the shipping container

After the media rounds and the debriefs, George packed his bag and joined the quiet shuffle of mechanics and engineers heading to the airport. The July heat still clung to his clothes, the city buzzing faintly in the distance with laughter, music, and celebration. He kept his head down.

On the plane, George slid into his seat, shoved in his earbuds, and tuned out the chatter of teammates bound for Nice. He cycled through listening to music, sorting emails from the weekend, letting his eyes glaze over while he scrolled through Instagram and Twitter. Nothing stuck. He switched to Twitch. On the homepage, a familiar icon animated at him: @SuperMax.

“FORMULA ONE HUNGARIAN GP REACTION”

“PAPAYA RULES LOL.”

George blinked. He hadn’t thought about that night in weeks—the bourbon, the streamer’s laugh, the blurred feeling that had followed him into the next morning. For a second, he almost laughed at the coincidence. Then, curiosity winning, he tapped the thumbnail.

SuperMax was racing the Hungaroring. The simulated track filled the screen above him; his face cam was tucked small in the corner. He wore a black T-shirt, his standard streamer headset, looking scruffy but totally focused. He had that same smile, bright and earnest, just as George remembered. 

George watched, entranced, as the amateur took a clean racing line around a circuit he had driven two hundred times that weekend. SuperMax looked comfortable in the seat, completely in his element.

“Yeah, mate, put me in one of the McLarens and I’m overtaking half the field on lap one,” Max joked, rolling his eyes. “No fun in that!” 

His hands in driving gloves jerked the sim steering wheel with quick, precise movements that looked comfortable and experienced. 

“Having a quick car is fun for qualifying, trying to top the field,” he continued. “But you know what? I bet Russell had the most fun today.”

George startled at hearing his name called out so directly, as if he had been spotted. 

“Dante, shut the fuck up for five minutes about Hamilton. Listen. Russell started P17 with a car that should have been fighting at the front, right?” SuperMax took a long swallow of some amber-coloured liquid in a pint glass. “He starts on hards, right, and he gets to hunt down as many cars as he can, all race long.”

George’s breathing had finally calmed. It was a bit more stressful than that, but SuperMax was right about the hunting. Backmarkers were easier prey than Ferraris or McLarens. 

“He made up, what? Nine spots? And he got fastest lap. You’re telling me he wasn’t having the best time out there?” SuperMax asked, incredulous. “I bet he smiled the whole first lap, picking cars off one by one. That is of course what I would do,” he shrugged. 

George had found himself smiling a bit during a couple of overtakes. It had felt a little like karting again.

“Right, new thing for this week’s race reaction,” he said, tapping the desk. “Ten for a question, twenty if you want me to take a drink and do another lap.” He wiped his palms on his thighs just out of frame. Yeah, he was definitely a couple of pints in. 

George caught himself wondering what those thighs looked like. SuperMax’s shoulders looked nice and broad. 

“And if you send me three-fifty, like Victor, I roast you for free!” Max cackled, open-mouthed and happy. George smiled, listening to the cheerful Dutch lilt to his voice make three-fifty sound more like tree-fifty. 

“So come on, more questions, more shots, more laps! Okay, while we wait for questions to build up,” Max said, leaning back, “schedule for the week. No stream Monday, Tuesday we are doing—yes, thank you, Cas, by popular demand.” He grinned at the monitor presumably displaying his chat window, nodding like they had agreed on something profound. The messages flew too fast for George to follow.

“Friday, free practice, Saturday, practice and quali, Sunday, big Spa stream, extra-long. It’s Spa, mate. One drizzle and everything changes.” He waggled his eyebrows. 

George chuckled quietly in his airplane seat, the hum of the engines mixing with Max’s voice in his earbuds. Max’s eyes seemed to brighten as he detected a thread of dissent among his audience. 

“Right! You lot can’t even spell your own names, let alone agree on the best track. Do we need to review why Spa is the best circuit on the calendar?”

The chat exploded in “NO”s. George snorted, quickly covering his mouth.

“You don’t care, yeah, but you should,” Max emphasized. “Otherwise they’ll take it off the calendar and put another street race in the Middle East.”

George barked a laugh despite himself. Too right. 

