Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Lando was grinning like an idiot. A Cheshire cat would’ve been jealous of the way his smirk stretched across his face as he held the neatly wrapped envelope in his hands. The F1 Secret Santa exchange was one of his favorite traditions—there was something so delightfully chaotic about watching multi-millionaire racing drivers buy each other objectively terrible gifts.

And this year, Lando had drawn Max.

Max was the hardest person to buy for. The guy already had everything—four world titles—the asshole—more sim rigs than sense, and a worrying new obsession with Minecraft. So, naturally, Lando decided to give him a gift that would benefit himself more than the Dutchman. 

Six private golf lessons. With none other than Monte-Carlo Golf Club’s top professional—Charles Leclerc.

It was, arguably, a fantastic gift. The only problem?

Max Verstappen hated golf.

Lando didn’t understand it. Golf was fun. Relaxing. Therapeutic, even. Sure, Max had grumbled through the couple of rounds they’d played together, but Lando was convinced that was just because Max had never had proper instruction.

And now, he would. From a pro, no less.

“This is going to be great,” Lando said, grinning as he tucked the envelope into the growing pile of gifts at the Secret Santa exchange.

Oscar, sitting across from him, gave him a slow, unimpressed blink. “You realize Max will never actually use those, right? He hates golf.”

“He just hasn’t given it a real chance,” Lando countered, waving a hand. “I know he’s got the competitive streak for it, just like paddel. He just needs the right coach. Besides, I want him to go on my next golf retreat before the season starts.”

Oscar tilted his head. “Max also hates being told what to do—”

“Absolutely,” Lando said, eyes sparkling with mischief. "That's why it's funny."

Oscar sighed and muttered something about how this wasn’t going to end well, but Lando ignored him. He was going to love this.

_____

Secret Santa was in full swing in the Abu Dhabi paddock, with Formula One’s PR team making their rounds, delivering gifts to each driver. As always, the presents ranged from surprisingly thoughtful to completely ridiculous.

Liam had gifted George a book titled How to Be a Model: A Guide to Posing, Pouting, and Perfection, which had the Mercedes driver forcing a chuckle. Valtteri, on the other hand, had presented Alex with a panda-themed driver cover, which seemed innocent enough—until Alex flipped over the attached card and was greeted with a dramatic, sunlit image of Valtteri’s bare ass sprinting across a beach, waves crashing behind him like he was the star of an avant-garde cologne commercial.

The laughter still echoed through the hospitality area as the PR team moved on to their next victim.

Now, it was Max's turn.

A neatly wrapped envelope sat in front of him, the corners crisp, the wrapping paper an almost suspiciously clean job for an F1 driver. He picked it up, glancing at the camera with a polite, forced smile before he lazily tore through the wrapping. Unfolding the paper inside, his eyes scanned the words.

Then, they narrowed. Silence stretched between him and the people gathered around, slowly, Max exhaled through his nose.

Six private golf lessons at Monte-Carlo Golf Club.

Max's jaw twitched before he smiled a crinkly eyed smile at the camera again. “I'm not much of a golfer, so I'm not sure who thought this was a good idea?” he muttered.

A beat of silence. Then, someone off-camera coughed.

"Do you have any guesses?" a PR team member piped up, a little too cheerfully.

“This has to be either Lando or Alex,” he answered. “They are the big golfers.”

“It was Lando,” the PR woman said.

His eyes rolled so hard they might’ve done a full 360-degree spin in his head. Lando, who'd been hovering nearby waiting for his moment, finally burst into laughter.

“Oh, come on, Max! It's perfect for you,” he declared, grinning ear to ear.

Max held up the paper, shaking it slightly. “You got me six lessons?”

“Yeah, I figured one wouldn’t be enough.”

Max let out a long breath as he dropped his backpack onto the floor of his Monaco apartment. The weight of the grueling F1 season still clung to his muscles, but for the first time in months, he was home. No debriefs, no simulator sessions, no constant flights across the world.

Just quiet.

And, of course, unpacking.

Sighing, he crouched down and unzipped his bag, pulling out the essentials first—his toiletry kit, a couple of hoodies, his laptop. He moved through the routine quickly, placing things where they belonged while Jimmy and Sassy watched from their cat tower. It wasn’t until he reached the bottom of his bag that his fingers brushed against a familiar envelope.

Max paused, staring down at the slightly crumpled paper.

The damn Secret Santa gift.

Rolling his eyes, he pulled it out and tossed it onto the bed without a second glance, letting it land haphazardly on top of the blankets. He wasn’t sure why he'd even packed it. Maybe in the chaos of leaving Abu Dhabi, it had just gotten shoved in with everything else.

Either way, it wasn’t like he was actually going to use it.

Shaking his head, Max finished putting away the rest of his things, moving on autopilot as he tucked clothes into drawers and plugged in his phone charger by the nightstand. Finally, with nothing left to do, he flopped down onto the bed, arms sprawled out, staring at the ceiling.

A deep exhale left his chest. Off-season.

His body still felt wired from the past ten months, from the relentless pace of race weekends and media obligations. But for now, it was done. For now, he could just be.

His eyes drifted to the envelope, still sitting at the edge of the bed, and he snorted.

Lando definitely thought he was slick with this one.

Max knew exactly why he'd picked golf lessons. It wasn’t some grand scheme to get Max to actually enjoy the sport—Lando had tried that before, and it had failed spectacularly. No, this was about his upcoming golf retreat.

A few months ago, Lando had mentioned planning a trip with some of their friends, a full golf getaway at some ridiculous resort. He'd invited Max, of course, but Max had immediately shut him down, because why the hell would he waste an entire trip playing a sport that made him want to drive his car straight into a wall?

Lando had whined about it at the time. Said something about how Max just “hadn’t given it a chance,” and that he’d “change his mind one day.”

Now, looking at the envelope, it was obvious—this was just step one in Lando’s plan to wear him down.

Max rolled onto his side, grabbing the paper and flipping it over with a sigh. Six lessons with a pro.

He groaned. Where even was that club?

Grabbing his phone from the nightstand, Max typed in the name from the paper, thumb moving lazily over the screen. Within seconds, he was greeted by a website dripping in luxury—sleek black and gold accents, elegant script, and images of perfectly manicured fairways stretching out beneath a bright blue sky.

At the top of the page, a magnificent red and white coat of arms sat proudly, adorned with a crown and a pair of crossed clubs behind it, as if the place was some kind of royal institution rather than just a golf course.

Max sighed.

Of course Lando would pick the most unnecessarily fancy club near Monaco.

He flicked his thumb across the screen, scrolling through the homepage.

Mountain Golf by the Sea.

The words drifted by in an elegant font, accompanied by a slow-motion aerial video of the course. Rolling green fairways carved their way through the rugged Monaco hills, perched high above the shimmering Mediterranean. A drone shot panned over the dramatic cliffs, showcasing a picturesque landscape that was so pristine it looked straight out of a travel brochure.

Max clicked his tongue. He couldn’t think of a worse way to spend a day.

A gentle sea breeze? The soothing sound of waves crashing below? The relaxation of a sport where you just walked around and occasionally swung at a ball?

No. Absolutely not. He was going to lose his mind.

Still, he clicked onto the Information page, skimming through the different sections.

Practice area.

Sure, whatever. That made sense.

Putting green.

The annoying part where you had to roll the ball into the hole. Fine.

Pitching green.

No clue what that was, but it sounded unnecessary.

Training bunker.

Max frowned. What the fuck was a training bunker?

The word "bunker" immediately made him think of war movies and underground hideouts, but there was no way golf was that interesting. Clicking on the tab, he was met with a high-definition photo of a sandpit—literally just a giant pit of sand—with a golf ball sitting in the middle like some kind of cruel joke.

Max let out a short, disbelieving laugh. So they had a dedicated area just to practice hitting balls out of the sand?

Why? Why did people do this for fun?

If he didn’t go, he’d never hear the end of it from Lando. And if he did go, well . . . at least he could say he tried. Once. Just so Lando would finally shut up about it.

Dropping his phone onto his chest, Max shut his eyes and exhaled slowly. This was going to be actual hell, and he had six full lessons to survive.

Perfect.

_____

Charles had been having a perfectly pleasant afternoon.

The winter sun was gentle over Monte-Carlo, casting long golden streaks across the course, and the early morning lessons had gone smoothly. His last client—a retired businessman from Nice—had been an absolute pleasure, eager to listen and genuinely appreciative of Charles' coaching.

But as he stepped into the clubhouse, wiping his hands on a towel from his back pocket, his eyes landed on the lesson schedule pinned behind the reception desk.

His mood immediately dropped.

3:00 PM – Private Lesson – Client Name: Unnamed Booking

Charles sighed, pressing his lips together. He hated unnamed bookings.

In his experience, they usually meant one of two things: one, a ridiculously wealthy client who didn’t want to be recognized and would sap all of his energy treating the lesson like a therapy session for their business woes; or two, some creepy old man was going to spend the next two hours making comments about his swing that had absolutely nothing to do with golf.

Either way, it wasn’t how he wanted to spend his afternoon.

He draped the towel around his neck and turned toward the reception desk, where Sophie, the club secretary, was busy typing on her computer.

“An unnamed booking, again?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

Sophie looked up, giving him a sympathetic smile. “Sorry, Charles. They called in last-minute, said they preferred to keep their identity private.”

Charles sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Great. Just what I needed.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing bad,” Sophie offered, though the slight wince in her expression told him even she didn’t believe that.

Charles had been through this before. Monte-Carlo was filled with billionaires and socialites who thought golf lessons were a fun novelty, something to add to their long list of luxury experiences and a way to fill their endless amounts of free time. The last time he’d gotten an unnamed booking, it had been some oil tycoon from Dubai who'd spent half the lesson complimenting Charles’ “strong grip” and asking if he had such a “soft touch” off the course as well.

Charles had not been paid enough for that one.

Leaning against the desk, he crossed his arms. “Do you at least know anything about them or their experience level?”

Sophie shook her head. “No details. Just that they wanted a private lesson today at three and they have a prepaid credit on another private account here with the club.”

Charles exhaled slowly, glancing at the clock. One hour to mentally prepare himself.

“Fine,” he muttered, pushing himself off the counter. “But if I come back here traumatized, I expect free drinks at the bar.”

Sophie grinned. “Deal.”

With another sigh, Charles grabbed his gloves from the counter and headed out toward the private practice range, bracing himself for whatever nightmare awaited him at 3:00 PM. Hopefully, this time, it wouldn’t be another sweaty billionaire looking for a date instead of a golf lesson.

But knowing Monte-Carlo?

He wouldn’t hold his breath.

“Hello, sir, and welcome to the Monte-Carlo Golf Club!”

Charles barely glanced up from his laptop at the sound of Sophie’s voice echoing through the reception area. He’d left his office door open, absently answering a few emails while he waited for his mystery private lesson to show up.

Normally, he’d have been out on the range by now, but the uncertainty of this particular booking had him stalling. He figured he might as well make use of the time before he was forced to spend two hours with yet another overly enthusiastic billionaire or—God forbid—one of those businessmen who thought “private lesson” translated to “flirting opportunity.”

“I called about a lesson at three,” a young voice said, and Charles froze mid-keystroke.

His fingers hovered over the keyboard, eyes narrowing slightly as he listened. That didn’t sound like an old man or some arrogant, wannabe businessman. There was even a hint of a lisp when he said the word “three.”

There was also something almost familiar about the voice, though Charles couldn’t quite place it. It was low but casual, carrying a slight impatience, like the speaker wasn’t entirely sure why they were here in the first place.

