#older!reader

He was, to say the least, beyond excited, a feeling that he felt festering across his chest and beneath his skin. His eyes flickered to the clock on the wall continuously; Coach Theriault hadn't exactly given them a specific time for the meeting, only a quick email discussing why he wanted everyone at the rink for a meeting.

He kept himself restrained, though, wanting to set a good example for their newest rookies who sat around on the benches with big eyes and nervous smiles.

Team meetings were either incredibly boring or informative, with the ones at the start of a new training season often filled with things Coach Theriault wanted to see on the ice and things they needed to improve on. This time, however, Coach Theriault would be introducing them to Assistant Coach Wolfe's replacement.

Hayden snorted, bumping his elbow against Shane's and finally peering down at his skates to tie them properly. "I bet you know everything about our newest coach, huh, Shane? What does he usually eat for breakfast?" Hayden asked teasingly, his lips pulled up in a big grin.

Shane rolled his eyes. "Fuck off." He muttered, heat creeping up his neck because his brain immediately provided an answer: breakfast quesadilla, per a magazine interview he'd read about him roughly three years ago.

Shane wouldn't say he knew everything about (Y/N) (L/N). He knew... a perfectly normal amount.

"(L/N) was an amazing right defenseman for San Francisco and New York. I'm.. looking forward to learning from him."

"Looking forward to impressing him, more like." Hayden chuckled. "You know what they say, Hollander. Never meet your heroes."

Shane hummed. He knew that, realistically, no matter how many videos, interviews, articles, newspapers, or magazines he saw or read about (Y/N) (L/N), the guy was a complete stranger to him... but Shane wanted to believe he wouldn't turn out to be an asshole like a handful of other hockey veterans he'd had the displeasure of meeting.

Shane had been looking up to (Y/N) (L/N) for half of his life, closely following his career with the hopes they'd one day be on the ice at the same time. 

Of course, the universe had other plans.

During Shane's second year as a Metro, the year when the Metros and Admirals finally played against each other, (L/N) had been exempt from the game due to a family emergency, and then the following year, (Y/N) (L/N) announced his retirement at thirty-three following a divorce from his wife of almost twelve years that startled the league.

They'd all thought (L/N) would disappear off the face of the earth, as most players did after facing some kind of public drama, but then Coach Theriault dropped the news in an email sent to the team that he'd be replacing Coach Wolfe. Shane had never been more thrilled in his life.

The door to the locker room rattled shut, and the team effectively fell silent, a few players scrambling to sit down on one of the benches to give Coach Theriault their full, undivided attention. Coach Theriault assessed them silently, approvingly at their quick obedience, his hands clasped behind his back like a drill sergeant ready to scare the lights out of his squad. 

Behind him stood the rest of his team of staff members, most of whom Shane had become acquainted with throughout his time on the team.

There was Assistant Coach Russell Hendricks, a former center for the North Carolina Saints, who'd been with the Montreal Metros for roughly seven years as Coach Theriault's primary assistant; Coach Morgan Byrne, a former goalie for the Toronto Guardians, who'd been with the team for two years and specialized in goaltending; Dr. Nyla Holt who worked as the team physician for about four years, give or take.

And of course, Assistant Coach (Y/N) (L/N), who stood a little off to the side behind Coach Theriault, his arms loosely folded over his chest and his eyes wandering over the team.

There was an air of calmness to him, from his relaxed shoulders to the small tilt of his head that was slightly boyish in comparison to the other men of the staff team who stood rigid and straight. Maybe it was due to the backwards cap on his head, or the fact that he was the youngest among the staff.

Shane stared at him, his lips slightly parted to let out a quiet breath, enthralled. He'd seen (Y/N) (L/N) in person before, but only in flashes while he darted across the rink. He'd never been able to take a good look at him up close. Shane had been obsessed since he first saw him on screen during the 1997 Junior Championships, despite his young age.

In a sea full of arrogant, cocky smirks or tight, serious frowns, (Y/N) (L/N) stood out to him with his neutral, relaxed features and concentrated eyes. Shane saw himself in him, saw the type of player he wanted to be: calm, cool, collected. (Y/N) (L/N) never faltered, never grew angry, rarely, if ever, sent to the penalty box. Shane wanted to be him.

And he supposed he had (Y/N) (L/N) to thank for making him begin questioning his sexuality during his high school years, however daunting the realization had been. It'd certainly nearly sent him spiraling when he first lost his virginity and found his brain filled with images of (L/N) instead of his girlfriend at the time.

"Welcome back, boys. I have to say, the 2011-2012 season was good. We had good games, great strategies, but they weren't enough to win us that Stanley Cup. We're going to do better this season. We're going to win the division and enter the playoffs and, so help me God, beat the Boston Raiders this time."

Coach Theriault had a voice that demanded attention, gruff and raspy from age but effortlessly booming; it did little to keep Shane's attention this time around. Not when (L/N)'s eyes briefly settled on him. Shane sat up even straighter, his fingers curling tighter around his helmet. First impressions went a long way, and Shane wanted to look his very best.