“No, no, you can’t buy your way out of this.” Max leaned toward the camera, bracing his hands on the desk. “I’m pausing donos.” He looked ready to argue for his life.

George adjusted the chat speed, smiling to himself. He could see a flood of “MAXSPLAIN” messages rolling through.

“Yeah, yeah, let me Maxsplain this again,” Max said, waving his hand dismissively. He ticked off on his fingers. “Spa is the longest circuit on the calendar. One of the fastest. And the elevation—” He looked up, gesturing as if tracing the slope of Eau Rouge with his eyes. “It’s like?” He shook his head, puffing his cheeks. 

“It’s really technical, with the high speed corners? There’s nothing like it, mate,” he grinned, clearly in love with the historic circuit. 

“The weather’s unpredictable, so setup’s everything. Strategy, too,” he went on, pressing a hand to his forehead for emphasis. “So, so, important.”

George nodded along, fondly amused. 

“And Belgium is beautiful,” Max added. “Maybe I’m biased. But I’m not wrong.” He sat with his face in his hands, grinning, utterly pleased with himself.

The chat filled with “Professor Max” jokes. George smiled, watching the comments slide by like raindrops streaming too quickly on a windshield. At least someone knew what they were talking about.

“You’re all animals. I expect payment immediately for my lecture,” Max laughed, clicking something offscreen, probably unpausing donations. Several animations fired in rapid succession, lighting up the chat.

“Ah, thank you guys. Galaxy_fuse, for ten—no, I would not have given the position back if I were Norris. Kingfisher, thanks for ten—yes, I love Budapest! Beautiful city. I would love to go back as an adult.” He kept reading, answers tumbling between gulps of beer.

George felt the itch building. He wanted to send something, a ping, a ripple, anything that might land him on Max’s radar again, even anonymously. He admired how this man talked about racing. Most fans didn’t think this deeply, or at all. Before he could second-guess himself, he had the donation window open and had hit the send button.

“Okay, last one for now,” SuperMax said, scanning his screen. “Pink_viper wants to know what team I’d race for in Formula One. I swear I answer this every post-race.” He grinned. “Red Bull. I liked Vettel, I like Ricciardo and Pérez. Looks the most fun. Plus, cheaper on drinks.” He laughed at his own joke, taking another sip.

A chime sounded.

“Thanks for the sixty-three—oh, hey! Williams_racing63! Thanks, mate.” His grin widened. “Proper shot for a proper dono, yeah?”

He reached offscreen and came back with a small shot glass. “Let’s get another lap going, boys.” His fingers tapped eagerly against the desk. Then he paused, squinting at the monitor. “Oh, fuck—Williams, your question.”

He leaned closer, humming to himself as he read. The camera caught the flick of long blond lashes, and George realised, with embarrassing clarity, how pretty his eyes were.

“What am I drinking? Mate!” Max was… blushing.

George bit his lip. 

“This,” Max said, holding up the pint glass, “was some shit beer my sister’s husband left in my fridge.” He smiled straight at the camera, voice soft around the edges. “And this—” He lifted the shot of clear liquid, tapped it on the desk, and threw it back in one smooth motion, “—is gin.” His grin stretched wider, looser. 

George swallowed unconsciously, echoing the motion of his throat. The bastard even had a nice neck. He wondered, fleetingly, how his scruff would feel under his palms. The thought was enough to make him flag down a flight attendant. “Gin, please.” 

He raised the little bottle in a silent toast toward his screen. To Spa, he thought. And unlikely friendships. The gin burned sharp and cheap, stretching a smile across his face.

Back on the stream, Max had started another lap around the Hungaroring. He was doing fine, until he got to Turn 13, when he missed the apex spectacularly and sent the car skidding wide. His laughter filled George’s earbuds, bright and unrestrained.

George laughed too, quietly enough not to wake the rest of the cabin. Maybe it was out of line, hitting on someone with hundreds of people watching. George didn’t particularly care. He submitted another donation.

“Think we’re past the legal limit here, Williams. Proost!” Max tipped his beer toward the camera and took another swallow.

George admired how easy Max made it look, how he exuded this looseness, this confidence that had never come easily to George, least of all around an audience. It took a different kind of bravery than racing ever did. 

Another chime rang out.