Sophie, ever the professional, responded smoothly. “Ah, yes. Come with me, and I’ll show you the locker room where you can get changed and store your things.”

“Changed?” the man asked. 

“Yes. It’s club policy that all guests must wear a collared shirt while on the premises. Did you bring one with you?”

A beat of silence. Then—

“No. I didn’t know that.”

“That’s okay,” Sophie encouraged. “We have several here. You can purchase one for your lesson today.”

“I . . . uh . . .” The man hesitated, and Charles found himself tilting his head slightly, straining to hear. “I also don’t actually have my own clubs. Is that a problem?”

Mon Dieu, pitié. [My god, have pity]

Charles dragged a palm down his face, exhaling sharply through his nose. This lesson was going to be brutal.

A client who was improperly dressed and didn’t even own clubs? Either they were a complete beginner or—worse—they didn’t actually want to be here.

Charles had dealt with both before, and neither option was appealing. The beginners were fine, but they required a lot of patience. And the ones who'd been forced into a lesson? They were the absolute worst. They spent the entire time sulking, half-listening, and making it impossible to actually teach them anything.

And something about this guy’s tone . . . It definitely suggested the latter.

“Not at all, sir,” Sophie said, ever polite. Charles needed to give her a raise. “We have sets you can borrow for lessons or to use on the course. There will just be an additional fee for their use.”

“Fine,” the man muttered, clearly resigned to his fate.

Charles leaned back in his chair as he listened to their footsteps disappear into the locker room. This was already shaping up to be a disaster. With a sigh, he stood, rolling his shoulders before grabbing his glove and a fresh sleeve of golf balls. If this guy thought he was going to coast through the next two hours, he had another thing coming.

If Charles had to suffer through this lesson, so did he.

_____

Max sighed as he placed his phone and keys in the open locker, the faint metallic clink echoing through the otherwise empty space. He wasn’t sure what he'd expected when he walked into the Monte-Carlo Golf Club, but he should’ve known it would feel this . . . polished. The walls were sleek, the benches made of dark wood, and even the damn air smelled expensive—like fresh linen and whatever cologne rich old men wore.

This was far from the smell of motor oil, melted rubber, and petrol in the Red Bull garage. Not even close.

He glanced down at the neatly folded club polo shirt in his hands, the Monte-Carlo Golf Club crest stitched crisply on the chest. Sophie had handed it to him without a second thought, and it wasn’t until that moment that Max realized—he hadn’t even checked if there was a dress code.

Of course there was a dress code.

It was golf.

Max exhaled through his nose, shaking his head at himself. How had he not thought of that? He’d shown up in his usual off-season attire—shorts and plain t-shirt—completely clueless about what he was actually supposed to wear. He supposed if he really needed to, he could have grabbed a Red Bull team kit polo from his car, but he was trying to keep a low profile.

He could already hear Lando’s voice in his head, laughing at him for not even doing the bare minimum of research before showing up to the first lesson.

Well, whatever. He was here now. Might as well try to get something out of this.

Sliding the polo over his head, he adjusted the collar, frowning slightly at his reflection in the mirror above the lockers. The fabric was stiff, the fit a little too perfect and tight on his thick neck.

Still, he supposed there were worse things. He rolled his shoulders, taking a deep breath before running a hand through his hair. The sooner he got this over with, the better.

Shutting the locker with a quiet click, he grabbed the key and turned, heading out of the locker room, following the path toward the private driving range. Sophie had told him that his instructor would be waiting for him there, and Max wasn’t sure what to expect.

All he knew was that, in about five minutes, he was going to be standing in front of some overly enthusiastic golf instructor who would probably take one look at him and immediately realize this was a waste of time.

And honestly?

Max wouldn’t blame them.

He stepped out onto the private driving range, the sun hanging low in the sky, casting long golden streaks across the pristine grass. It was quiet out here, the usual sounds of a golf course—murmured conversations, the occasional distant thunk of a club striking a ball—muted by the exclusivity of the space.

His eyes landed on a young man standing beside a neatly arranged set of clubs, scribbling something down into a notebook.

Max hesitated. That couldn’t be his instructor.

He’d expected someone older. Someone stiff and proper, maybe wearing a ridiculous tweed cap. Some old man with a hunchback who’d been teaching golf since the dawn of time.

But this guy?

He looked his age. Maybe even younger. 

Brown curls framed his face, the sun catching in his hair just enough to make it seem like he belonged on the cover of some preppy sports magazine. His green eyes were striking even from a distance, flicking back and forth between the page in front of him and the set of clubs beside him. He had a sharp nose, light stubble on his face, and a tense expression.

Glancing down at his attire, the man had on a sharp pair of tan colored slacks, a white tailored polo tucked neatly into his pants, along with a belt and matching shoes. Overall, he was gorgeous, with the smallest waist Max had ever seen, and he decided if every golfer looked like that, the Dutchman could see the appeal of the sport.

There’s no way, Max thought.

He approached, shoving his hands into the pockets of his old shorts, suddenly feeling very out of place. "Hey, uh," he started, rocking back slightly on his heels, scratching the back of his head. "Am I in the right place? I’ve got a lesson booked."

The man looked up at him then, eyes widening slightly, like he was the one who had just been caught off guard.

“Oh,” he said, blinking a couple of times before snapping his notebook shut. “You’re my three o’clock?”

Max narrowed his eyes slightly. “You’re my instructor?”

The man—Charles , according to the name stitched onto his polo—tilted his head, studying him with a mix of amusement and mild curiosity.

"That’s right," he said, tucking the notebook in his back pocket. "Charles Leclerc. I’m the club pro here."

Max blinked. He didn’t know what he’d been expecting, but it definitely wasn’t this. “Max Verstappen.”

Charles extended a hand, his grip firm and confident when Max took it. "You've never played before, have you?" Charles asked, something like knowing amusement flickering in his gaze and he looked him up and down.

Max exhaled sharply, already regretting every decision that had led him to this moment. "Not really," he admitted. "I’ve only been a few times with some friends."

“That’s okay. We all start somewhere.”

“I’m not even sure if I want to be here,” Max said a bit too honest, unsure why he did.

Charles let out a soft chuckle, crossing his arms. "Well, that makes two of us."

Max arched a brow. "If you don’t want to be here either, I guess we should just call it a day, yeah?"

"Non. Most unnamed bookings are just . . . not my favorite," Charles said, glancing at the clubs before meeting Max's gaze again.

Max snorted. "What, you were expecting some old rich guy?"

"Something like that," Charles smirked. “Certainly not the current Formula One World Champion.”

Max huffed a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck, face heating up just a bit. "Yeah, well, I was expecting some old guy with a hunchback, so I guess we're both surprised."

Charles shook his head, amusement dancing in his eyes. "I promise I’m qualified, but I can find someone else if you'd prefer? I think the old grounds keeper is somewhere around here."

"No,” Max said a bit too quickly. “I’ll take your word for it." 

Charles motioned toward the clubs. "Come on, let’s get started."

Over the first hour, Charles had introduced Max to something called G.A.S.P.—an acronym for grip, aim, stance, and posture.

Max thought it was a little ridiculous that golf needed acronyms, but Charles had explained each part with a kind of effortless ease that made it obvious he'd done this a thousand times before.

Grip was apparently the foundation. Aim was self-explanatory. Stance? Something about balance and how he had the incorrect footwear. And posture? Well, Charles had already corrected his at least five times, which was honestly starting to annoy him.

“Do you have a glove?”

“Does it look like I have a glove,” Max said snidely.

Putting his hands on his hips, Charles turned back and rifled through several pockets in the bag of clubs behind him before just taking off his own glove and handing it to max. “Can you see if this will fit you?”

Max took the glove tentatively and held it up. 

There was no fucking way. 

This was maybe half the size of his smallest pair of racing gloves. Trying it anyway, Max only managed to get the tips of his fingers into the finger holes before holding it up for Charles to see.

Lips pulled down into a frown, Charles held out his hand for max to give it back. “We will just skip gloves today.”

The Monégasque instead pulled a club from the bag—a sleek, polished looking one—and handed it over. “This is a mid-range iron,” he explained, giving Max a short nod. “Try holding it like you naturally would.”

Max took the club, adjusting his grip instinctively, interlacing his fingers and squeezing the handle deep into his palms. He glanced up, half-expecting Charles to give him a nod of approval.

Instead, Charles’ lips pressed together, his Cupid’s bow pulling into a distinct frown.

Max sighed. Here we go.

Charles stepped forward, expression unreadable as he reached out and gently repositioned Max’s hands, adjusting his grip with quick, precise movements. His touch was firm but careful, fingers nudging Max’s right hand lower on the grip while shifting his left hand higher, thumb settling inside the palm of his lower hand.

"You want the shaft of the club to rest more on your fingers," Charles instructed, voice calm, professional. "Less in your palm. Too strong a grip will not let you have a good feel for the motion."

Max frowned down at his hands, flexing his fingers slightly. He'd half expected to just grab the club and start swinging, not get a damn dissertation on hand placement.

“This feels weird,” he muttered.

Charles quirked an eyebrow. “It’s correct.”

“Doesn’t mean it doesn’t feel weird.”

“You drive a car at 300 kilometers per hour for a living,” Charles pointed out, stepping back with a knowing smirk. “I think you can handle a slightly different grip.”

Max shot him a flat look. “Driving is natural. This? Not so much.”

Charles huffed a soft laugh but didn’t argue. Instead, he nodded toward the practice tee.

“Alright,” he said, stepping back, arms crossing over his chest. “Now, let’s see if you can actually hit a ball.”

Max exhaled through his nose, already knowing this was about to go very badly.

Taking a deep breath, he shifted his grip slightly as he lined up his first practice swing. There was no ball in front of him—just the smooth, perfectly trimmed grass of the driving range.

"Don't overthink it," Charles advised, standing off to the side, arms crossed as he observed. "Just focus on the motion that I showed you. Bend at the waist, rotate back and drive forward with your hips. Keep your shoulders firm."

Max nodded, exhaling as he drew the club back, trying to remember everything Charles had drilled into him over the lesson so far. With what he assumed was the right amount of force, he swung.

The club sliced through the air . . . and ripped a massive chunk of turf straight out of the ground.

Max winced as a thick clump of grass and dirt went flying, landing a few feet ahead like a pathetic, lifeless projectile. He stared at it for a moment before slowly lowering the club, grimacing.

"Shit . . . sorry," he muttered, glancing toward Charles. "Didn’t mean to ruin your perfectly manicured lawn."

Charles let out a small chuckle, stepping forward to inspect the damage. “The groundskeepers will survive,” he said lightly before looking back up at Max. “You hunched over too much on that swing. You didn’t stand as tall as you should.”

Max sighed, shifting uncomfortably. 

Charles gave him a knowing look, then stepped up behind him. "Here," he said, voice dropping into something softer, more instructive. “Let me show you.”

Charles placed both hands firmly on his shoulders, fingers pressing into the fabric of his new polo as he guided his posture upright. The movement was natural, purely mechanical—just Charles adjusting him like any other student—but as soon as his hands made contact, Max felt his breath stutter for half a second.

Charles’ touch was warm, fingers steady as they pressed lightly against his collar bones, encouraging him to straighten his stance.

"Keep your chest back," Charles murmured, nudging him just slightly. "There. More upright."

Max swallowed, suddenly very aware of just how close Charles was standing in front of him. The heat of his presence. The faint, fresh scent of his cologne—clean and slightly citrusy, like something expensive but understated.

Eyes flicking downward, just above the crisp white collar of Charles' polo, barely peeking out against the golden tan of his skin, Max caught the sight of a dark mole below the diamond encrusted chain he was wearing.