"We've got some new faces amongst us: Landon Campbell as our backup goalie and Sven Olsson as a right winger."

Shane glanced at the two newest rookies, offering them tight-lipped smiles, more interested in the introduction for (Y/N) (L/N) than theirs. He'd already introduced himself back when they'd first been drafted and somewhat begrudgingly assured them they could come to him for anything.

He preferred, truthfully, to be left alone to focus on himself, though he appreciated Hayden and J.J.'s friendship and the lengths they went to help him integrate with the team.

Coach Theriault turned to clap (Y/N) (L/N) over the shoulder, his mouth dissolving from that haughty frown to a grin. "And (Y/N) (L/N), who has a couple of championship rings under his belt. One of the better defensemen the Admirals have had. They'll be more beatable now without you, (L/N)."

(Y/N) (L/N) huffed out a quiet laugh, his head dipping somewhat sheepishly at the praise, before he raised his head again and graced them with a small, semi-nervous smile. Shane's fingers twitched with the quiet desire to trace his laugh lines and faint crows' feet. He'd only grown more attractive with age.

Stop it, Shane. He took in a slow, deep breath, releasing it gently.

"It's, uhm, a pleasure to be here. I always knew I wanted to coach after retiring, and I'm glad I can serve such a fantastic team. There are a couple of faces here that I've been keeping an eye on-" (L/N) nodded his head toward Shane, and his breath caught in his throat. Mom's going to freak. "-and I'm more than excited to help create some champions."

"We're glad to have you here."

Coach Theriault gave his shoulder a light shake, his grin returning to that tight line when he resumed addressing them. His brows furrowed together, his features nearly forming a scowl. Coach Theriault was an understanding man, but an intimidating coach.

"Finish gearing up and get your asses on the ice. We'll be going over zone entries and forechecking today." While his voice was neutral, he spoke sharply enough that he sounded irritated with them already.

The handful that'd already geared up followed the staff team out into the arena, and Shane slid his helmet over his head, stepping aside so he could fiddle with the straps.

His eyes followed the guys who headed onto the ice, the hiss of skates scraping across the rink filling his ears soothingly. His gaze drifted away, settling back on (Y/N) (L/N), and his shoulders tensed when they made eye contact again.

(L/N) approached, his hand slipping out of the pocket of his jacket to offer a handshake. "Nice meeting you, Hollander." He said, his voice in that usual passive tone he always spoke in. It was calming, gentle. The opposite of what one would expect from a man who looked as aloof and serious as him.

Shane took his hand, hyperaware of his grip as he shook it as calmly and causally as possible. "Same here. I- I'm a big fan. I've, uhm,"

Shane cleared his throat when it began to tremble, his body filling with excited energy he wanted to release. He messed with the helmet straps to keep his hands busy, tightening them. Relax.

"I've been watching your games since I was a kid." 

(L/N) cocked his head to the side, his smile faint. "I'm that old, huh?"

"You don't look it," Shane told him, his cheeks flooding with heat.

Was that weird to say? He wasn't sure. It was the truth, so it couldn't be weird to say.. right? (L/N) looked as good as he had at nineteen and twenty, with the bonus of the strength he'd built up over playing close to fourteen years as an active hockey player. Shane thought the few gray hairs he spotted added to his attractiveness. 

Besides, it wasn't as if he was some old man walking around with a cane or walker, muttering and sputtering about the good old days. He was thirty-four​​​​​, practically in his prime.

Shane supposed, though, by hockey standards, he was old. If he hadn't retired the previous year, he would've only had two to three more years before the league would have begun nudging him toward retirement.

A little helplessly, Shane added, "You look great, (L/N)." 

"Thanks, Hollander."

(L/N) smiled again, and Shane couldn't help but notice he looked a little tired. He presumed it was from the move from New York City to Montreal, but a nagging voice in the back of his head reminded him that nobody could get over an eleven-year marriage in just a single year.

But what could he say about that? 'Sorry your wife left you' sounded horrible.

"I'm a fan of yours as well. You remind me of myself." (L/N) revealed with a small shrug, and Shane's heart surged with glee. His hands dropped to his sides, flexing to keep his emotions at bay, to keep them controlled. "The media claimed I was antisocial and not much of a team player off the ice, too. I've always liked being by myself. I think I'm good company."

Shane let out a little, agreeable laugh, his back straightening and smile widening. "Yeah, exactly. I don't know why everyone makes it such a big deal like- like if it's a bad thing. I like my alone time, you know? I-I prefer staying in and reading a book over going out to a club with loud music that'll make me go deaf in a few years."

(L/N) nodded, his head trailing away from him to watch more of the team head out onto the ice, his eyes observing the guys intently. His hand raised to toy with the silver necklace around his neck that dipped beneath the collar of his shirt.

"As you get older, it becomes more acceptable, I guess. Some of the younger guys treat hockey like it's a frat, not a sport. All they care about are girls, beer, and having dick measuring contests."

