#maxge

The garage felt colder than usual, despite the heat still lingering from the engines. George Russell stood rigid by his car, eyes scanning the neatly stacked tools and polished helmets, but his mind was elsewhere—locked in the words he’d just heard. Across the room, Max Verstappen leaned casually against a workbench, his arms folded, eyes steady and unreadable.

There was a silence between them, dense and crackling, the kind that crackles before a storm breaks.

George’s voice cut through the stillness, tight and low. “So, it’s true then?”

Max shrugged, as if shrugging off a trivial accusation. “What do you think?”

George’s fists clenched at his sides, nails digging into his palms. “That you’re here to take my seat.”

Max’s eyes didn’t waver. “The team’s talking. You know how it is. Results matter.”

George laughed, but it was bitter, strained. “Results? What about loyalty? What about the years I’ve poured into this team? The countless weekends, the sacrifices?”

“Loyalty doesn’t win championships,” Max said, voice cool but firm. “Performance does.”

George stepped closer, voice rising despite himself. “Performance? Maybe you forgot what it’s like to start from the bottom, to fight every inch up the ladder. I’m not just a name to fill a seat.”

Max pushed off the bench and met George’s gaze head-on. “I’m not here to replace you because I want to. I’m here because I’m better.”

George’s jaw tightened. “Better? You think that gives you the right to just… take everything I’ve built?”

Max’s lips curled into a smirk, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “It’s not about rights. It’s about results. You want to keep the seat? Prove you deserve it.”

The silence returned, heavier this time. George’s breath was shallow, his heart pounding in his chest. The man in front of him wasn’t just a rival on the track anymore. He was the threat to everything George had worked for—the shadow looming over his future.

“Maybe I don’t need to prove anything to you,” George said finally, voice low, almost broken.

Max’s eyes softened—just a fraction. “Maybe not. But the team does.”

They stood there, two fierce competitors caught in a battle that wasn’t about laps or points, but something far more personal. Pride. Respect. The fragile line between ambition and friendship.

George looked away first, running a hand through his hair. “I won’t go down without a fight.”

Max nodded slowly, a grudging respect shining through the tension. “Neither will I.”

Suddenly the tension between them seemed to pull back like a wave, and George’s mind drifted, involuntarily slipping back to one of their earliest clashes—the Spanish Grand Prix last year. The memory played vividly in his mind, every detail sharp and raw.

The track was blistering hot that day, the stands packed and roaring with energy. George had found himself wheel-to-wheel with Max for nearly the entire race. The two fought like gladiators, neither willing to give ground.

George remembered the moment perfectly—the final chicane, tight and unforgiving. Max had darted inside, squeezing him towards the wall, wheels nearly touching. George had gritted his teeth, refusing to back down, holding his line and forcing Max wide instead.

That move had cost them both time, but George had managed to hold the position, stealing valuable points. After the race, Max had smirked and said, “You’re tougher than I thought. But I’m coming for you.”

Back then, the rivalry had been fierce but laced with a grudging respect. Now, George wondered if that respect was fading under the weight of this new threat.

The flashback dissolved, and George found himself back in the present, staring into Max’s eyes.

“You’ve been coming for me since day one,” George said quietly. “But this… this is different.”

Max stepped closer, voice lowering. “It has to be. Because I’m not just racing you on the track anymore. I’m racing for your future.”

George’s pulse quickened as a mix of anger and something else—something unfamiliar—rose inside him. “You think taking my seat will make you king? That you’ll just waltz in and everyone will bow?”

Max’s grin was dangerous now, full of challenge and fire. “No. I think I’ll make them see that I’m the one they need.”

The air between them was electric, thick with competition and an undeniable tension neither dared to name aloud.

George swallowed hard, the competitive fire in him flaring, but beneath it, a flicker of something more complicated—fear, excitement, maybe even a spark of attraction he had never acknowledged.

“You’re playing a dangerous game, Max.”