three.

Christian speaks first, all show and poise, as if he's announcing a new line of merchandise rather than the most controversial signing in years.

"We've got something special here, haven't we?" he says, gesturing toward Charles like he's unveiling a prototype rather than a man. "Helmut hasn't been this happy about a new signing since Max."

It lands in the room like a compliment, but Charles feels the backhand in it. He smiles anyway. Not the real one, the professional one. The one that says thank you, I'm thrilled, this doesn't make me want to crawl out of my skin at all.

He glances briefly at Helmut, who is, indeed, smiling. It's a rare, foxlike smile, the kind that suggests he's already ten moves ahead. Charles can't tell if it's good news or just another trap dressed in confidence. Few pleasantries fly around the room, landing anywhere but it Charles' heart.

"Is Max around?" he asks, pretending it's casual. Once again, he goes back to the memory of Lewis coming in the factory last year and how it was absolutely without a question that Charles had to be there to greet him.

Christian doesn't even flinch. "Not today."

It makes Charles nervous at first. No Max means no read, no intel. No sense of whether the worst of it–the power play, the scrutiny, the territorial coldness–is coming now or later. He hopes it will be different than it was with Lewis. He can't do another of the same charade. But then he realizes: Max's absence might actually be useful. It gives Charles a head start. A chance to breathe. Maybe even to plant a seed or two.

There's already a plan printed out for him, handed across the table like a guest itinerary.

09:30 – Brief factory tour

10:15 – Seat sizing

11:00 – PR session (closed, HOD's only)

It's the last one that matters today. That's where the real work begins. The rest of the meeting is fairly uneventful.

He has to put his hands to the pockets of his hoodie as they embark of the tour, because they keep shaking so much it might cause an impromptu visit from the medical team. Christian walks beside him, chatting lightly with one of the lead engineers, but Charles barely hears it. He used to walk the hallways of Maranello like a child would approach the playground of their hometown. His mind still recalls every corner of the Italian factory, the confident red and yellow decor brightening up every hard and long day when he and his old team tried to crack down the code to victory. And now, he's floating through the veins of the team that caused headache for so many years to many of those he still dares to call friends. There is a strange coldness that shines through the quiet of the rooms, stripped of noise, humming with efficiency and fresh legacy. They don't look at the past glorifying it, they are deep in the now and tomorrow. His face is everywhere: on walls, flickering across monitor screens, circled in segments of telemetry reports like a sacred text under study. Charles doubts they even realize it. But every other sentence spoken to him is coming back to Max. His preferences, his data, his legacy. Max does it this way. Max likes that corner softer. Max asked for this adjustment last year. It's all said casually, offhand, as if Max isn't just a colleague, but a gravitational field. Charles nods, absorbs, files it away. He doesn't flinch. He knew what he signed up for. But deep down, something coils tight in his chest. He's not here to worship or be worshiped. He chose to leave the place that had their daily schedule set up around him. Christian makes small talk, upbeat and fluid, but Charles can feel it beneath the words. This is Max's place. Charles walks a step slower, just enough to let it sink in. This is what it means to enter a winning machine built for someone else. To step into the rival's altar–and pretend you belong. His hands don't stop shaking until he sees the new car they're building. Maybe because it's not done yet. And perhaps because someone actually asks for his opinion. He listens to the designer selling brief and then calmly puts him first input. Makes sure the team hears him saying that he's excited to work with them on the progress. Because one major fault of the place he used to call family? They never listened. Not really. It does not ease the heartbreak growing inside him in any way.

//

Max doesn't believe in grand gestures. That's why, when the "new guy", the latest "rookie" is in the process of walking to the first official meeting with the team, Max is home, halfway across the continent, barefoot and buttering toast.

He knows it's different this time – Charles Leclerc is not some junior driver pulled up too early from development. And Max hopes for the love of God that this teammate stays at least the season. He's fed up with the welcome videos, the team bonding barbecues, the forced grins in photos like they're the goddamn poster boys for modern masculinity. Last time, someone brought a guitar to dinner. Max nearly retired on the spot. There is no way anyone will see his face around Milton Keynes until January.

The intrusive thoughts of retiring have been plaguing Max's mind for some time. Red Bull in shambles, falling from grace and dragging Max down with them, and the other teams? Yeah, he's not Alonso. Not about to go on a mission of reviving some dying institution. Or maybe he is. These days, he's not sure. One day he'll run his own team. But before that happens, he needs to take some well deserved break and find a way to get less sick of the paddock.

Charles Leclerc. Max stares out of the window overseeing the hometown of his new teammate. Gets lost in thoughts almost instantly.

Max has the same question on mind like the rest of the racing world. Is Charles going to be good enough in the Red Bull to equal him? Is the car really so shit only Max can make it come alive on a good day? There is not a single doubt in his mind about Charles being an exceptional driver. Finally, this year he'll get see if he's good enough.

It's annoyingly cinematic, the whole thing–some poetic little full circle. Max, alone in Monte Carlo, watching the same streets that made Charles, while he's in Milton Keynes, the place where Max became who he is today.

But the truth is, Max has been thinking about Charles for months. The transfer meetings. The media frenzy. The way people said finally, like Max had been winning in easy mode this whole time. Like Charles would be the noble challenger to his villain arc. Please.

He takes a bite of toast. Cold now. Figures.

They'll write headlines about tension and how Charles brings balance to the dark side of the garage. Max can already picture the press conference quotes. Half of them made up, the other half carefully scripted. They'll make it a rivalry before the engines even start. Part of him wishes they could just race in peace and cut the cameras off the second they get out of the cars.

//

Charles' mind runs freely when he's forced to sit down still for the following twenty minutes in the seat fitting. There is one light at the end of the tunnel that might end up saving Charles' legacy, which seems to be slipping away with every passing 'next year will be our year'. And that is the story of him and Max. It's been too long since he sat in a car capable of fighting Max's on equal level, the opportunities to race his ultimate, destiny-written, rival scarce as sunshine hitting the windows of the England based factory. When they race, it's different than fighting with other drivers on track. Charles loves the elegance of it, the way he has to dig in his arsenal of moves and focus on surprising Max. It's not just figuring out the perfect racing line or balancing the late-breaking. With others it's purely technical. This is the objective and that is the optimal way to react. Not with Max. High-end mind games need to played, he needs to be tricked. Charles can only hope the feeling is mutual. Given all the interviews and quick shallow remarks shared in the paddock, he allows himself to believe so. So, if there is one thing that gets him truly excited about this move, it's that he gets to chase Max properly. Gets to stare another curse in the eye and prove it wrong. Go big, or crash and burn. No more of playing the endless Ferrari waiting game.

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