"I know, right?" Shane nearly rocked onto his toes, pleased beyond measure to finally find someone who thought similarly. For a while, he worried he'd be the odd one out, the lame party pooper who had no idea how to have a good time.

The constant clubbing and sleeping around culture of hockey was his least favorite part. He couldn't believe some people enjoyed being in hot, loud, confined spaces with sweaty, drunk people all around them. It was suffocating. Shane loved his team, even the more abrasive guys, but their idea of a fun night always ended up sounding like absolute hell to him.

He preferred sports bars or casual restaurants that encouraged lounging around, listening to live music, or watching the television screens. At least in them, he could hear his own thoughts instead of EDM music vibrating uncomfortably through his body.

He could sit and have a conversation with someone without having to scream over the music and order something casual like ginger ale or lemonade without getting an odd look.

Never meet your heroes. Shane almost scoffed. What bullshit.

"I don't get the obsession with alcohol, honestly. I know it helps loosen everyone up, but some guys act like they can't live without it." Shane shook his head. He could enjoy a beer or two during the offseason, maybe a glass of wine during dinner, but being inebriated almost every single day? "We don't need to go to bars every damn night."

(L/N) cracked a little agreeable grin at that, and Shane's eyes fell away to stare at the floor with a little exhale, his cheeks almost hurting from his smile.

He amused him. He amused (Y/N) fucking (L/N).

"You're a good guy, Hollander." His hand reached out to pat the top of his helmet, gently nudging him toward the rink afterward with his fingertips. "Don't let anyone try to change you."

Shane beamed at the praise, and a little breathlessly, he assured him, "I won't, sir."

Holy shit.

His idol praised him, was a fan of his. Shane let out a trembling, little sigh, the metal blade of his skates scratching softly against the ice when he stepped into the rink. He peeked over his shoulder at (L/N), eyes trailing over him while (L/N) greeted another teammate with a small nod and gentle murmur.

Hayden was right; he wanted to impress the hell out of (Y/N) (L/N), and he was going to do just that.

2012, Boucherville, Québec​​​​​, A Couple Hours Later

If (Y/N) were being completely honest, he tragically missed living in San Fransico more than he missed living in New York City.

He missed the Admirals, obviously. They'd been his family since his trade from the San Francisco Sharks to the New York Admirals back in '02, and he'd grown incredibly fond of all the guys on the team.

He'd grown close to Scott Hunter after his draft to the team in '08 when he'd arrived as a bright-eyed twenty-year-old; the slight grump Greg Huff that'd been with the Admirals for all of his career and took up a fatherly role to most of the players; the endearing Eric Bennett who'd quietly come out to him one random evening and looked relieved when (Y/N) promised to keep his secret.

He watched the team evolve with the changing times and found his spot on the team to remain unwavering, even as others were traded around or retired.

But he was a man made for sunshine, beaches, and palm trees. He grew up on the sunny beaches of California, was practically born with saltwater in his veins and a heart that yearned for the ocean.

He missed spending his free time on the beach, walking or jogging along the seashore with the sun warming his skin until he was hot to the touch, or stopping by one of the seaside restaurants for a drink.

Living by the beach felt freeing, more spacious and natural than living in the concrete jungle that was the famous New York City.

He traded palm trees for skyscrapers, crystal clear lagoons for the polluted Hudson River, squawking seagulls for trilling pigeons, chilly December nights for below-freezing winters. He'd awake to loud, insistent honking instead of the sound of waves crashing over rocky hills.

NYC had plenty of its own beaches, but none compared to his beloved home on the West Coast.

His first internet search about Montreal when he'd been offered to fill in the role of Assistant Coach for the Metros had been: Does Montreal have any beaches? The answer had been yes, the Canadian city had plenty, but none stirred his heart the way the ones back home in California did.

Maybe his indifference to them had to do with his divorce, the sole event that crushed him more than any lecture, insult, or scathing argument on the ice had. 

Eleven years. Eleven years of his life he'd spent dedicated to two things: hockey and his wife.

He'd gone ahead and done what most other hockey players usually did when they found a nice, homely girl that the folks back home liked... he proposed ten months after meeting Aimee Edwards at twenty-one years old, despite his parents delicately urging him to wait at least a year or two before settling down so quickly.

He thought he'd found an eternal love, that they'd have a marriage that lasted a lifetime. He envisoned them returning to San Franscio after his retirement and permanently settling down, helping her open a bakery that she could run while he coached for his old team, and having a little mini-him or mini-her running around the place, delighting friends and family with whatever antics children got up to.

The divorce papers he'd been served promptly turned that dream into a nightmare.

Now, he lived in a partially decorated house (because decorating had always been Aimee's thing) in Boucherville, Québec, wondering what to do with himself. The life he'd thought out and planned had swiftly crumbled, from going back home to settling down to having Aimee at his side.

He wasn't fully sure why he'd agreed to Montreal of all places. He could've easily gone down to Tampa and returned to blissful, sunnier climates, but going to Canada felt like escaping.