Max's focus wavered.

It was a stupid detail, something insignificant, but suddenly, that was what his brain decided to latch onto. The tiny contrast of it against the smooth skin of Charles' neck. How it shifted slightly as he tilted his head to the side, still focused on correcting Max’s stance. How Max wanted to run his tongue against—

“Better?” Charles asked, unaware of Max’s brief mental distraction.

Max blinked, snapping his eyes forward. “Uh—yeah,” he said quickly. “Sure.”

Charles gave a small nod, his hands lingering for just a second longer before he finally stepped back.

"Alright," he said, back to business. "Try again."

Max exhaled, gripping the club a little tighter. He really needed to focus.

Squaring his stance, gripping the club more comfortably this time, the Dutchman focused on everything Charles had just adjusted. Chest back. Shoulders relaxed. Hands lighter on the grip.

He inhaled deeply, then exhaled as he brought the club back in a smooth arc, letting it flow through the motion rather than forcing it.

Swish.

The club glided cleanly through the air, barely grazing the tops of the neatly trimmed grass. The sound was crisp, controlled—nothing like the ugly chunk he'd taken out of the ground earlier.

Max felt the corner of his mouth twitch up before he even realized he was smiling. He turned instinctively to look at Charles, waiting for his verdict. Charles was already grinning, his dimples carving deep into his cheeks as his green eyes sparked with something undeniably warm.

"That was much better," he said, voice laced with approval. "Nice rhythm, good balance. If you can do five more like that, we’ll try with a ball next.”

Max swallowed, quickly turning back toward the range before his brain could start focusing on entirely irrelevant things.

Like how unreasonably good Charles looked when he smiled like that. Or how, for a guy who spent his days teaching golf, Charles somehow had one of the most effortlessly attractive faces Max had ever seen—especially with those dimples.

Dimples that, for some stupid reason, Max now couldn’t stop thinking about.

Taking a slow, measured breath, Max refocused and lined up his next swing.

Swish.

It wasn’t perfect, but it was clean. And the one after that. Charles gave an encouraging nod, stepping just slightly into his peripheral vision. Three more.

Max let himself settle into the rhythm, focusing only on the movement. On the sound of the club through the air. On the subtle shift of his weight as he followed through each time.

He inhaled one last time, letting it all click together—

Swish.

Max lowered the club, rolling his shoulders before glancing at Charles again.

Charles smiled, that same annoyingly adorable dimpled grin. "Not bad, Verstappen," he praised. “Not bad at all.”

Max exhaled, nodding as he tried very hard not to think about the fact that Charles’ dimples had definitely just made an impression on his brain that he was going to have trouble forgetting.

"Alright," Charles said, picking up a ball and rolling it between his fingers before placing it down onto the ground. He stepped back, giving Max a knowing look.

“Now, let’s see if you can actually hit it.”

Max huffed a soft laugh, shaking his head as he set up again. The ball sat there, perfectly still on the grass, almost mocking him.

Alright. Just do what you just did. Same motion. Nothing different. He pulled the club back in a smooth backswing, feeling the weight shift in his stance, and with the same controlled follow-through he’d practiced, he swung.

Crack.

The ball launched off the ground and immediately veered violently to the right, slicing through the air in a trajectory that was so aggressively off-course, it might as well have been trying to escape the driving range entirely.

Max furrowed his brow, scowling after it.

Stepping forward, Charles quickly cupped his hand around his mouth and yelled, “FORE!” at the top of his lungs, startling Max.

What the hell?

“What?” He asked, thoroughly confused.

“Your ball was headed for the fairway of hole #2. ‘Fore’ is something you yell when your ball flies off course and towards other golfers or spectators to let them know to watch out.”

Max sucked on his bottom lip. “I didn't hit anyone did I?”

“No it didn't go that far. Just a precaution.”

Charles, to his professional credit, didn’t laugh at the mortified look on the Dutchman's face. Though Max could see the way his lips twitched like he was trying very hard to hold it in.

“Okay,” Charles said after a beat, exhaling as he turned back to Max. “Not bad, but you sliced it pretty dramatically.”

“Yeah, I noticed.”

Charles gave him a patient look, then stepped up beside him, hands gesturing slightly as he started explaining. “A slice happens when your clubface isn’t square at impact,” he said. “You’re letting your wrists curl over or under instead of keeping them steady. Curling under the ball produces a slice and curling over the ball produces what's called a hook.”

Max frowned, glancing down at his hands on the club. “They felt steady.”

“You might not realize it, but your wrists are rolling slightly as you follow through. Here—let me show you.”

Charles reached out, wrapping his smaller hands firmly around Max’s grip on the club. His fingers pressed lightly against the back of Max’s knuckles, guiding them into the right position.

Max’s breath hitched.

Charles’ hands were soft. Steady. Completely sure of themselves as he adjusted Max’s grip with careful precision. And as if that wasn’t enough of a problem, Charles trailed his fingers lightly up Max’s forearms, following the natural movement of a swing. His touch was light, tracing over the ridges of his muscle, fingertips pressing just enough to emphasize the motion.

Max felt all of it. Every point of contact. Every gentle, guiding press of Charles’ fingers against his skin.

His brain turned into static.

God. He really needed to get laid. Being aroused by a mole was a new low for him, but in fairness, it had been months. And Charles was just his type.

Charles, completely oblivious, kept talking. “You want to keep your wrists firm through impact,” he murmured, fingers still tracing along Max’s forearm as he lifted his arms slightly to guide the backswing. “Feel that? The club should follow your movement, not the other way around.”

Max swallowed, mouth suddenly very dry.

“Uh-huh,” he managed, though he had no idea what Charles had just said.

Nodding, the Monégasque still moved through the motion, his fingers ghosting over Max’s skin before finally releasing him. “Try again.”

Max exhaled way too hard, adjusting his stance in an attempt to refocus. He needed to get a damn grip—on both the club and his thoughts, because if Charles touched him like that again, he was absolutely going to slice the next shot, too.

Hitting another shot, the Dutchman managed to keep the ball on a much straighter path, though it still wasn’t great. He was getting the hang of it—kind of. The last few swings had at least gone in the general direction he wanted, which felt like a small victory compared to the disaster that was his first attempt.

Just as he was setting up for another, a sharp beep cut through the quiet.

Charles pulled his phone out of his pocket and silenced the alarm with a swipe of his thumb. “That’s time,” he said, tucking it away again.

Max relaxed out of his stance, rolling his shoulders as he straightened up. He wasn’t sure whether he felt relief or mild disappointment that the lesson was over.

Grabbing a small towel from his back pocket, Charles dabbed at his neck, swiping away the thin sheen of sweat that had gathered there. The sun had dipped lower in the sky, and for some unfair reason, it made Charles look even more effortlessly put together than he had at the start of the lesson, hair a bit more windswept, a light flush on his cheeks.

Max didn’t let himself focus on that for too long, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt.

“Well,” Charles said, slinging the towel over his shoulder and glancing back at Max. “Hopefully, that wasn’t too painful for you since you didn't even want to be here.”

Max huffed a small laugh. “I survived. Sorry I disappointed you by not being on a business call the whole time, actually making you work for once.”

Charles smirked. “When you love what you do, it's hardly considered work. Now you can go back and tell whoever forced you into this that you fully fulfilled their request.”

He turned slightly, slinging the loaned bag of clubs over his shoulder, preparing to leave the range. Max watched as he started walking away, casual confidence evident in every step, eyes glued to his waist.

And before Max could stop himself, he called out—

“Should I book the rest of my lessons through reception? Or with you directly?”

Charles froze mid-step and turned back, eyebrows raised, a flash of surprise flickering across his face before it smoothed into something more neutral. “More lessons?”

Max felt the corner of his mouth twitch upward, setting his hands on his hips in triumph at getting a reaction out of him.

He hadn’t actually planned to say that—hadn’t even been sure he wanted to continue these lessons. But something about the way Charles had immediately assumed this would be a one-and-done session made Max want to prove him wrong.

“I was given a package of six as a gift.”

Charles blinked once before tilting his head slightly, and after a beat, he let out a small amused hum. “Reception,” he said simply, usual composed expression back in place. “And while you’re at it, have Sophie show you our selection of proper footwear.”

Max glanced down at his sneakers and smirked. “Is there a special required brand of underwear I should know about too?”

Charles didn’t even dignify that with an answer. He just shook his head, turned back toward the clubhouse, and walked off, the fading sunlight casting long shadows across the range.

Max stood there for a moment, watching him go, before exhaling and running a hand through his hair.

Charles leaned against the reception desk, scrolling through the afternoon bookings on the tablet in front of him. The morning had been steady—two regulars and a small group lesson—but the private sessions were where things became interesting.

As his eyes moved down the list, he felt his lips twitch into a smile.

3:00 PM – Private Lesson – Verstappen, Max

Well, well.

He hadn’t actually been sure if Max would come back. The Dutchman was decent for a complete beginner, but he hadn’t exactly seemed thrilled about the whole experience. Charles assumed the lesson had been something forced upon him—likely by whoever had paid for it—so he’d fully expected to never see Max again.

And yet, here he was.

Charles exhaled through his nose, amused, before tapping his fingers against the counter. Guess he didn’t scare him off after all. His mind drifted back to their first session, to the moment when Max had first approached him on the range.

It had taken everything in Charles not to look visibly surprised when he’d glanced up and seen Max Verstappen standing in front of him.

This was Monte-Carlo, the playground of the rich and famous, so Charles was no stranger to high-profile clients. He’d coached politicians, movie stars, royalty—people whose faces were plastered across newspapers and TV screens.

But there wasn’t a soul in Monaco who wouldn’t recognize Max Verstappen. Four-time Formula 1 world champion. Red Bull’s golden boy, and a force of nature on the track.

And, somehow, also his golf student.

Charles had fought hard to keep his expression neutral that day, pretending it was totally normal to have one of the most dominant athletes in the world show up for a lesson with him. Not to mention one of the most attractive men he'd ever seen, with icy blue eyes and thighs that could crush his head.

He'd admired the Dutchman from afar, living along the track route in Monaco, watching the last year's GPs from his balcony.

But the truth?

He’d been a little starstruck. Not that he would ever admit it. Max had been . . . different from what Charles expected.

Sure, he’d been a little gruff at first, clearly uninterested in the lesson, but Charles had caught the subtle shifts in his demeanor. The way he cared about getting things right, even if he didn’t fully want to be there. The way his competitiveness bled through in small, unconscious ways—how his frustration flared when he sliced a shot, how his brows furrowed in concentration when Charles corrected him.

And then there was that moment—when Max had asked about booking the rest of his lessons. The surprise Charles had felt in that instant had been enough to shake him, though he’d covered it well, little butterflies going wild in his stomach.

Now, a week later, Max was actually following through.

Charles let out a soft hum, setting the tablet down as he pushed off the desk. He had an hour before the lesson started, just enough time to check the practice range and get things set up.

If Max wanted to take this seriously? Charles would gladly make sure he did.

Charles stood on the private range, already set up for the lesson. A small pyramid of golf balls was neatly stacked on the tee, and two different clubs were laid out beside it. He had fully intended to keep things simple for Max again today—work on his swing a little more, maybe introduce a few short game fundamentals.

But then Max walked onto the range, and Charles momentarily forgot how to function.

The first thing he noticed was Max had actually dressed the part this time.

Dark, tailored golf slacks fit far too well, hugging his legs in all the right places, stretching just slightly over his thighs as he moved. A white and teal vertically striped polo, neatly tucked in, accentuating the broadness of his chest and shoulders. A dark belt cinched at his waist, and—Charles blinked—actual golf shoes, coordinated with the rest of the outfit.