Max adjusted his headset before sitting up to read. “Ah—Williams, mate, thank you, seriously.” He smiled into the camera, and George’s chest tightened.

“Williams_racing63 wants to know what kind of racing I’d do if not Formula One,” Max read. “Good question. See, there’s a couple types I’d be into—”

The chat erupted in accusations of “MAXSPLAIN” again and George rolled his eyes fondly.

“Probably WEC or GT3. I want to race at Nürburgring, and Bathurst, and Le Mans.” Max grinned. “See? Good question. You idiots should learn from Williams. And the money doesn’t hurt,” he waggled his eyebrows. “Dunno why the sixty-three, though, that’s silly.”

George rubbed the back of his neck. No way anyone could guess his identity from a number. Right? That would be mental.

“Unless, of course,” Max said, laughing, “you’re a massive George Russell fan.”

George’s heart stopped. He had to be kidding. Right?

“There is of course no such thing,” Max deadpanned, shaking his head. “So you must actually be George Russell.”

George froze, breath locked tight in his chest. What the fuck.

Max sighed theatrically. “I finally get a Formula One driver in my chat, and he won’t even pay my rent. What, do I need to get my tits out for you?”

George’s pulse spiked.

Before he could process it, Max set down his headset and peeled off his T-shirt, tossing it over his shoulder. George’s brain failed to process more than pale skin, soft around the edges, solid arms. For one dazed moment George could only stare. He just wanted to take a single bite…

“Any Formula One drivers are welcome to pay my rent, my internet, hell, my waterrekening, if you like,” Max quipped, grinning. “And Williams, I’m kidding, mate. Thanks for the donos. Appreciate you being here.”

George pressed his palms to his thighs, trying to steady his breathing. His fingers trembled. Somehow this was more stressful than the fucking race. He hovered over the donation page, chewing his lip. He could stop. He should stop, play it safe.

Then Max stretched his arms over his head, triceps flexing under the soft light of his gaming room. George’s brain flatlined. Another sixty-three was gone before he even realised he had clicked.

“You guys behave while I grab another beer,” Max said, pulling off his headset. He stood, and for a brief second George saw athletic shorts and bare legs.

Nice legs. Very nice legs. Goddamnit. 

SuperMax wandered out of frame and left George with his thoughts and his semi.

George ran a hand down his face and laughed under his breath. He was so screwed.

Max’s accent wasn’t English. Dutch, probably, but something stronger than de Vries’s, more regional than the fans’ in Zandvoort. He looked about George’s age, not particularly tall by the camera angle, but hard to tell. He had kind eyes, an easy smile, and the habit of sticking his tongue out when he laughed. He liked being right more than being liked. And George liked that.

Max wasn’t someone who said what people wanted to hear. He was someone who loved racing, not the fame, but the craft of it. He understood the sport deeply enough to talk about setup balance and tyre strategy with actual passion. His rig alone was impressive; he had clearly put time and money into it.

George found himself wondering if he had ever driven a real single-seater.

SuperMax dropped back into his chair, cheeks flushed, a freshly topped-off pint in hand. A chime rang as he turned donations back on and slipped his headset into place.

“Grace, thank you for the twenty! I wanna do another lap, let’s go!” he said, setting up for another run around Hungary.

George smiled, watching the familiar track on screen. He hoped Max enjoyed driving it half as much as he enjoyed watching him.

He could call him Max, right?

“Grace asks if we can see Jimmy or Sassy. Yes, of course, I’ll grab one of them when I finish the lap,” Max said brightly.

George’s heart stuttered. Kids?

Max took a long drink before starting the lap, his concentration sharpening. He actually managed a cleaner run this time. He crossed the finish line without spinning, even if the time wasn’t great.

“I’m not proud of it, but hey, better than expected,” he laughed, setting his headset aside. He disappeared briefly from frame, and George instinctively leaned closer to the screen.

Max returned a moment later, holding a sleek dark form against his chest. “Jimmy says hi, everyone,” he said, grinning.

Oh. Jimmy was a cat.

Max stroked behind the cat’s ears and let him wander across the desk, tail curling. “They don’t like being in here when I’m streaming, but they love the desk,” he said fondly. “They’re always up to something. Being home all the time, I get to see all their little antics.”