He sat in his bed, staring blankly at the television playing a weather news segment, his legs crossed and arms folded across his chest. His head tilted to eye the empty space beside him, and his chest deflated with a long, heavy sigh.

The house, the very one he'd subconsciously chosen with Aimee in mind because it'd looked like her dream home, felt too still, too quiet, and too empty. He'd let Aimee keep their dog, Blu, after the divorce, and he faintly regretted it.

He briefly considered reaching out to her to tell her about his first day as a coach, but ultimately decided to call someone else instead. 

"Hey, man! How's Montreal treating you? Coach Theriault sounded thrilled to have you." 

"Hey, Scott." (Y/N) greeted with another tired sigh, his hand curling around the remote to turn the volume down. He could practically see the wince on Scott's face at his tone. "Yeah, uhm, the team's great. Everyone's pretty nice. Polite, you know how Canadians are. Or.. how people say they are."

"Uh-huh.. how, uh, how are you holding up, man?"

(Y/N)'s mouth pulled into a dry smile. "Been better, I guess. I'm... I don't know. The team's great, like I said. Lots of starry-eyed kids with great potential. Hollander's pretty good. I think he'll make assistant captain in a year or two. He knows what he's doing. Reminds me of me."

"I've met him a couple of times. Reminds me of you, too." Scott chuckled agreeably. "You've always been so... in your own world, just like him. I'm telling you, (Y/N), you should get out there more. Set an example for him and the other kids on the team."

"Says the guy who stays in his apartment whenever he's not training or jogging," (Y/N) scoffed softly.

"Hey," Scott called in playful offense. "I travel. But I meant... moving on. I'm not saying you should get hitched to the next girl you meet, but... come on, (Y/N). It might help to see what Montreal has to offer. She was your first girlfriend."

(Y/N) hardly needed that reminder.

He'd faced enough teasing from his teammates before he'd met her about him being a prude or a virgin at his 'big age'. They thought his clumsiness when it came to flirting amusing, and assumed it meant he'd gotten no action in high school.

(Y/N) had always felt inclined to correct them that he hadn't, in fact, been a virgin before meeting her, that his virginity had been technically taken during his junior year of high school by his best friend at the time.

But the last thing he needed was the teasing to shift away from being light-hearted to hate-fueled homophobia.

Truthfully, the concept of getting back out into the dating world sounded daunting. He hadn't even been looking for a relationship when Aimee entered his life and swiftly changed his relationship status from single to taken.

"I can't do that." He said immediately, his stomach queasy. "You know I'm not good at- at social stuff, Scott. There's a reason the league has never asked me to present an award. I'm not charismatic or charming like you or Carter. You know what Aimee always described me as? Cute. I'm thirty-four, Scott. Nobody wants a 'cute' man in his thirties. They want a cool Chris Evans or a pretty boy Channing Tatum."

"You're cool." Scott objected gently, and (Y/N) almost scoffed again. He was cool in the eyes of whom? Seven-year-olds who laughed at fart sounds? "And you may not be a boy anymore, but you're handsome, (Y/N). I bet there's a line of women waiting to hear about (Y/N) (L/N) getting back into the dating world."

His nose crinkled. Modern dating sounded... questionable.

Chatting with random people on the internet? Meeting up with complete strangers for a date that could turn into half an hour of hell? Laughing awkwardly at jokes he barely understood until all he could do was give a strained smile?

He shuddered from the mere thought of it, at the thought of having to sit down with someone he hardly knew and pretend as if he weren't thinking about heading home the entire time.

(Y/N) wasn't a conversationalist. Quite the opposite, really. 

He and Aimee had quite literally ran into each other when they first met at Dolores Park, full-blown chests bumpings and bodies stumbling. There'd been plenty of nervous, awkward laughter and breathy apologies, but if it hadn't been for Aimee's effortless charm when meeting new people and making them feel like old friends, they would've probably gone their separate ways and never seen each other again.

Besides, what was the point? Nobody wanted a divorcee, even without children involved.

(Y/N) sighed, slumping back into the propped-up pillows and lifting his eyes to the tall ceiling. "I might get a dog instead. Animals are better company, anyway."

It was half-true, at least. He loved Blu more than anything, missed hearing his yappy barks or hearing the clacking of his nails on the floor, but he missed knowing he'd have someone to return home to who he could actually talk to.

He missed checking his phone and having little updates about Aimee's day, or listening to gossip she'd heard from her friends that they'd laugh about. He missed smelling her perfume lingering around the place, or seeing what new things she'd bought from the thrift store.

It was... jarring, how swiftly his world changed, and how rough he found it to adjust when he'd prided himself on being adaptable.

Most of his peers were already on their third or fourth kid, celebrating fatherhood and wedding anniversaries, posting with their wives about how happy they were on Facebook. He thought he'd done everything right: meet the girl, marry the girl, move into a nice home with the girl, work hard to bring food to the table, plan how many kids to have.