Max Verstappen. Wearing actual golf attire.

But that wasn’t even the most shocking part. No, that would be the bag of clubs slung over Max’s shoulder.

Charles' brain stalled at the sight, gaze flickering between the bag and Max’s face like he was trying to figure out if this was some kind of hallucination.

It wasn’t even worn correctly. The strap positioned too far over Max’s shoulder, leaving the bag sitting awkwardly against his back as he approached. It was almost funny—except Charles was too busy trying to process the fact that Max had apparently gone from begrudging golf student to someone who now owned a full set of clubs.

A very expensive set by the looks of it.

Charles swallowed, exhaling slowly through his nose as he very deliberately kept his expression neutral.

Because, really—this was not fair.

Max had been attractive before, sure. Objectively speaking, Charles had found it hard to not think about the Dutchman's huge hands trying to squeeze into his small glove, or wrapped around the club shaft, or the veins in his forearms while Charles guided him through his backswing. But something about this—about the way the outfit fit just right, the way his confident stride carried him across the range, the way he now looked like he belonged here—

Charles was hard-pressed not to groan at the sight of him, blonde hair shining in the afternoon sun.

He straightened subtly, clearing his throat as Max came to a stop in front of him. “You bought clubs.”

Max shrugged, shifting the bag on his shoulder. “Figured I should have my own if I’m actually doing this.”

“And yet, you have no idea how to carry them.”

Max glanced down at the bag, frowning slightly. “Oh come on. Don't tell me there is a right and a ‘wrong’ way to carry a bag of metal sticks?”

Charles barked out an uncontrolled laugh and quickly covered his mouth, a bit embarrassed. Max on the other hand just looked smug at getting Charles to laugh so hard. Stepping forward before he could think better of it, the Monégasque reached out, fingers grazing Max’s shoulder as he took the bag and slung it over his own shoulder, positioning the clubs facing forward on his chest, guiding it into the correct position.

“Like this,” he said before handing the bag back and adjusting the strap around the Dutchman’s firm chest. Max stood still, letting him, though his eyes flickered to Charles’ face briefly—just for a second—before he shifted his weight.

Charles stepped back, tilting his head slightly. “There. Now you don’t look completely clueless.”

“Glad to know I was only slightly clueless before.”

Charles rolled his eyes but couldn’t fully hide his grin. “Come on, then. Let’s see if you actually remember anything from last week.”

Max huffed a small laugh, setting his bag down before stretching out his arms, shoulders rolling beneath the fabric of his polo, and Charles had to force himself to look away.

“I did remember this though,” he said, and pulled a crisp white glove out of his back pocket. “The largest size they sell.”

This lesson was going to be dangerous.

Charles was struggling.

He was a professional dammit. He'd coached plenty of clients before—many of them attractive, many of them wealthy, many of them with the kind of quiet intensity that made them compelling to watch.

But none of them had been Max.

Max, who was unexpectedly good at chipping. Max, who took instruction seriously, brow furrowed in concentration every time he adjusted his stance. Max, whose forearms flexed deliciously as he gripped the club, the fabric of his polo pulling tight over his shoulders as he executed a clean, controlled shot.

It was at minimum, distracting.

Charles had tried—really tried—to focus. He’d walked Max through the fundamentals of chipping: weight slightly forward, hands ahead of the ball, wrists firm. He’d demonstrated a few shots himself, keeping his voice even and professional, and Max had nodded along, listening intently.

And then—damn him—he'd actually gotten it.

His first few attempts were a little off, even the occasional bladed ball thrown in the bunch, but once he found the right rhythm, Max executed a near-perfect chip, the ball popping up and landing softly on the green, rolling just short of the target.

Charles had praised him without hesitation, but the truth was, he was very aware of how good Max looked when he was focused—jaw set, full lips slightly parted, eyes locked in on his target like he was in a qualifying session. Eyes as intense as inside his helmet.

It was not fair.

By the time they moved over to the putting green, Charles was doing his best to ignore the fact that this was rapidly becoming the most distracting lesson of his career.

“Alright,” he said, shaking off his thoughts as he placed a ball down on the green. “Now, putting is all about control. You want to think about how the ball will roll rather than trying to hit it too hard. You aren't trying to spank the thing.”

Max quirked a brow, lips twitching. “So I need to be gentle?”

“Oui,” Charles nodded. 

Max exhaled a slow breath, tilting his head as he studied the ball, and just loud enough for Charles to hear, muttered, “I assumed you liked to get spanked, but I can take it slow.”

Charles froze. Oh the cheeky bâtard. [Bastard]

Heat rushed to his face, spreading from his neck all the way to the tips of his ears. His fingers flexed involuntarily on the grip of his putter, and he had to force himself to not drop it right then and there.

Mon Dieu.

Max, catching on immediately, turned his head ever so slightly, a slow, deliberately smug smirk creeping across his face. His blue eyes gleamed with unmistakable amusement, sharp and teasing. “You want to show me how you like it?”

The Monégasque opened his mouth—then shut it again, no response coming. None. He could barely breathe, let alone think of something clever to say. Instead, he cleared his throat aggressively and turned back toward the green, scrambling for any kind of distraction.

“Like this,” he muttered, stepping up to his ball and focusing very hard on lining up a longer putt.

He pulled the club back and made a smooth, controlled stroke. The ball rolled cleanly across the surface, tracking perfectly toward the hole before dropping in with a soft plink.

Charles definitely did not look at Max afterwards, but he felt Max’s gaze on his back, could sense the way the Dutchman was still grinning like he'd won something.

Charles exhaled slowly. This was fine. He was fine.

As long as Max didn’t make another comment like that, he could get through the rest of this lesson without completely losing his mind. “Alright, your turn,” Charles said, stepping back to give Max space. “Try a few putts, focus on your pace.”

Max nodded, lining up his first attempt. He was decent—his strokes were smooth, his read on the green wasn’t terrible, but the ball still had too much speed, rolling past the hole more often than not.

Watching from the side, Charles crossed his arms, amused as Max frowned at the result of each putt. The Dutchman was clearly trying to dial in his touch, but his natural instinct was to be too aggressive.

Charles decided it was time to have a little fun of his own. He stepped forward, smoothly closing the distance between them before Max could pull out of his stance, plastering himself over the Dutchman's back.

“Here,” Charles murmured, placing his hands lightly over Max’s grip. “Let me show you.”

Max stiffened slightly, but he didn’t pull away.

Guiding him into a more controlled stance, the Monégasque pressed lightly against his arms as he whispered, “Slower backswing.”

Max inhaled sharply, nodding once.

Charles kept his hands steady, gently controlling the movement as they brought the putter back and forward in one fluid motion—soft, and controlled. The ball rolled perfectly across the green, dropping into the cup with a soft plink.

He leaned in just slightly, voice dropping into something just above a whisper. “See?” His lips curled into a smirk. “Nice and gentle strokes.”

Max outright shuddered. Just barely, a small twitch in his frame—but Charles felt it.

Satisfaction curled in Charles' chest, and he stepped away, masking his grin as he returned to his spot at the edge of the green.

Max cleared his throat, flexing his hands around the grip before setting up another putt. Charles watched, still smug, as Max attempted to re-center himself. 

Honestly, it had been easier than expected to rattle the charismatic Dutchman, a slow whispered word, firm pressure on his back. Charles could handle this. 

Surprising him, Max turned slightly to the side, lined up a new putt, and struck the ball. It rolled smoothly—not toward the hole—but directly toward Charles, coming to a stop right between his feet.

With a slow, wicked smirk, Max glanced up at him and said, voice dripping with faux innocence, “Oops. Wrong hole.”

Charles’ entire brain short-circuited. His face burned from the inside out, heat rushing so fast up his neck and into his ears, he was convinced he might actually catch fire.

Max’s expression was infuriating—all smug amusement and playful challenge, blue eyes practically daring Charles to react. Looking entirely too pleased with himself, the Dutchman casually picked up another ball and lined up a new shot like nothing had happened.

Charles, meanwhile, was re-evaluating every life decision that had led him to this moment. Maybe it wasn't too late to pursue being an architect?

Hopefully not all of Max's lessons would be like this.

His next three lessons with Max had been exactly the same—much to Charles’ annoyance but also his unspoken glee.

Max had, to Charles’ reluctant admission, improved significantly. They’d gone over club selection, long and short-range practice, bunker shots, putting, and even general course etiquette.

But the flirtation?

That had only gotten worse. Or more bold.

The Red Bull driver had turned every single lesson into some kind of game—testing the limits of Charles’ patience, pushing him with casual, teasing comments that left him utterly flustered. He always played it off just enough that Charles couldn’t call him out for it outright, but the smug glint in his eyes made it clear—Max knew exactly what he was doing.

Not that he was complaining. Charles enjoyed their banter and gave back just as good as he got, meanwhile making sure Max developed his skills.

And now, there was only one thing left to do: Put everything Max had learned to the test.

Charles drove the golf cart steadily across the club grounds, the warm afternoon sun casting long golden streaks across the fairways. Max was already on the practice range, warming up for their lesson, now coming early to all of their lessons. He'd just taken a decent wedge shot—clean contact, good loft—when he turned around at the sound of Charles pulling up behind him.

Eyebrows raised, Max propped his club against his shoulder and smirked. “Going somewhere?”

Charles rolled his eyes but couldn’t fully suppress a smirk of his own. “Bring your clubs,” he instructed, stepping out of the cart. “I’ll help you strap them on. We’ll be on the course today.”

Max blinked. Then, something mischievous flickered across his face.

“Venturing away from prying eyes I see,” he muttered, loud enough for Charles to absolutely hear. “I didn't take you for the possessive type.”

Charles visibly paused mid-step, gripping the side of the cart a little too hard, inhaling very slowly through his nose. The Dutchman, already grinning like an absolute menace, picked up his bag and slung it intentionally wrong over his shoulder, just to force Charles to fix it.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Charles exhaled before stepping forward, fastening Max's bag on the back of the cart in silence. Max was about to climb into the passenger seat when he hesitated, and with far too much casual confidence, stepped around to the driver’s side instead.

“I’ll drive,” he announced, hands already gripping the wheel.

Charles immediately grabbed the frame of the cart, brows knitting together. “Absolutely not.”

“Why not? I’m literally a professional driver.” 

“That's exactly why not,” Charles shot back, crossing his arms. “You'll just gun it and see how fast it can go. It's a golf cart not a go kart.”

Clutching his chest in feigned offense, Max pressed a hand to his chest. “I would never,” and immediately put his foot on the gas, frowning when nothing happened. 

Charles gave him a look. Max held the eye contact for about three seconds before breaking into a smirk. “Okay, maybe I would.”

Sighing Charles smiled, and physically nudged Max out of the way before climbing into the driver’s seat himself. “Come on, we are burning daylight.”

Max rolled his eyes but did as told, dropping into the passenger seat and crossed his arms. “I see. You just want me as your passenger princess.”

“Putain, you caught me,” Charles laughed.

With that, Charles released the parking brake and drove them toward the first hole, keeping the pace reasonable despite Max dramatically sighing every time they passed an open stretch of fairway where he definitely would've floored it.

The course was relatively quiet at this hour, only a few scattered groups playing their rounds, but Charles wasn’t willing to risk the absolute carnage that would result if Max got behind the wheel.

Soon, they pulled up to Hole #1—a long par 4.

Charles turned the cart off and stepped out, grabbing a ball from his pocket as Max eyed the long stretch of fairway ahead.