Max’s face softened as he watched the cat settle beside the keyboard. It was such an affectionate look, nothing performative about it.

George wasn’t really a cat person; he had always preferred dogs. But even he could see the love there. His heart gave a small, traitorous twist.

Another chime interrupted the quiet moment, snapping Max’s gaze back to the screen.

“Fuck, Williams. How many is that now? Thank you, honestly.”

George bit his lip. He didn’t care about the money. He wasn’t using it, anyway. Might as well give it to someone who would.

“Williams’s question is: what is your favorite feature on another person?” Max read aloud, eyebrows shooting up. Then he grinned. “Why, Williams? Want to know if you’re my type?”

He waggled his brows at the camera, arms crossing under his bare chest. George tried to keep his eyes on the screen, but Max had announced he was showing off. Respectfully, George appreciated the view.

“Hm.” Max tilted his head, thinking. “If I say eyes, you’ll know I’m lying. If I say arse, you’ll think I’m a fuckboy.” He laughed, low and raspy, and George felt the sound curl through him.

“It’s funny, though, neither of those. I love hands.” He held his up for the camera, spreading his fingers.

George examined the ever-loving hell out of them while he had the chance.

“Big hands, long fingers,” Max continued, smiling. “You know. Hands that look like they know what they’re doing.”

Oh. George understood that.

He glanced down at his own hands, long-fingered, veined, calloused from the wheel. He wondered what Max would think of them.

George wanted to touch Max’s exposed chest, see if he felt as soft as he looked. One of his tits probably was a handful, he had enough muscle. Or maybe he could push fingers into Max’s mouth, George thought. He shut his eyes for a second, heat crawling up his neck. 

“So, yeah,” Max said, laughing again, “maybe that’s boring. But another sixty-three means another drink!”

He tipped the pint back, throat working as he swallowed, and George’s pulse jumped. He wanted to touch, to trace the line of that movement with a fingertip. Christ, he was a little desperate.

“Think this’ll be my last lap, boys,” Max said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Pretty, uh—pretty Hungaroringed over here.” He snickered at his own dumb joke and booted up another lap.

George watched him bin it in the first sector, laughing too. It was cute.

“Okay, okay, we’ll talk again on Tuesday,” Max said, voice light with exhaustion. “See you guys then—for… that again.”

George had no idea what that was, but he smiled anyway as the stream cut to black.

He slipped his phone into his pocket, leaning back against the seat. The plane’s cabin lights had dimmed to a hush of blue. He pictured long lashes and soft blond hair sliding between his fingers.

At least he had this bottle of scotch from Christmas last year. Fuck, that was the real silver lining. He squinted at the label. Okay, maybe not scotch. Bourbon worked too. 

Figures. Even his self-pity couldn’t stay on brand.

He unscrewed the top and drank straight from the neck. It burned going down, sweet where it shouldn’t be, but he liked the sting. It felt earned.

At least he had finished his media duties early. That one was a more bittersweet silver lining. At least he had all night to wallow. That was a better one.

Alex had offered to come by with dinner, but George didn’t want company. Alex knew him too well, knew when to leave him to sulk without all the chattering and sympathy.

George took another swig. The bottle thudded against the coffee table. He ordered chicken from his favorite place, threw on a hoodie and joggers, and parked himself on the couch. His thumb moved on autopilot from Instagram to Twitter to TikTok, every other post about the race. Every clip of Lewis wrapped up in the Union Jack sent a twitch through his jaw. He swiped it all away.

On Twitch, he found someone streaming a game he liked and let the noise fill the flat. He fetched his food at the door and ate greasy chicken with one hand, the bourbon resting by his knee. The chatter from the screen made a pleasant hum, easy to laugh along with, easy not to think. That was the point.

By almost midnight, he should have been asleep. But sleep meant thinking, and thinking meant Silverstone. So, no, he would keep not caring a little longer.

He pried open a tub of sorbet from the freezer, hacked at it with a spoon until the surface chipped like ice, then gave up. Too freezer-burnt to be worth it.

The streamer signed off, leaving a silence that rang. George scrolled through the recommended feeds, eyes half-lidded and sticky with exhaustion. One stream title briefly caught his attention. 