Scott was silent for a moment, and then he took in a quiet breath. "Do.. Do you want to talk about it? The divorce and everything? Greg and Laura have been waiting for you to reach out to them. They're worried." 

(Y/N) swallowed. He'd been avoiding most of the Huff's calls. They had the ideal marriage, two beautiful children, the white picket fence life everyone dreamed of obtaining. (Y/N) looked at them, and he only saw his failures as a husband. As a man.

"I don't want to talk about it," (Y/N) responded quietly, honestly, watching the colors from the television dance across the ceiling in hues of blue and faint yellow. "Aimee decided to move on to better, brighter things, and I'm.. happy for her. She's.. worked hard for the life that she wants. Who am I to hold her back?"

"Eleven years is a long time, (Y/N)-"

(Y/N) grimaced. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Right," Scott cleared his throat, and (Y/N) envisoned the small flush on his face. "Sorry. I didn't mean to pry. I just want you to know that the Admirals are here for you, if you ever need anything."

"I appreciate that, Scott. I.. I don't know if I'll ever feel... ready to talk about it with anyone."

His parents had tried, lightly prodding and asking gentle questions, trying to get to the bottom of what caused his marriage to fail. (Y/N) hadn't had the heart to tell them it'd been his fault, that it'd been building up for a while.

He'd felt it coming, knew that with every month that passed, the chances of being served grew and grew. In some hopeful, optimistic part of his brain, he thought they'd overcome it.

"I'll let you and Greg know if- if I ever need someone to talk to, alright? I need time to process all of this, to get used to Canada and Quebec and the Metros."

He'd thrown himself into getting all his certifications and training for the role of assistant coach as soon as possible, and he could feel the repercussions building up in his chest, threatening to spill.

"I should head to bed, Scott. We've got training in the morning."

"Alright... call me if you want to talk, yeah? You know I'll always pick up."

"I know. Goodnight."

Setting his phone on the nightstand and plugging it in, (Y/N) slipped his legs beneath the covers and switched off the television. He messed with his pillows a little, fluffing them out and smacking his palms over them before he settled down, staring into the darkness around him.

He adored you with a quiet intensity that would surprise anyone who only knew the ice-blooded, ruthless version of him that raced. He'll come to you after hard days, head tucked into your neck, voice small and tired.

“You always make it better” he mumble, arms around your waist.

But the thing is. No one knows, even Red Bull.

It all started to unravel in the after-party, the kind hosted in a private villa overlooking the harbor, where champagne cost as much as track cameras and everyone pretended not to care who was watching.

You arrived wearing a silk dress that made half the room whisper, Max nearly walked into a wall when he saw you.

He crossed the room instantly, slipping an arm around your waist with shameless ease something he never did in public events, but tonight he didn’t seem to care.

“You look…” he whispered, eyes dragging down your body, “dangerous.”

You smirked. “Am I now?”

His lips grazed your cheek subtle and intimate.

No one assumed it was anything more than sponsor greetings until Max didn’t let go because he kept you close the entire night, leaning into your touch, laughing softly whenever you whispered something teasing. You fed him small bites of dessert at the table and he didn’t even hide how much he enjoyed it.

Somewhere around 2 AM, a VIP guest snapped a short video

Max Verstappen with his head on your shoulder as you ran your fingers through his hair.

It wasn’t meant to be posted but you didn't noticed which could be bad.. or not.

Knowing guest who likes to snoop? they'll feed it to everyone and of course, everyone started watching

After the party, Max insisted on taking you somewhere quiet. “Just us, please” he murmured, taking your hand.

Except quiet for you means a private dinner in a restaurant whose booking list was closed for the next six months, a last-minute flight on a private jet you owned or maybe a weekend stay in your penthouse, where the windows overlooked the Alps and the wine cost more than some drivers' annual rent.

And because of that post? Paparazzi came rushing in, following you and Max secretly and to the paparazzi, the photos they took were priceless.

Max in a tailored coat, smiling down at you like you hung the moon and you leaning into him, body language intimate, familiar, unmistakable.

Max didn’t pay for a single date, you always did but you didn’t flaunt since it was just natural for you.

Max’s favorite reaction was when he would reach for his wallet and you'll gently push his hand back, murmuring “No, love. Let me.”

Every time, he blushed and every time, he melted, and every single time, he fell a little harder.

Max never replied, he sees it on his notification but never opened the message

Every ten seconds another message popped up, screenshots, headlines and fan edits, A literal chaos.

But Max was unbothered as he always has been. Right now, he's sitting sideways across your lap on the sofa in your Monaco penthouse as if he weighed nothing, long legs draped over the cushions, head tucked under your jaw, arms wrapped around your waist like a clingy, oversized cat. It was a rare off-week, late evening lights spilling through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the whole harbor glittering beneath you.

You felt him vibrating with chuckles as he scrolled through the online circus. His phone buzzed nonstop, but he ignored everything except the memes. “They think you’re draining my bank” he snorted, voice muffled against your neck. “Apparently I’m being financially ruined in 4K.”

You hummed. “Cute and can you get off my lap? You're heavy, love.”