“Alright,” Charles started, stepping to the tee box. “Let’s talk basics. Do you know what par means?”

Max shrugged, resting his hands on his hips. “It’s how many shots you’re supposed to take to get the ball in the hole, right?”

“Correct,” he nodded. “This one is a par 4, which means in an ideal world, you’d take four shots to complete the hole—one for the tee shot, one to approach the green, and two putts.”

Max tilted his head slightly. “So, if I do it in fewer, I win?”

Charles smirked. “Technically, yes.”

“What do I get if I win?” Max’s eyes glinted. 

He was going to regret that explanation, he was sure of it. “Let's just see how you do on the first hole.”

Clearing his throat, Charles fished out a tee from his bag and pushed it into the ground on the tee box before setting a ball on top. “First shot is about distance. Since this is a long hole, your best option is a driver.” He nodded toward Max’s bag. “Go ahead and grab yours as well.”

Max did, pulling out the sleekest, most expensive-looking driver Charles had ever seen. Of course he'd bought the top-of-the-line model.

“There are four tee boxes for each hole,” Charles explained, pointing with the end of his driver to each of the neatly mowed squares nearby. “Each box is for a different skill-level of player, indicated by the color of the marker. Gold is the professional tee, and the furthest distance from the hole. Navy is for men under the age of 55. White is the senior tee for men over the age of 55, and red is the closest tee to the hole and reserved for women.”

Max looked at all four boxes while Charles explained. “Why are there two markers on the sides of the box?”

“The marker tells you where you can put your tee. Your tee in the ground must not be in front of either marker and rest between them to be considered in play.”

“Okay,” Max nodded, looking a bit glassy eyed.

Charles smirked and stepped up behind his ball. “I’ll hit first.”

Going through his practiced pre-shot routine, Charles took a deep breath and lined up his clubface. Pulling his arms back, he swung cleanly through his drive, sending it straight down the fairway, almost to the end of the lowered grass.

Charles exhaled, stepping aside. “Alright, Verstappen. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Max grinned, lining up his shot, and Charles suddenly had a feeling he was about to witness something very interesting. Setting up to the ball, the Dutchman rolled his shoulders once before gripping the driver with practiced confidence. Charles stood just off to the side, arms crossed, watching carefully.

For all the jokes Max had made about not caring about golf, Charles could see the way his focus sharpened when he was about to take a shot—just like it had with chipping and putting. He might not love the sport, but his competitive streak wouldn't let him be bad at it.

Max took his backswing and came through cleanly, making solid contact with the ball. It launched off the tee, flying straight down the fairway before settling on the right side—shorter than Charles’ usual distance, but still a perfectly respectable shot.

Max let out a breath, watching the ball land, before glancing over at Charles.

“Not bad.” Charles hummed, tilting his head. 

Max smirked. “It's not in the trees, so I'll take it.”

“It's not in the trees,” Charles smirked back, nudging him toward the tee. “Now, pick that up.”

Max bent down and grabbed his tee. Unable to help himself, Charles lightly patted the Dutchman’s backside as he shoved his tee into his pocket and Charles didn’t look back as he climbed back into the driver’s seat of the cart.

As Max sat down beside him, Charles put the cart back into drive and turned onto the fairway, heading toward their next shots.

“So,” Max said, stretching his legs out in front of him as the warm breeze ruffled his hair. “Is this all we’re doing today? You're gonna teach me some advanced golf wizardry?”

Charles scoffed. “No, I’m going to teach you how to actually hit the green in two shots. We will be playing only the front nine today.”

Max chuckled, resting an arm along the back of the seat, lightly brushing Charles’ shoulders. “Looking forward to it.”

Charles just rolled his eyes—but if the corners of his mouth twitched up slightly, well . . .  Max didn’t need to know that.

Bringing the cart to a smooth stop as they reached their balls, his own shot had landed significantly farther down the fairway—obviously—but Max’s was still in a solid position, resting cleanly on the right side.

Max hopped out, pulling a club from his bag. “So, what now?”

Charles stepped up beside him, glancing at the flag in the distance. “Now, you pick your approach shot.”

“Which means?”

“It means deciding how much distance you need to cover and choosing the right club to get you on the green.” He gestured toward Max’s bag. “How far do you think you have left?”

Max narrowed his eyes, studying the flag. He hesitated, then guessed, “I don’t know. 150 meters?”

“Close. More like 140.” Charles glanced at the fairway markers, nodding slightly. 

Max huffed. “Not bad for guessing.”

“Not bad. But guessing doesn’t help you when you’re actually trying to land the shot. 10 meters is a long way off on a green. You need to trust your feel for distance and the club you use.” Max stared at him blankly. “Or you use one of these,” Charles held up his rangefinder from behind his back.

“What is that?”

“It's called a rangefinder. It shoots a laser to the flag on the pin and tells you exactly how far away from the hole you are.”

Crossing his arms, Max said, “Is that some kind of cheating?”

“Rangefinders are legal in professional play,” Charles smirked and checked the distance again. “Maybe pick one up to go in your bag?”

He stepped forward, plucking a 7-iron from Max’s bag before handing it to him and taking the 9-iron out of the Dutchman's hand. “This should give you the height and control you need based on our range practice. Now, before you just start swinging—” He shot Max a look before gesturing toward the green. “—you need to read it.”

Max frowned slightly. “Read it?”

Charles nodded and motioned for him to follow.

They walked a few paces closer, stopping at a small rise where the fairway started to transition into the smoother, more manicured grass of the green. Charles crouched down, tapping the ground lightly with his club.

“Look at how the land slopes here,” he instructed. “See how the green runs a little left?”

Max followed his gaze, nodding slowly. “Yeah . . .”

Charles glanced up at him, then reached out, lightly grabbing Max’s wrist to pull him down. “Here,” he murmured, guiding his hand downward so Max could feel the subtle incline beneath his fingers.

Max inhaled, his fingers pressing into the grass, his forearm brushing against Charles’ as they both knelt.

Charles very deliberately ignored the warmth of it.

“This slope will affect how the ball rolls when it lands,” Charles continued, voice smooth and even, like he wasn’t entirely aware of how close they were. “So you want to aim slightly right to compensate. If you hit it straight at the flag, it’ll drift left.”

“So I don't actually need to lay on the ground for this part?”

Charles scrunched his brows. “What do you mean?”

“My friend who bought me these lessons,” Max started. “He lays on the ground around the green to ‘read’ it better. I always thought it was ridiculous.”

Chuckling, Charles said, “I don't think that is particularly necessary, no.”

Max nodded again, but his gaze flickered toward Charles, lingering a second too long before he exhaled and stood. Charles stood as well, dusting off his hands and stepping back. “Alright,” he said, slipping back into full instructor mode. “Now let's try it.”

Max exhaled, gripping his club as he returned to his ball. He took his stance, rolling his shoulders once before focusing in.

Charles stood behind him, watching closely—too closely, if he was being honest. Noting the way Max shifted his weight, polo stretching over his chest, arms flexed slightly as he gripped the club, tongue poked out the corner of his mouth in concentration—

Charles exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking off whatever that thought had been.

Focus.

Max drew his backswing, then came through with clean contact. The ball soared, landing just right of the flag, rolling exactly as Charles had predicted—drifting slightly left before coming to a stop about 10 feet from the hole.

“Wait. That actually worked?”

Charles smirked, arms crossing over his chest. “You sound surprised.”

“I’m very surprised.” Max turned to him, a slow grin spreading across his face. 

Charles scoffed, tapping his club against his shoe. “I told you, it’s all about reading the green.”

“So what you’re saying is, you’re always right?”

“When it comes to golf? Yes. I'll leave the racing to you.”

Max chuckled, shaking his head as he turned back toward the green. “Well, I guess I should listen to you more often, then.”

Charles arched a brow. “Yes, you should.”

Max shot him a look, something smug and playful, before heading back to the cart.

Charles took his stance, eyes locked on the flag as he lined up his second shot. The ball sat perfectly in the short fairway grass, a slight breeze rustling the trees in the distance. He adjusted his grip, took a smooth backswing, and struck the ball with effortless precision.

It soared through the air, landing on the green with a soft bounce before rolling—tracking exactly toward the pin—before settling just a foot away from the hole.

Charles straightened, satisfied, before glancing at Max.

The Dutchman was watching him from the cart with an unimpressed look, his arms crossed over his knee as he shook his head.

"Showoff," he muttered.

Charles smirked, picking up his club. "What? You expected me to miss?"

"No, but you could at least pretend to struggle." Max scoffed.

"That would defeat the point of the lesson, wouldn't it? What do you call it . . . sandbagging?"

Max rolled his eyes but grinned as they made their way onto the green. Charles stepped up to his ball first, pulling a small, flat coin from his pocket. The Dutchman frowned as he watched him kneel and place it just behind his ball before picking it up and stepping aside. 

"What are you doing?"

Charles looked up. "Marking my ball's position."

"Why?"

"Because you have to putt first," Charles explained, nodding toward Max’s ball, which sat farther from the hole. "Whoever is farthest away always putts first. Everyone else marks their ball to be respectful so it doesn’t get in the way.”

Max exhaled, clearly barely holding back an eye-roll. “Golf has so many stupid rules.”

“And F1 doesn't?”

Max muttered something in Dutch under his breath before setting up for his putt. He took his time, lining up the ball carefully, and Charles could see the effort behind his focus. Max pulled back the putter and struck the ball, only for it to roll just wide of the hole. 

Huffing, he stepped forward to tap it in, but he hit it too hard, and it ran around the edge of the hole before popping out.

“Hate when that happens,” Charles mused. “Rimming the cup is the worst.”

“Says those who’ve never tried it,” Max shot back without missing a beat. “I bet I could change your mind.”

“Non!” Charles yelled a bit too loud, smashing a hand on his forehead. “When the ball runs around the lip of the cup like that, it's called rimming.”

“Who knew golf was such a dirty sport,” the Dutchman said. Licking his lips, Max added, “But the offer still stands.”

Charles bit his lip to stop himself from groaning. Fucking god, he was going to have to grab some cold water from his bag.

Letting out a slow, controlled breath, Max clearly forced himself to stay calm. Finally, he walked up and gently knocked the ball in, finishing the hole with three putts.

He exhaled dramatically. “That was painful.”

“That was a bogey, by the way.” Charles definitely didn’t hide his smirk. “Or one over par.”

Max shot him a look. “Maybe I'm a bit distracted.”

Charles just grinned as he stepped up to his marker, placing his ball back down before lining up his putt. He barely even had to think about it. A smooth, controlled stroke, and the ball rolled straight into the cup with a soft plink.

“That's called a birdie,” Charles turned to Max, his smirk widening. “Or one under par.”

Max narrowed his eyes. “Yes, yes. Very nice,” he muttered.

Charles laughed, collecting his ball. “That’s golf, Verstappen.”

Max shook his head, muttering under his breath as he retreated back to the cart. Charles just smiled to himself as he followed.

Maybe Max hated golf. But Charles was having the time of his life.

The rest of the round had been exactly what Charles expected.

Max was good—for a beginner. His raw athleticism and competitive drive meant he was picking things up quickly, and by the fourth or fifth hole, his shots were consistently solid. But golf had a way of humbling even the most talented athletes, and Max's frustration had become more and more visible with each mistake.

Charles, of course, had been making none.

Every time Max thought he’d hit a great shot, Charles would step up and casually land his within five feet of the pin. Every time Max finally sank a putt, Charles would drop his in one stroke less.

Max had been grumbling under his breath for the last three holes.

Then, they reached hole #8—a short but tricky par 3.