“FORMULA ONE SILVERSTONE REACTION”

It wasn’t exactly original, but the description below made him snort. 

“RIP GEORGE RUSSELL.”

RIP, indeed.

He hovered over the thumbnail longer than he would admit, then clicked out of morbid curiosity and a bit of ego.

The bloke on screen looked like any number of sim racers with dark-blond hair, light scruff, and a cheap camera. He was reclined in his racing chair, the broadcast feed minimized in the corner.

“No, mate, you’re crazy,” the streamer was laughing as George tuned in. “Ricciardo’s overtake on Norris in lap one was way more impressive than Hamilton passing Russell.”

Interesting take. George didn’t immediately feel like turning it off. He took another sip and went rummaging for chocolate.

“No, that’s what I’m saying,” the streamer continued. “Hamilton passing Russell in the wet when Russell had mechanical issues means nothing. He took advantage—yeah, fair, but did you see Norris in quali? Daniel should’ve been nowhere near that quick, and he still got him in three turns with a limping Red Bull.”

George raised his eyebrows, nodding to himself. Fair point. Daniel might still be leading the championship, but the McLarens had the faster car. Lando should’ve never let him past.

“Nah, you’re just fucking obsessed with Hamilton, mate,” the streamer laughed again. He had a nice, raspy voice with a hint of a lisp. George found he quite liked the sound of it.

Bingo. George pulled out a box of Kinder chocolates from his aunt who still thought he was twelve. The crinkle of the foil made him grin. He padded back to the couch and collapsed in a victorious heap. Tonight, he kind of was twelve. Thanks, Patricia.

The stream hovered around a few hundred viewers. @SuperMax had a decent following, chat flying fast with F1 takes and bad jokes.

“Somebody else, please donate so I can answer a different question! I am tired of Dante wanting me to suck Hamilton’s dick,” SuperMax pleaded, laughing, hands pressed together like a prayer.

George squinted at the “Donate for any ask” banner. He felt brave. Or tipsy. He forgot what the difference between the two was. Sod it. He typed in an amount and hit send before he could second-guess himself.

“If one more person votes for Norris overtaking Daniel for Overtake of the Day, I’m quitting,” SuperMax announced, mock-serious.

“Leclerc overtaking Stroll?! Mate, be serious.” His laugh was low and infectious, and George found himself laughing right along with him.

“Stroll might be good in the wet, but Leclerc has a Ferrari, mate. He should be fighting at the front.”

George unwrapped another candy bar and washed it down with more bourbon. Heat spread through his chest, fuzzing at the edges of his thoughts. He was a little drunk. A little.

A chime rang out; the screen flashed with a new donation alert.

“Oh, thank you for the—sixty-three? Williams_racing63! See, you guys need to learn from this guy. Sixty-three Euro!” Max slapped his desk, grinning wide, eyes bright. 

“That’s a proper starting price for a question.” His smile reached all the way to his eyes. George wasn’t sure he could smile that much if he tried. 

“Okay, okay. ‘Shag, marry, avoid—Silverstone podium?’” Max burst out laughing at the question. George couldn’t stop his own grin spreading wide.

When Max finally calmed down, he leaned back, still chuckling. “See, chat? This is what I mean. You pay right, you ask right. Learn from Williams.”

He tapped his chin, deliberating. “All right—avoid Hamilton. No question. Shag Norris. Marry Daniel.” His grin widened, satisfied with his own logic.

“I am not obsessed with Daniel,” he protested at the exploding chat. “Come on, I am of course a Red Bull fan. But this question’s really more interesting if Russell’s on the podium instead.” He waggled his eyebrows at the camera.

George blinked, half disbelieving, then fumbled for his phone. His vision wobbled. Whatever. He had another question ready.

“Dante, you can marry Hamilton all you like,” Max was saying. “We of course remember how much he whined after 2021. I’d rather hang out with his dog.”

George laughed out loud. Roscoe was the best. Brought out the best in Lewis, too.

“No, last year, Silverstone was the same three,” Max answered an unseen question. “2022 was Sainz, Pérez, Hamilton.” He scratched his chin, eyes darting between chat replies.