He lifted his head just enough to look at you bright eyes, stupidly in love, a little flushed from how close he was pressed to your body. “I want it here and are you not worried?” he asked, teasing but hopeful.

You turned his face in your hand, fingers sliding along his jawline, thumb pressing just a little too possessively into the sensitive spot under his ear.

He inhaled sharply, shivered and melted like he always did.

“Let them talk” you murmured, leaning close enough that your breath warmed his lips. “You’re mine. They don’t need to know anything else.”

That was it for him. His shoulders dropped, expression softening in that way only you ever saw, the switch from aggressive world champion to completely, willingly yours.

Max exhaled slowly, almost dreamily, his body going lax against you, eyes fluttering. “I like when you say it like that” he whispered, voice lower, almost needy.

You smiled slow. The kind of smile that's knowing and wicked. “Oh” you breathed, dragging your thumb along his lower lip, “I know.”

He kissed your wrist in a quiet, instinctive motion, like he couldn’t help himself.

Within an hour, sports pages were reposting it. Within two, gossip sites were analyzing your hand placement like it was forensic evidence. Within three, Red Bull PR had entered a state of full, biblical panic.

But to everyone watching, the message was clear. That Max Verstappen was not the terrifying, unshakeable robot they thought he was, he was soft, gently and utterly enamored. He was yours.

And to be honest, your staff should be calming things done with one message from you but this time you didn't. Because it's time.

The clip didn’t just go viral.

It detonated across every social platform like someone had dropped a love bomb onto the F1 fandom, everyone became an investigative journalist, a romantic, a hater, a conspiracy theorist, and a wedding planner all at once.

While the world obsessed, you and Max were already on your next getaway because there's no way you're gonna waste Max's free days.

yourinstagram

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yourinstagram cry harder

user: THE CAPTION??? 😭😭

user: OMG SLAY QUEEN🤭

user: Not her pulling him around like a pretty little boyfriend

user: If I were her, I too would take my golden retriever boyfriend to just everywhere every time he has time off

⤷user: max? soft? I just can't imagine it man😭

⤷user: THE LEAK PICS IS ALREADY EVERYWHERE WDYM YOU CAN'T IMAGINE IT😭

⤷user: Mad max to soft max is something I couldn't think 👁👄👁

user: she's older, right?

⤷user: she is and to be honest, that's what this makes this better

⤷user: ew really?

⤷user: stop acting like an immature bitch, older woman and younger man is normal get a freaking life

⤷user: oh god please shut up, this older woman is literally richer than all drivers combined💀

user: QUEENNNNN I LOVE IT💋

Days. It's been days but the noise hasn't fade yet but you never calmed it down, not anymore because the world outside could scream, speculate, obsess but inside your penthouse, everything was quiet.

With soft music, dim lights, the distant glitter of the harbor below. Max’s breath warm against your collarbone as he sprawled across your body like you were his personal sanctuary.

He wasn’t even pretending to be tough tonight, not even a little.

His cheek rested against your chest, arms wrapped around your waist like he feared you might disappear. One leg thrown over your hip, his entire body curved into yours as though molded that way.

You stroked his hair lazily, and every time your nails grazed his scalp, Max made this quiet, involuntary sound, half sigh, half whimper that he would absolutely die if anyone else ever heard.

“I like it when you touch me like that” he mumbled into your skin, voice dripping with exhausted honesty.

You smiled, slow and satisfied. “I know you do but you're heavy, you know.”

He lifted his head enough to meet your gaze, cheeks flushed, eyes heavy with affection.

He responded quietly, voice thick. “This does something to me.”

You let your fingers slide down to his jaw, tilting his face up with just enough pressure to make him swallow hard.

“Tell me.”

Max’s breath caught, his hands tightened at your waist.

He leaned into your touch like it pulled gravity. “It makes me feel…” He blinked slowly, lips parting. “Safe, wanted...yours.”

His last word was barely audible, a confession, not a statement. You tilted his chin higher, thumb brushing the soft part of his lower lip.

“You are mine” you said, voice low and steady. “I don’t think you understand how deeply that runs.”

Max’s eyes fluttered, the warmth in his gaze turning molten. “I understand” he whispered. “Every time I look at you, I understand.”

Eventually you told him that you'll make coffe e in the kitchen and as soon as you start making it, You feel Max stood behind you, arms looping around your waist, chin resting on your shoulder as he pressed soft kisses to your neck as if he's worshipping you.

He wasn’t rough, no. He wasn’t impatient either, he wasn’t the Max Verstappen the world saw in a car.

He's Devoted.

And the more you felt him melt into you, the more you feel something different in you.

You placed your hand over his, guiding his touch down your waist, deliberately slow.

“Max” you murmured.

He hummed, lips brushing your skin. “Yeah?”

“You let me spoil you too easily.”

He huffed a soft laugh, nuzzling into your neck. “You like spoiling me.”

“And you like it.”

Max smiled against your skin, small, shy, aware of what you were doing to him. “Only by you.”