Max set up for his shot, iron in hand, lips pressed into a determined line. The green sat up on a small plateau, guarded by bunkers on both sides. Charles watched, arms crossed, as Max took a deep breath and swung.

The ball soared through the air, only to plummet straight into the bunker on the right side of the green. Max froze, and Charles winced.

They both watched as the ball thudded into the sand, half-plugging itself into the soft trap.

"Fuck!" A string of aggressive Dutch curses followed as Max stalked toward the bunker, looking murderous. Charles, meanwhile, took one look at the absolute rage on Max’s face and lost it. He burst into a fit of giggles, gripping his putter for balance as he doubled over.

Max turned to him, eyes narrowed to slits. “Alright coach. What is your magical advice now?”

He gasped for air, still laughing. “What were you saying four holes ago about golf being easy?”

Max glared at him, then turned back to the ball, arms crossed. “Fine. Just give me the sand thingy.”

“You mean your sand wedge,” Wiping at his eyes, Charles was still grinning. “Stay calm. We’ve practiced these kinds of shots. Remember to dig your feet in, not grounding your club till you swing, and use more force than a regular shot, aiming two inches behind the ball. Let the motion carry the ball out.”

Max huffed, stepping into the bunker with the most absurd amount of determination. “I’m just gonna hit it in the hole so we can be done with this.”

Charles chuckled again, shaking his head. “If you make that shot, I’ll blow you.”

Max blinked and Charles stopped giggling. A sharp breeze cut across the bunker, ruffling Max’s polo, but he didn’t move. He just turned slowly, head tilting slightly as his eyes dragged over Charles’ red face.

“What was that?” he asked, voice far too amused.

Charles absolutely did not feel his ears heat up. “Nothing,” he muttered quickly. “Just take your shot.”

“No, no, I think I heard something.”

“Just hit the shot, Max.”

“I'm holding you to that if I make this,” Max chuckled but turned back to his ball, digging his heels into the sand. He squared his stance, wiggled his club slightly over top of the ball, and focused.

Charles crossed his arms, fingers squeezing his biceps. There was no way he was making this shot. It was nearly impossible—half-plugged in the sand, no real angle to the pin, no way to get the height and control needed to land it clean.

Max dug in, took a sharp breath—then swung.

The ball exploded out of the bunker, launching high into the air with a perfect arc, and Charles’ arms fell by his sides. 

They both watched as it dropped onto the green . . . landed softly . . . rolled . . . kept rolling . . . and fell directly into the cup.

Silence. Absolute stunned silence.

No. Fucking. Way.

Charles’ jaw dropped, and Max stood there for a second, processing, before his lips curled into the most smug, victorious, shit-eating grin Charles had ever seen.

“Well, well, well,” Max drawled, turning to him with all the confidence in the world. “You were saying?”

Charles wanted to die.

“You want me right here in the sand or is on the green proper etiquette for a golf blow job?” Max said smugly.

Charles buried his face in his hands. This was not happening.

This was absolutely not happening.

Max strolled past him, casually retrieving his ball from the cup before slapping Charles on the ass lightly. “You know,” he mused, “I’m really starting to like golf.”

Charles groaned into his hands.

Standing at the edge of the green, arms crossed, lips still curled in that smirk—the one that told Charles he was never going to live this down, Max said, "Now make your putt," voice carrying just enough amusement to make Charles' irritation spike.

He frowned but said nothing, pulling the pin from the cup and lining up his shot.

The ball rolled cleanly toward the hole, only to stop just inches short, and Charles' lips pressed together. He didn’t look up at Max as he stepped forward and silently tapped the ball in, the soft plink of it dropping into the cup feeling like a personal insult.

Behind him, Max snickered. “I do believe I won that hole.”

Charles inhaled through his nose, ignored him completely, and turned toward the cart. They walked in silence, Max still visibly buzzing with victory, while Charles felt his entire soul screaming for relief.

By the time they climbed into the cart, Charles' mind was racing. He started driving, keeping to the path, his hands gripping the wheel a little too tightly as they made their way toward hole #9.

Then impulse took over.

Quickly, Charles yanked the wheel sharply to the right, veering off the path and into the trees. The cart jostled over the uneven dirt, kicking up dust as it bounced over roots and hidden dips in the ground.

"Jesus, Charles!" Max jerked in his seat, gripping the side as the cart rattled through the thickening trees, clubs banging wildly.

Charles slammed the brakes suddenly, bringing them to a hard stop inside a dense, secluded grouping of trees. The only sound was the distant rustling of leaves and the slight, uneven hitch in Max’s breathing.

The Dutchman turned his head slowly, brows raised, chest rising and falling with something that wasn't just adrenaline from the sudden turn.

“What's wrong?” he asked, voice just a little breathless.

Charles put the cart in park. Without hesitation, he swung himself out of the driver’s seat, rounded to the passenger side, swiftly kneeling on the seat in front of Max, bracing a hand on the backrest.

Max’s eyes blew wide, and Charles could see it—could feel it—the way Max tensed, the way his breath hitched, the way the playful smugness drained into something darker.

"Charles—"

Ignoring him, Charles reached for Max's belt.

Max’s fingers tensed at his sides. “What are you doing?”

Undoing the buckle of Max’s golf pants with steady, precise fingers, Charles looked up and smirked.

"The most important rule of golf," he murmured, voice low, teasing, dangerous. "Never welch on a bet."

_____

Max’s breath stuttered.

And yet—when Charles looked up at him, all confidence and teasing intent, Max found himself moving before he could even think about it, hips lifting just slightly in invitation.

Charles’ grin deepened.

Quickly, the Monégasque hooked his fingers into Max’s waistband and pulled his slacks down, the expensive fabric sliding effortlessly over his thighs. Max barely had a second to breathe. To process any of this. Because, somehow, he'd gone from standing on a golf course, cursing a buried bunker shot, to this.

And he couldn’t believe it.

For weeks , he'd been dropping every possible hint—small touches, lingering glances, the occasional outrageously inappropriate joke just to see if Charles would react. But aside from the occasional flush of his cheeks, or attempt to make him also flustered, Charles had remained annoyingly composed.

Max had started to think maybe he wasn’t actually interested, or their dynamic would never progress beyond just casual flirting.

Hell, he'd even almost worked up the courage to give Charles his number outright—but every time, he’d hesitated, worried he’d been reading too much into the Monégasque’s subtle reactions.

But now, Charles was kneeling in front of him, gaze dark and certain, fingers gripping Max’s hips like he owned them. Max’s thoughts froze entirely when Charles leaned in and mouthed at him, slow and teasing, through the thin fabric of his underwear.

A sharp, involuntary breath escaped Max’s lips, his fingers twitching against the seat. “Fuck,” he exhaled, head tipping back slightly, eyes fluttering shut.

Charles chuckled, the vibration of it sending a sharp pulse of heat straight through Max’s core.

“Still think golf has too many rules?” Charles murmured, lips ghosting over him, hands squeezing at Max’s thighs just enough to make him ache, a wet patch forming over the head of his half-hard cock.

Max let out a ragged breath, chest rising and falling with something dangerously close to a whimper.

Charles pulled his underwear down next, Max sucking in a breath as the breeze hit his exposed manhood. Quickly, Max turned his head from side to side, looking to see if anyone was nearby, but he couldn't see anything through the trees.

“Don't worry,” Charles whispered and gave him a teasing lick across the shaft, Max quickly getting harder in the smaller man's hand. “We're the only group on the course right now.”

Max chuckled, “You do this kind of betting with all of your students then?”

“Only the really cute ones,” Charles winked terribly. 

“Do you want to talk? Or do you want to make good on your bet?”

Pursing his lips, Charles wrapped his mouth around the Dutchman's member and Max groaned loudly. His mouth was hot and wet, quickly sliding down to take more and more of him with each bob of his head, not a gentle or slow stroke in sight.

“Charles,” Max breathed, voice low and wrecked, control hanging by a thread.

His fingers found their way into the Monégasque’s soft curls, threading through them as he fought to keep his hips still, muscles tense with the effort. Every nerve in his body was on fire already, a sharp contrast to the cool breeze that ghosted over his skin, sending a shiver down his spine.

And then there was Charles. Kneeling between his legs, cheeks flushed a deep shade of pink, pouty lips stretched tightly around him, glassy green eyes locked onto Max with something Max couldn’t quite place.

It wasn’t just amusement, or begrudgingly fulfilling a lost bet.

It was something that made his breath hitch and his grip tighten in Charles’ hair, heart pounding as his pulse roared in his ears, bringing his hips up to match Charles’ rhythm in complete desperation.

And fuck, if Charles kept looking at him like that—

Moaning around him, Charles sank all the way down, throat bulging around all of Max's length, corner of his eye watering as his short nails dug into Max's thighs. 

Max was embarrassingly close to the edge, whole body tensed, coiled tight like a spring about to snap.

It had been months since he’d last been with someone—too busy, too consumed with racing, too focused on his career to even think about anything else besides travel and spending time on his sim. But even then, he couldn't remember when a blow job had felt this good.

His breathing was uneven, chest rising and falling in sharp, shallow pants as he fought to keep control, to hold on. But it was getting harder.

Especially with Charles looking up at him like that—green eyes dark, heavy-lidded, full of something Max couldn’t name but felt all the same. Max clenched his jaw, forcing his eyes shut, knowing that if he kept looking, he’d be gone.

He wasn’t ready for this to end. Not yet.

Doubling his efforts, Charles sucked harder, popping off just long enough to run his flattened tongue along the flushed ridge of Max's rock hard erection. He gave him a few messy strokes, spitting in his palm before swallowing Max whole again. The Dutchman's eyes rolled back in his head and he let go, moaning unabashedly in the wind.

Thick stripes of white painted the inside of Charles’ throat as he groaned around Max, slurping with obscene noises as Max rode out his orgasm. His mouth was heaven, sinful as Charles pulled back slowly, giving him a lopsided smile and a light kiss on his tip.

God this man would be the death of him.

Finding some of that fire in his gut, Max hauled the Monégasque up into his lap by his polo collar and immediately connected their lips in a sloppy, urgent kiss. He'd stared at the curve of the man's Cupid’s bow for five weeks now, and Max wasn’t going to miss his chance at tasting it.

Resting his hands on Charles’ impossibly small hips, Max felt Charles fingers tangle in his hair as they continued hungrily sucking and biting at each other's lips. The taste of himself on Charles' lips was a new kind of drug he didn't know he needed.

Pulling back for a breath, Max collapsed back against the seat of the golf cart, utterly breathless. His chest rose and fell in deep, uneven gulps, entire body still thrumming with the aftershocks of what had just happened, squeezing Charles just to make sure it was real.

Charles, still perched in his lap, looked entirely too pleased with himself, green eyes sparkling with mischief, cheeks still flushed, and his normally neat curls were slightly disheveled from where Max’s fingers had been tangled in them just minutes ago.

And then—like nothing had just happened—Charles reached into his back pocket, pulled out his towel, and casually dabbled at his mouth before handing it to Max.

“We still have one hole to finish,” he said, voice smooth, composed—unfairly put together.

Max blinked at him, still trying to reboot his brain. He took the towel slowly, dragging it over his face as he let out a breathless laugh. “You’re kidding.”

Charles just smirked, standing up and dusting off his golf slacks like this was just another day at the office. Max exhaled sharply, shaking his head as he cleaned himself up and tucked himself back into his pants, attempting to regain some sense of composure.

“For the record,” he muttered, still catching his breath as he wiped his hands on the towel. “You’re way better at that than golf.”