“I bet Sainz would be a fun ride, you know?” Max laughed, a little flirty. George laughed too. All in good fun, right? So silly.

“Yeah, no, marry Checo, shag Sainz, avoid Hamilton,” Max nodded, fixing his hair. “Checo would make me a beautiful bride.”

Another chime signaled another donation.

“Ah! Thanks for the… sixty-three again? Williams!” Max’s grin spread slow and genuine. 

George preened, warmth blooming in his chest. He liked making Max happy. He liked Max’s mouth. Er. Anyway.

“‘Shag, marry, avoid: Russell, Norris, Ricciardo?’” Max read, pushing a hand through his hair, straight, thick, a little messy. George wondered absently how soft it felt.

“Shag Daniel, marry Russell, kill Norris,” Max decided at last, and took a sip from a bubbly glass George hadn’t noticed before. Sparkling water? Maybe vodka tonic. George watched his throat work as he drank.

Max chuckled, shaking his head at chat. “Don’t come for me just because I said something bad about one of your papaya boys.”

He squinted. “Katie, Lando will not die because I didn’t pick him over George Russell in a Shag, Marry, Avoid. It’s not my fault you don’t appreciate good taste when you see it.”

He smirked at the camera. “And I speak for all of us when I say I see good taste when I see George Russell.”

He bit his lower lip, tipping his head back as he laughed, and something fluttered in George’s stomach warm and unwelcome.

“Nilla_wafer, I can walk outside and find five twinks who look like Lando Norris in ten minutes.” Max held up his hand, spreading his fingers. Nice hands, George thought vaguely.

Then, leaning close to the mic, his voice gone conspiratorial, Max spoke again. “Mate, I would climb George Russell like a tree. So posh, so trim—yeah, I’d take that model for a test drive.”

George’s laughter stuttered. The flutter in his stomach deepened into a burn. This wasn’t what he had expected when he had clicked the stream, or when he had donated, or when he had stayed. He shifted on the sofa, ignoring the heat crawling through him. He was just tipsy. Max was just being funny. That was all.

“How are you lot blind like this?” Max continued, gesturing animatedly. “You’ve got Ricciardo, Russell, and Norris, and you pick the curly-haired shorties? Be serious. George would treat me like a princess.”

He tucked imaginary hair behind his ear, voice pitched higher. “No, not because I’m a pillow princess, Ferdinand. Because George is a prince.”

He said it with such conviction that George felt a pang right in his chest, and a strange twinge in his dick. He was apparently king of strange bodily sensations tonight.

He took another long swig. One more ask wouldn’t hurt. Definitely not weird. His thumbs clumsily tapped out another donation as one leg bounced restlessly against the floor.

“I am not debating the hotness of Daniel over Checo right now,” Max laughed. “Both Red Bull drivers are hot. You should love them for how they drive—yeah, even if Checo’s not having a great year. He’s still a good driver. There’s always more going on than we know.”

Another chime sounded, startling George despite knowing what triggered it. 

“Mate! Williams! Sixty-three again? You’re spoiling me.” Max’s grin was instant, bright. He leaned in to read.

“Who do I think should have won Silverstone?” He tilted his head. “Well, Williams… it’s racing. There’s no should. What happened, happened. Hamilton won.”

He gestured with both hands, animated. “People say, ‘If there were a few more laps, the McLarens would have caught up,’ or ‘If Ricciardo had one more shot, he’d have passed Hamilton.’ That doesn’t matter. If is the death of racing.”

He paused, shoulders softening. “If Russell’s car hadn’t failed, maybe he’d have fought Hamilton. Probably. But it did fail. These things happen.”

Max looked down for a moment, chewing his lip. “You’ll never have everything go right as a driver. That’s why you prepare, you do your best, and you accept what comes.” He gave a small, apologetic smile. “Sorry, Williams. Probably not what you wanted to hear.”

George shook his head absurdly, as if SuperMax could see him. The man was right. He had waltzed into the weekend certain of a podium, and when the universe hadn’t played along, it had felt personal. But sometimes, that was racing.

He sent a single heart emoji in chat, then pulled a throw blanket over himself. The glow of the monitor painted his flat in soft blues. SuperMax’s voice carried on in amused bursts, calm explanations, and that gorgeous raspy laugh.