You turned in his arms, taking his chin again between your fingers, tipping his face up so he had to look at you. His eyes instantly softened, lips parting like he couldn’t breathe without you.

“Good” you whispered. “Because only I get to.”

He trembled, like an actual, physical shiver, you felt it. Felt the way his hands tightened on your waist, felt how close he was to coming undone with nothing but your voice and your touch.

“Fuck” he breathed, eyes closing for a moment. “You don’t know what you do to me.”

“I know exactly what I do to you.” You leaned in, brushing your lips against his ear. “I make you soft. Mad max they say?” you laugh.

His inhale was shaky but you just smiled “You love it?” you added

Max didn’t even hesitate. “I do” he whispered. “I love it so much it scares me sometimes.”

You turn to him, slid your hands up his chest, over his shoulders, then back down to his hips, slow, dominant, claiming.

“You don’t have to be scared” you murmured. “You’re with me.”

He opened his eyes again, and the look he gave you was pure devotion. “I’m always with you.”

—

Later, when you pulled him into the bedroom, Max didn’t lead, he followed happily and willingly. The world’s most aggressive driver suddenly obedient with you guiding him by the hand.

You sat on the edge of the bed and he stepped between your knees like it was instinct, placing his hands on your thighs before letting them slide upward slowly, reverently.

But when you gripped his chin again, firmer this time, Max let out a small, breathless gasp, the kind only you ever heard.

“Look at me” you said.

Immediately, he obeyed.

Good boy.

“Why are you like this with me?” you asked, tilting your head, studying him.

Max swallowed, eyes wide, honest. “Because…” He exhaled shakily. “Because you make me feel like I can stop fighting.”

You smoothed your thumb over his cheekbone, gentle now. “You don’t have to fight with me” you whispered.

Max leaned into your touch, eyes fluttering closed. “I know” he whispered back. “That’s why I love you.”

You pulled him closer by the jaw, lips brushing his.

“And I love you” you murmured. Then, softer...quieter “Mine.”

Max melted, completely

“Yes” he breathed. “Yours.”

user: It feels like a soft launch with explosives attached😂

user: OP out of topic but why is your profile bald alex😭

user: calling Y/N as that woman is crazy, THAT WOMAN is a known sponsor y'all🙃

user: If she really didn’t want those pics out, they would’ve been gone before they loaded. I mean she's powerful, no?

user: and Max’s entire face is like soft on every leaks, the very same man who used to say fuck off to the journalists

user: Also the timing is insane?? Everything quiet → suddenly leaks from months ago → somehow untouched → Max looking like he’s in love and about to kneel on the floor. No PR department is beating those allegations💀

user: crazy but actually I fully believe she controls the leaks herself or she probably has a moderator dashboard for the entire internet.

user: AND RED BULL PR TEAM HAS NO OFFICIAL STATEMENT YET😭

user: There’s absolutely something deeper going on, I mean those pictures have the energy of a man who is very, very loved… and very very owned😭

user: owned is a crazy word man but I can't help but agree

user: To be honest, Max on those leaks looks so peaceful I actually thought it was an AI dupe at first💀

user: She didn’t stop this leak, let's accept it, she let it happen and honestly? Queen behavior🤷‍♀️

user: Okay I’m on a burner for obvious reasons and this is gonna be a long one but I SAW THEM IRL. Like two months ago.

I wasn’t gonna say anything because the whole thing felt very scary because (I was told to shut up by the guard that was patrolling nearby them😭) but since the leaks are out now…

Girl.

GIRL.

Max was holding her bag, like not just holding it, he was guarding it like it was the Constructors’ trophy.

AND SHE HAD HER HAND ON THE BACK OF HIS NECK GUIDING HIM THROUGH THE CROWD LIKE HE WAS HER PERSONAL, EXTREMELY PRECIOUS BODYGUARD.

At one point someone tried to ask Max for a selfie and he looked at her first, like for permission and she just gave a tiny nod😭

Tell me why this man smiled like the sun, took the selfie, and then immediately returned to walking beside her like a trained show dog. I swear I’m not exaggerating. It was the softest I’ve ever seen a human be.

I'm telling y'all she’s not just dating Max, Max is devoted. I’m convinced if she told him to sit, he'll hit the ground instantly.

Okay by I’m logging out before I get assassinated🥲

user: WHAT THE FUCK

user: you better delete your account💀

user: looked for permission is sending me. Mad Max? the man who screams at radios asking for permission????

user: Her guiding him by the neck is the most dominant thing I’ve read all week. He belongs to her lol might as well engrave her initials on him.

user: I don’t care what anyone says when a man looks at his woman before taking a selfie?? HE IS IN LOVE GUYS

user: I pray for your soul random account, rest in peace

user: This actually explains why he looks so calm lately, she’s his emotional support billionaire😭

Your yacht cut a slow path through the dark water, the sky painted in the last gold of sunset

Max lay stretched out against you on your favorite spot, the padded lounge at the bow, where you two always ended up when you wanted to disappear.