Charles chuckled, already sliding back into the driver’s seat. “And I'm pretty damn good at golf.”

Max huffed, running a hand through his already-messy hair as he adjusted himself on the bench beside Charles.

One more hole.

Max tapped in his final putt on hole #9, barely paying attention as the ball rolled into the cup. His mind was elsewhere—still stuck somewhere back on hole #8, in the thick shade of the trees, replaying every second of what had just happened.

Charles, for his part, looked entirely unbothered.

Straightening, Max gripped his putter a little tighter as the Monégasque casually collected his ball and slotted it back into his bag like this was just any other lesson. Charles turned to him, expression unreadable except for the slightest curl of amused smile at the corner of his lips.

Those devilish fucking lips—

“You did well today,” he said smoothly. “I’ll see you for your final lesson.”

And then—just like that—he slung his bag over his shoulder and walked off, heading toward the clubhouse without a single glance back.

Max just stood there, mouth slightly open, completely failing to form words. He should say something. Should call out. Should ask for his number.

But his mouth refused to work.

So instead, he just stared, watching Charles disappear with his clubs, the sun glinting off the back of his crisp white polo, effortless stride making it look like he hadn’t just wrecked Max’s entire existence fifteen minutes ago.

By the time Charles vanished inside, Max let out a slow, frustrated exhale, rubbing his hand down his face.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered to himself.

Back in the locker room, Max changed out of his golf clothes, still kicking himself.

He had one chance. One damn chance to just ask for Charles’ number like a normal person, and he blew it. Idiot, he scolded himself, shoving his golf cleats into his bag with more force than necessary.

With a sigh, he reached in to grab his phone, and paused.

Tucked neatly inside his bag, folded crisply in half, was a small piece of paper. Max frowned, pulling it out and unfolding it. Scrawled across the center in neat, slanted handwriting was a name and a number.

Charles Leclerc

Max stared, a slow grin spread across his face. Charles had definitely planned this.

Still smirking to himself, Max pulled out his phone and typed in the number, fingers hovering over the keyboard for just a second before he started to text.

Max:

You could've just given this to me in person, you know.

A few seconds passed.

Charles:

Where’s the fun in that?

Max huffed out a laugh, shaking his head as he slung his bag over his shoulder.

Max:

I'll see you next week and my offer still stands

Chapter Text

“What are you scowling at?” Charles asked, legs crossed comfortably across from him on Max’s private jet, a glass of water in one hand and a soft, amused smirk tugging at his mouth.

Max didn’t answer.

He was lounging sideways in his seat, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, one leg stretched out and the other bent under him. The cabin around them was filled with soft white noise layered beneath the distant drone of the engines. They’d taken off about forty minutes ago from Nice, en route to Mexico City, and the Bosque Real Country Club for Lando’s infamous “golf retreat”—aka four days of over-competitive chaos, too much sunscreen, and Lando demanding a photo shoot at golden hour like it was a legitimate part of the itinerary.

There would be a few other drivers too—Carlos, Alex, probably Pierre if he wasn’t busy having his hair fussed with again—and Lando had been annoyingly thrilled when Max said he was actually coming this time. He’d sounded smug as hell over the phone when Max had asked if he could bring someone.

“Your own caddy?” Lando had cackled. “Six lessons and now you're a professional?”

“Yeah,” Max had just grunted in response. “I’m bringing someone from the Monte Carlo Club. You'll meet them in Mexico.”

“Fine. But she better be hot.” Lando singsonged into the phone. 

Max had smirked. “You won’t be disappointed.”

As the plane sliced smoothly through cloud cover somewhere over the Atlantic, Max kept his gaze on his phone screen, thumb resting just beside the edge, chewing absently on the inside of his cheek.

He wasn't scowling. He was thinking. Or, maybe brooding. Fine.

He finally glanced up at Charles, who was currently lounging like this was his jet—collar popped open, belt undone, one sockless foot resting on the opposing leather cushion like he belonged in a lifestyle magazine ad titled “Rich Men And Their Wine.”

Max’s chest pulled tight for a second. It wasn’t fair how good he looked wearing glasses, clothes slightly mussed from the car ride to the airport, hair curling a little at the edges, his usual tailored polo traded for a loose navy linen shirt with the first few buttons left undone. Casual. Effortless. 

Fucking dangerous.

Max turned his phone around and wordlessly held it out.

Charles leaned forward, squinting just a little as he took it. His brow furrowed as he read.

The comment sat right beneath his most recent Instagram post, a casual shot from the Club, Charles drinking a Celsius—his biggest sponsor—carrying his putter, glove still on.

@lando: The fact your wearing a glove but using a putter says enough… 🫣

Max waited.

Charles blinked once. Then laughed, short and from the back of his throat and made Max's lips twitch against his will.

“Good thing he picked racing with that grammar,” Charles said, tossing the phone gently back onto Max’s thigh. “A classic.”

Max snorted. “He’s gonna say it was intentional. For the bit.”

“From what you've told me, his whole life is a bit,” Charles muttered, sipping his water.

Leaning his head back against the leather headrest, Max watched Charles through half-lidded eyes. “You know he’s gonna lose his mind when he realizes who I brought.”

Charles’ smirk grew, subtle but wicked. “You mean when he sees I’m not, in fact, a busty blonde named ‘Tiffany’?”

“He’ll probably cry.”

“He’ll definitely make a scene.”

Max let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “Worth it.”

There was a pause, comfortable, but charged by the low thrum of altitude and the occasional rustle of the wind outside. Charles leaned back again, one hand running through his curls, gaze drifting toward the window.

Max looked at him for a second longer.

God help him, he wanted to jump Charles already. Max was helplessly endeared by the teasing, the banter, the way Charles sometimes went uncharacteristically quiet when he was thinking, like the words backed up in his throat waiting for the perfect moment. Max had been counting down the hours to this retreat ever since Charles confirmed he could come with him.

As much as he hated golf . . . he was really starting to like the perks that came with it.

“What’s he even talking about? What’s wrong with your glove?” Max asked, brow furrowed as he leaned over to pick his phone back up, though his eyes didn’t really leave Charles.

Charles arched one perfectly groomed eyebrow. “You typically don’t putt with a glove on,” he said casually, adjusting his watch with one hand. “Not enough feel for the club. Some pros don't use a glove at all, but most do for callus protection.”

“That’s . . .” Max blinked, “the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. You’re wearing a glove for every other shot?”

Charles gave him a flat look. “Did you learn nothing? Golf is about precision.”

“Sure, we’ll go with that.”

There was a beat of silence, then that wicked smirk returned—the one Max was starting to recognize as the official warning sign for some cheeky shit is about to happen.

Unbuckling his seatbelt with a click, Charles leaned forward and reached across the aisle to his carry-on bag. He flipped the top open and rifled around inside, fingers moving through neatly folded items until he pulled out a well-loved white golf glove like it was a fucking prop in a magic trick.

He turned back to Max, eyes glinting.

“How about a demonstration?”

Max’s face scrunched up. “You want to practice putting on the plane? What are we, fat middle-aged bankers flying to a corporate retreat in Boca?”

Charles scoffed but didn’t answer.

He startled Max by stepping in close and dropping to his knees between Max’s legs, the movement so fast and unapologetic it made Max’s breath hitch.

“What the fuck are you—”

Without replying, Charles simply slid the glove onto his left hand, flexing his fingers like he was settling in for a very serious tournament.

Max sat up straighter on instinct, spine stiffening as his thighs tensed around where Charles was now kneeling. Charles looked up, unbothered, green eyes sparkling, the corners crinkling just slightly.

He swallowed hard.

“Relax, Verstappen,” Charles murmured. “It’s just a demonstration.”

Pulse already picking up, Max squeezed the arm rests. No, it didn’t feel like just a demonstration. It felt like a goddamn trap. A sexy, smug, Monaco-born trap with cheekbones and a 2 handicap.

Max did his best not to shift, but his jeans were suddenly feeling a little less comfortable. “You don’t even have a putter,” he muttered, reaching for sanity.

Charles raised one brow. “Don’t need one.”

Oh fuck.

As Charles reached for the zipper on his jeans, Max's face flushed hotly, the tips of his ears going red. He made a noise—not quite a gasp, not quite a moan, but something mortifyingly close to a squeak—and jolted in place like he’d been shocked.

Charles just smiled. That same devastating, infuriating, I-know-exactly-what-I’m-doing smile that turned Max’s spine to water.

He curled his gloved fingers around the zipper and tugged it down slowly, the sound painfully loud in the quiet cabin, a sharp, metallic whirrrr making Max’s pulse jump.

The soft pop of the button was next. Then warm hands were tugging his jeans down his hips, dragging over his skin.

“Wait—what are you doing?” Max asked, voice tight and breathless.

Charles didn’t answer. Didn’t even look up.

He just hooked his fingers into Max’s underwear and pulled those down too, leaving him exposed, cock already half-hard and twitching against the cool air of the cabin.

Gasping at the sudden chill, his sharp inhale punched straight into his chest, and then Max hissed outright when Charles reached for him, his gloved hand wrapping around his length without warning.

The contact was dry. Too dry.

The leather dragged awkwardly across sensitive skin, rough in all the wrong ways. Max’s whole body jolted, hips bucking slightly as discomfort shot through him.

“Wait—wait, Charles, shit—” he choked out, squeezing his eyes shut as his teeth clenched hard enough to ache. It wasn’t exactly pain, but it was not what he was expecting, foreskin sliding unnaturally.

Despite the awkward friction and the uncomfortable pull of leather against him, he was getting harder, body, as usual, betraying him completely.

He couldn’t help himself around Charles.

The brunette didn’t even flinch, hand moving, slow, up and down his shaft.

“If you leave your glove on when you putt,” Charles said smoothly, voice maddeningly calm, “you lose that soft touch you need while on the green.”

Max groaned low in his throat, every muscle in his abdomen going taut. His thighs flexed, hips twitching helplessly under Charles’ hand. The contradiction of it—the sensation of the glove dragging just a little too rough, the low heat building anyway—made his head spin.

Then suddenly, relief when Charles let go.

Max exhaled sharply, eyes flying open just in time to watch Charles lean back on his heels and slowly peel the glove from his hand with his teeth. Biting down on the fingertip, the Monégasque's eyes never left Max’s as he tugged the glove off, inch by inch. The soft swish as it came free echoed in Max’s ears.

By the time Charles dropped the glove onto the carpet beside him, Max was already trembling.

And completely, fully, achingly hard.

“Putting is all about feel,” Charles murmured, spitting lightly into his palm and wrapping it firmly around Max again.

The sudden slickness made Max jerk, a choked moan catching in his throat as his whole body sagged into the seat with a helpless exhale. God. That was so much better. Warm, wet friction that stole the air from his lungs.

Charles’ touch was confident, practiced even. Each stroke maddeningly slow, like he had all the time in the world and knew exactly how this would end.

“You remember,” Charles said, tone instructional like this was another fucking lesson. “You putt with your shoulders . . . not your wrists.”

Of course, he flicked his wrist anyway on the last word. A cruel twist, just behind the head of Max's cock that made his hips buck forward mindlessly.

“Shit—” Max gasped, fingers tightening on the leather armrest. He couldn’t look away, eyes half-lidded, mouth dropping open, chest rising and falling in hard with shallow pulls.

“You want to push the ball toward the cup,” Charles continued, unhurried, “with a smooth stroke aimed at the hole.”

Max groaned, the sound desperate and broken at the edges when Charles slid a finger over the hole on his tip. 

Jesus, he might combust on the spot.

He couldn’t think—couldn’t breathe. The only thing that existed was the wet, obscene rhythm of Charles’ hand and the humiliating echo of Max’s panting breaths.

