#pg10

A tiny hand lifted, wiggling her fingers in the smallest wave imaginable.

And that was it. The garage collectively melted into a puddle right there.

Red Bull garage chaos

By the time Max stepped into the garage, Y/N had warmed up just enough to lift her head and curiously glance around at all the engineers, wires, and shiny car parts.

Someone handed her a pair of mini protective headphones (painted Red Bull blue with tiny stars). She immediately tried to put them on upside down.

“Here, sweetheart, like this,” Max said, gently fixing them.

The moment they clicked into place, she gave a proud little clap for herself.

The entire garage: deceased.

“Max, you’re not allowed to bring her in here, it’s a health hazard,” one of the mechanics said. “I almost dropped a wrench because she clapped.”

Y/N tilted her head at him, clearly confused by all the laughter, and then reached out her little hand to touch the shiny car.

"Dada?"

Max caught her wrist before she could smudge the paint. “No, liefje. Not the car. Dada needs that to work.”

And just like that—

“Did she just—” “Wait, wait, wait. Did she just call him Dada?” “Oh my god I’m going to cry.”

Y/N had, in fact, just softly mumbled “Dada” while trying to touch the car.

Max froze for half a second, then ducked his head, trying to hide the smile spreading across his face. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “She calls me that sometimes.”

The Red Bull garage collectively lost its mind.

Enter the Uncles

It didn’t take long for word to spread. Within an hour, the usual parade of drivers had found excuses to swing by the Red Bull garage. Totally professional reasons, obviously.

“Oi, Max, you left your… uh… uh… oh look at her!” Lando appeared first, grinning ear to ear as he crouched down. “Hi, baby Verstappen!”

Y/N blinked at him from Max’s lap, then shyly buried her face into Max’s chest.

“Aw, she remembers me!” Lando said proudly.

“You saw her once, six months ago,” Max deadpanned.

“Yeah, and clearly I made an impression.”

Next came Charles, who arrived with a mission. “Where’s mon petit ange?”

Y/N peeked up when she heard the soft French accent. Charles melted instantly, dropping to his knees. “Bonjour, princesse. Do you want a hug?”

She hesitated. Looked at Max for confirmation. Max gave a small nod, whispering, “It’s okay, liefje.”

Tentatively, she reached out her arms. Charles scooped her up like she was made of glass.

And then immediately started crying.

“Charles,” Max sighed. “She’s two years old. Stop crying on her hoodie.”

“I can’t help it,” Charles sniffled. “She’s so tiny.”

Lewis wandered in next, Roscoe at his side. “Brought backup,” he announced, kneeling to let the dog get a better look.

Roscoe wagged his tail, and Y/N gasped — a tiny sound, full of wonder. She slid off Charles’ lap and toddled straight toward the dog, resting both hands gently on his back.

“She loves him,” Lewis said, grinning. “Roscoe, you’ve got competition for cutest paddock member.”

Y/N giggled — soft and breathy — as Roscoe licked her hand.

The grid? Absolutely perished.

Media Day

Inevitably, photos started circulating online. Max Verstappen, three-time World Champion, walking through the paddock with his toddler perched on his hip. Tiny hands clutching his jacket, baby-sized headphones sliding off her ears, soft curls pressed against his jaw.

The captions practically wrote themselves:

“Max Verstappen’s secret weapon revealed 🍼” “Cutest paddock member EVER.” “The Verstappen genes are strong.”

Max tried to shield her from most cameras, tugging her hoodie up when they walked past big groups. She clung to him, always hiding her face in his neck.

But occasionally, when she felt brave, she’d peek out with those enormous blue eyes and give a tiny wave.

Cue the media: collective meltdown.

One poor cameraman dropped his equipment after she softly whispered, “Hi.”

Nap Time

By the time the drivers’ briefing rolled around, Y/N had hit her limit. The noise, the new faces, the attention — too much for a tiny human.

Max tried to settle her in his lap while he listened to regulations. Halfway through, her head lolled against his chest.

A minute later, she was out cold.

Dead silent snores, hand fisted in his shirt, pacifier halfway falling out of her mouth.

“Max,” George whispered across the table, “she’s asleep.”

“Yes, George, I know,” Max whispered back.

Every other driver in the room was trying not to coo out loud.

“Mate, you’re holding her like she’s the championship trophy,” Lando muttered.

“She’s worth more than that,” Max said simply.

And everyone shut up immediately.

Race Day

On Sunday morning, the grid saw something nobody was emotionally prepared for: Y/N in a miniature Red Bull race suit.

The custom overalls had her name embroidered on the back: Y/N Verstappen.

When she toddled out holding Max’s hand, waving a tiny Dutch flag, the crowd went ballistic.

The other drivers practically collapsed.

“She’s the real winner today,” Carlos said, clutching his chest.

“I’m retiring,” Pierre declared. “There’s no point racing anymore, she’s already won.”

Even the commentators joined in.

“And there’s Verstappen walking to the grid — but, honestly, who cares about him when his daughter looks like that? Absolute star of the show.”

Max crouched down so she could wave properly, whispering, “Go on, liefje. Say hi.”

She lifted her flag, gave the tiniest “Hiii,” and instantly became the face of the entire broadcast.

Podium Perfection

Max won the race. Shocker.

But the real shock came after, when Y/N was brought up onto the podium.

She clung nervously to his neck at first, overwhelmed by the crowd. Max held her close, murmuring reassurances in Dutch.

Then — courage.

She reached out one tiny hand to grab the microphone.

The entire world held its breath.

“Dada,” she said softly into the mic.

The crowd erupted. The commentators screamed. The grid openly cried.

Max? He was gone. Absolutely melted, tears in his eyes as he kissed her temple.

“Ja, liefje,” he whispered. “Dada’s here.”

It was over. Formula 1 had a new champion — and she was two years old.

Aftermath

Clips of “Baby Verstappen says Dada on the podium” trended worldwide within minutes.

The other drivers spammed the group chat with crying emojis.

Lando changed his phone wallpaper to her holding the tiny flag. Charles refused to stop calling her princesse. Lewis scheduled a doggy playdate with Roscoe. Even Toto Wolff admitted, “She can crash my debrief any time.”

And Max? He just carried her out of the paddock that evening, fast asleep on his shoulder, whispering to anyone who tried to stop them:

“Shhh. She’s tired. Dada’s taking her home.”

And that’s how a two-year-old soft angel baby became the true star of Formula 1.

End.