No phone, no cameras, mo PR panicking.

Just his warmth and your hand in his hair. He exhaled, long and content, like his whole body softened at once.

“Did you read my phone, PR tryong to reach me?” he mumbled, not even lifting his head.

You smiled, slow and indulgent. “No phones, remember?”

“Mmm.” He tightened his arm around you. “Okay. I don’t want to see it anyway. I just want this.”

He nuzzled into your collarbone like he was trying to crawl into you. “You. Quiet. The boat. My favorite.”

You dragged your nails gently along the back of his neck, his whole body shivered. He practically melted into the cushions.

“Let them talk” you murmured. “Let them spiral. We know the truth.”

Max nodded against your skin, voice a soft whisper meant only for you.

You tilted his chin up making him meet your eyes.

His breath caught, every time you did this, he fell apart a little. “You’re mine. I’m yours.

Max leaned up just far enough to kiss you slow, warm, grateful, the kind of kiss a man gives when he’s safe.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, eyes half-lidded and soft in a way only you ever saw.

“You make me feel…” He paused, searching for the word. “…home.”

Your chest tightened, not with shock but with familiarity. He said things like this only when you were hidden from the world. When he was just Max. Just your man.

You cupped his jaw, thumb stroking his cheek. “Good” you whispered. “Because you are.”

He relaxed again, curling into you, letting the motion of the yacht rock both of you gently. The water glowed silver under moonlight. A warm breeze brushed over you.

Max sighed like the world lifted off his shoulders. “Stay like this” he murmured, already half asleep. “Please.”

You held him closer. “Always.” And as the yacht drifted through the night, alone, quiet, untouchable. It was clear.

The world could scream, speculate, panic, and dig.

But here, in your usual spot, with Max soft and safe in your arms…none of it mattered.

It never would.

Fin.

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Simon swallows down any fear or worry, now being the one to gently shake your shoulder.

“Sergeant-“

“—Just [+], Ghost.”

“Just [+]” he corrects himself, heart beating as you giggle at the sound of your name coming from his deep voice. “It’s time to go home, I’ll hail a cab.”

You manage to sit your body up, eyes opening enough and you’re close to seeing double— “And you?”

“Hm?”

“How are you getting home Ghost?”

He- he didn’t think to far ahead with that. To engrained in the fact that he’d be the one helping you after you helped him. An eye for an eye.

“Baby boy,” you hum, standing up but falling into his space. You cup his beautiful masked face in your hands, even with your drunk eyes you could see how beautiful he was, how pretty his long lashes were, “You can sleep on the bed, you’re too fuckin big for the couch.”

You throw your head back in laughter, Simon can’t help but feel flustered by it all. Not knowing what to do with his hands, heat rising to his neck and below his cheeks. And now you’ve invited him into your house? Bloody hell—

You gasp, squishing his cheeks together, “A-and Baby boy?”

“Yes ma’am?”

“You doooon’t let those sons of bitches treat you crazy. If they do you, come callin for me. I’ll beat all their asses!” You slur, letting go of his cheeks. But your thumbs brush his blonde side burns.

“And if you do let them treat you crazy, I’ll beat your ass. You gotta- hicc- you gotta have some confidence in shit- hicc- in shit that’s not work, okay?”

You searched his face, the ends of your lips curving up when the younger man gave you a solemn nod. You gently Pat his face, “Now, let’s go home!”

Shit, and did Younger!Simon fall for you, right there on the spot. You, completely oblivious how’d you changed his life in just one night, didn’t even kiss him. The man was dying to hear you call him baby boy again, have you holding his face in your palms again.

Had the man deathly afraid you’d hear his heart beat as you slept on his shoulder on the ride home.

Truthfully, you had done nothing wrong. You were the picture perfect girl everyone thought you were. Untouchable. Until Theodore had spoken and changed the way the young man thought about you.

She has to be hiding something, Theo had said. There’s no way she can be so innocent at her age.

It’s true. Most women your age are married by now with little ones running around or a heavy belly and swollen feet. Though, Draco knew you felt no shame, adamant on waiting for the perfect lover. A lover he could be if you’d allow it. However, you won’t. Years of rejections have left Draco with limited choices. Solutions for his everlasting problem.

So, he has you here. Pinned down against his newly appointed work desk, a way to show you that he is a man now. He’s grown and ready to take care of you. Still, you resisted at first, trying to talk down to him like you had any right to do so. You didn’t, of course. Draco is bigger, stronger, more powerful.

He knows you can feel it and he hopes you relish in it just as he does. Wishful thinking, he knows, but he can’t help it. He wanted you so badly and, finally, he has you now.

Draco looks down at you, a slight pounding of his heart against his chest as he eyes the tight hole between your nether lips. Slick with his spit and pulsing. Ready.

His eyes flutter and his brain buzzes as his tip meets your hole, the impending tight squeeze making him throb and leak against you. The feeling intensifies as he pushes himself in, gripping your hips roughly as he fights to keep from slamming his hips against yours.