Charles kept his pace steady like he was lining up a perfect putt. At the top of each stroke, he flicked his wrist again, adding just enough twist to make Max whimper. He knew. He knew exactly what Max liked, what turned him inside out.

They'd met only a few times at his apartment between both of their insane travel schedules, not leaving the bed until well after the sun came up. It was new and a bit clumsy between them still, a tender thing Max was enjoying every moment of.

Was now a good time to tell Charles they'd be sharing a room together?

He really had to thank Lando again for his Secret Santa gift.

Every flick, every squeeze, every stroke sent sparks through Max’s gut, tightening that coil of pressure lower and lower until—

“Charles, stop—” Max panted, voice cracking. “I–I’m gonna—”

Charles didn’t stop.

He leaned in instead, voice calm and amused even as his grip tightened just a little more.

“I’m wearing my glove in that photo because it’s staged,” he said like they were having a normal conversation. Like Max wasn’t seconds away from falling apart. “Titleist is also one of my sponsors, along with the Celsius I'm drinking.”

His hand twisted again, firmer, dragging Max closer to the edge.

“You tell me, Max,” he said, emphasis sharp on his name. “Does it seem like I don’t know when to take off my glove?”

Max didn’t answer.

His whole body was already shuddering with the effort to hold on while Charles—that smug, methodical bastard—just kept going, hand slick and sure, voice velvet and heat as he pushed Max over the brink with a final, punishing twist of his wrist.

Max saw stars.

His vision went white at the edges as his back arched off the seat, hips jerking into Charles’ hand, a rough, broken sound tearing from his throat. Every muscle in his body locked tight, a sharp line of tension ran from his core to the tips of his fingers, as he spilled hard into Charles’ waiting grip.

He was disoriented, breathless, floating.

For a few long seconds, the only thing he could hear was the dull roar of blood rushing in his ears. He slumped against the backrest, chest heaving, skin flushed, eyes blinking open in slow-motion disbelief. 

The plane’s cabin felt like it had shifted sideways. Gravity irrelevant. Logic? Gone.

There was an odd, heavy sensation around his dick, warm and snug, like a second skin, and as he tilted his head down, still panting, he blinked through the haze to see Charles’ glove wrapped neatly around him.

Max had finished straight into it.

The well-worn leather was now completely ruined—darkened and sticky inside, the brushed interior clinging to his overly sensitive skin.

“Oh my God,” Max groaned, half a laugh, half a breathless plea, thrusting lightly into the damp glove without even meaning to. The residual friction was toe-curling, filthy and insane.

Who the hell knew golf could be this hot?

Charles, still kneeling for a beat longer, looked up at him with that same unbearable expression, composed and satisfied like he’d just hit the cleanest drive of his life.

With no urgency whatsoever, he rose and returned to his seat across from Max, settling in like nothing had happened. He smoothed his shirt, crossed his legs, and fastened his seatbelt with a click—smirking like the devil himself.

“Liked your hands-on demonstration?”

Max let his head drop back against the seat and barked out a hollow laugh.

“Yeah,” he breathed, running a hand through his messy hair. “What do I owe you?”

Charles tilted his head, resting his elbow on the armrest. “No charge for the putting practice.”

“For this?” Max asked, holding up the ruined glove. 

“Please,” the corner of Charles' mouth curled up as Charles waved his hand. “Like I don't have six more in my bag.”

Max grinned despite himself, completely wrecked, still half-hard as he tucked himself away, and very seriously considering canceling all his future plans just to take private lessons for the rest of his life.

Tossing the glove onto the seat next to him, Max quickly settled himself between Charles’ thighs, earning a gasp from the brunette. 

“Let's see if I learned anything.”

The soft ding of the elevator signaled its descent as light crept through the narrow window slits in the hallway—the early morning sun just beginning to crest over the hills that ringed the edge of the resort. Warm rays painted the tiled floors in amber as Max and Charles stepped inside the elevator of the high-end hotel.

Charles looked irritatingly fresh for someone who had no business looking good at 6:15 a.m. His Puma polo was crisp, hair somehow perfectly tousled like he’d walked through a light coastal breeze, and his expression was its usual mix of sleepy charm and quiet arrogance.

Max, on the other hand, still had pillow lines on his cheek and a backwards cap shoved over barely brushed hair. He tugged at the hem of his shirt, forcing it to tuck into his pants and blinked blearily down at his phone, where his group chat with the guys was blowing up.

Carlos: Max where are you?

Lando: i assume you’re late because your “caddy” is giving you a wake up call

Alex: how many strokes are we talking?

Carlos: he definitely got a hole-in-one last night lol

Pierre: did you guys eat already? Im starving

Oscar: @Pierre I have some nuts in my bag if you want them

Lando: @Oscar i bet you do 👀

Max rolled his eyes and grunted under his breath, fingers flying as he typed back a simple: I’m on my way down.

God only knew what Lando had told them. Max had intentionally kept things vague when asked about who he was bringing. In retrospect, he should’ve known Lando would turn that mystery into a full-on soap opera.

Beside him, Charles adjusted the strap on his golf bag. His sunglasses were hooked onto the collar of his shirt, and he looked like he belonged in a Rolex ad. Max felt suddenly underdressed.

“What time do we tee off again?” Charles asked, breaking the silence. His voice was still a little husky with sleep, the kind that made Max’s skin itch in the best way.

“Uhh . . . ” Max scratched the back of his neck, pretending to think when in reality he had no clue. “I’ll ask in the group.”

Charles chuckled. He shifted the bag higher on his shoulder. 

“You really didn’t want to check your clubs with the concierge?” Max asked.

Charles glanced sideways at him. “I’m a DP Tour pro. All my clubs are custom-fitted to me. I’m not leaving them with some random guy named Jeremy who smells like cheap cigars and too much cologne.”

Max huffed a laugh. “DP pro, huh?” he teased. “Guess we’ll have to test that out.”

Charles shot him a flat look and smacked him lightly on the shoulder with the back of his hand. “It’s only called that for sponsorship reasons. Don’t act like you’re above it, Mr. Visa-Energy-Drink-Whatever-Car.”

“It’s Oracle Red Bull Racing,” Max grinned, unbothered. “Thank you very much.”

“Exactly,” Charles muttered. “You’re literally sponsored by a database.”

“I'm still open to the DP idea.”

Charles arched a brow, and Max raised a challenging one back right as the elevator chimed again. The doors slid open to the sprawling resort lobby, flooded with morning light and filled with the subtle buzz of staff and early risers.

Why were there so many people awake so early? 

Max exhaled and stepped out first, spotting the familiar group huddled by the oversized stone fountain—Carlos, Lando, Pierre, Oscar, Alex and his girlfriend all in varying degrees of expensive leisurewear, sunglasses already on, golf visors optional.

Max looked back over his shoulder at Charles, who lifted his bag onto his shoulder.

The Dutchman smirked.

“Would you mind going over to concierge to get my bag, Mr. Caddy?” Max asked, lips twitching as he turned his cap around and tugged down the brim to hide the smug glint in his eyes.

Charles sighed, but didn’t argue. He just rolled his eyes with exaggerated patience and pivoted toward the desk, his footsteps annoyingly quiet for someone carrying a full bag of clubs.

Max turned the opposite direction toward the group.

“Max!” Alex called, waving dramatically from across the stone-tiled lobby. The rest of the guys turned at the sound, all of them already dressed like they were prepping for a Golf Digest shoot. Lando’s shirt had a palm tree pattern. Pierre was, tragically, in pleated shorts.

Picking up his pace, he slipped into the circle, squeezing in beside Lando and clapping him lightly on the shoulder.

“You’re late,” Lando said immediately, eyes narrowed behind his sunglasses. “We tee off in less than ten minutes.”

“Then I’m not late,” Max replied, deadpan. “I’m exactly on time.”

“We’ve gotta head out early to load the bags onto the carts,” Carlos said. “Where are your clubs?”

“Oh, don’t worry. My caddy’s grabbing them from concierge. They’ll be here in just a second.”

“Where?!” Lando’s voice cracked an octave as he spun in place, scanning the lobby. “Which one is she? The blonde with the ponytail?”

Max opened his mouth, but before he could speak, a familiar voice cut in from behind them, pleasant and devastatingly well-timed.

“Your clubs, Mr. Verstappen.”

Max turned to see Charles stepping up behind Lando, golf bag slung easily over one shoulder,  his own on the other. His expression was neutral, but the tiniest hint of smugness curled at the corners of his mouth. “Would you like me to take them to the cart for you?”

There was a full second of silence.

Lando froze.

Pierre blinked. Carlos furrowed his brows. Alex choked on whatever he was sipping from his water bottle and Lily smiled bright.

Max had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. He shook his head. “No, that’s okay,” he said casually, reaching for the bag. “First, I’d like to introduce you to some people.”

He turned slightly, already relishing the way Lando’s face had gone pale, like he’d just watched his fantasy implode in real time. Max gestured between Charles and the group.

“Everyone,” he said, voice smooth as anything, “this is Charles Leclerc. My instructor and the pro at Monte Carlo Club.”

Charles raised an eyebrow but said nothing, simply offering a small, elegant wave to the stunned group. Max didn’t need to look—he felt Lando’s eyes snapping to him in horror. 

He was going to milk this the entire weekend.

“Hi! Oh, it’s so nice to meet you,” Lily—Alex’s girlfriend and LPGA pro—chirped as she stepped forward, all warmth and manicured elegance, hand extended toward Charles.

Max watched, mildly intrigued, as Charles reached out and shook it, offering her the kind of charming, sun-drenched smile that made old ladies swoon and sponsors sign six-figure deals.

Those dimples were lethal.

“I watched the Korean Championship last week,” Lily said with genuine enthusiasm. “That hole—the thirteenth? Was brutal. All that wind.”

Charles blinked, visibly surprised and then grinned. “Island greens are not my favorite,” he admitted with a chuckle. “There’s no margin for error.”

Around them, everyone except Alex looked at her like she'd grown a second head.

Max blinked. What the hell was happening?

“You’re in luck today,” Lily continued. “No water hazards on this course.”

Charles nodded, still smiling. “True. But the bunkers on seven and thirteen are nasty for layups. You’ve really gotta commit on placement or you’re screwed for your approach.”

Max stared.

That sounded like absolute word salad. Well, all but bunker.

Max was very familiar with those . . .

But what the fuck was a layup placement? He thought that was a basketball term.

Charles and Lily continued chatting, full-on nerding out over course architecture, green speeds, and something called a “false front,” which Max was pretty sure was either a golf term or an insult toward Pierre’s new hair.

Max glanced around. Lando had his mouth half open. Pierre was blinking like he was buffering. Oscar just quietly took a sip of his coffee, checking his watch.

A tall man in a navy polo and slightly too-tight pants approached the group.

“Hi,” the guy said, voice shaking just a bit. “Sorry to interrupt. Can I ask for an autograph?”

Lando immediately perked up, already reaching into his back pocket for a Sharpie, but the man pulled his course map back slightly.

“Charles,” he said, eyes landing squarely on him. “My son and I watched you win the Spanish Open last year. We were screaming at the TV when you made that birdie on seventeen.”

Charles blinked again, caught off guard but his expression softened into something grateful.

“Yes, of course,” he said, taking the pen and signing the man’s map with a flourish.

The moment stretched.

Every single driver in the group slowly turned their heads to look at Max, varying degrees of disbelief painted across their faces.

Max just shrugged one shoulder. “Well,” he said, “I'm wake at 6:30. Let’s play some golf.”