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Max knows that the team is incredibly proud of him for turning the season around. Max knows that even he hadn’t expected to end the year as the championship runner-up. Max knows that he should be happy for maximizing every opportunity presented to him. He knows that closing a gap of 104 points to Piastri and ending with 11 more than the other with only 9 races left is a fantastic feat (Granted, the Australian had a tough run in those).
He fucking knows all of that. But it doesn't make the sting of defeat any less sour.
What more could he have done? He was 2 points away. He won the race, there was no feasible way to make Lando fall short of the podium. The team knew that something had to go very wrong for the Mclaren team for him to come out on top. Of course, when Max needed it most, they failed to make an oh-so-common mistake.
He wishes he could be proud of himself the way the team is; the way all his fans and family probably are. Unfortunately for him, all Max can think about is how close he was to putting his name next to legends. He’d match Fangio for 5. He’d beat Seb in the number of Red Bull championships. He’d be the second ever next to Michael to win 5 consecutively.
While everyone around him celebrates, he has to duck his head down to hide his face. They’ll be able to see the disappointment—even through the spraying champagne. Max gives everyone a quick smile as he travels through the team members, all cheering and clapping him on the back, on his way into the garage.
As soon as Max escapes into the connecting corridor and the door shuts behind him, his face drops. The doubts and frustration seep in and squeeze his chest into an almost physical pain. He only unzips his race suit to his shoulders, making the smallest effort to release some of the tension he’s built up since losing the championship.
At this point in his life, settled into 28, Max wishes he was mature enough to not get all irritable and upset over inconveniences, but here he was—ready to throw a fucking tantrum. Throwing himself onto the pitiful excuse of a cot, he huffs and knocks his head back against the wall. Max reaches out for his phone, and braces himself to see a screen full of platitudes.
Is the need for some validation worth his dignity? He didn’t want to see nearly a hundred messages in his inbox. He didn’t want to hear anyone’s voicemails about how much of a shame it is that he lost it in the final race. As far as Max was concerned, coming second was being the first loser. He might’ve won the race, but Lando won the season.
Max closes his eyes and thinks back through the year. Where did he lose it? Was it doomed from the start when he failed to reach the podium in Shanghai? Maybe it was Bahrain, out-qualified by Pierre Gasly of all people. Maybe…
It was probably Spain. Of course, it was always George. Shouldn't have lost my fucking head.
Or he could have known that Antonelli would be too ambitious, too hungry in Austria, the universe couldn't let him win the team’s home race. If it hadn’t gone the way it had, he'd probably put some blame onto São Paulo. Whatever.
He takes a deep breath, and lets it out slowly, like he is exhaling all of his emotions with the air (It doesn’t work, but God forbid a man try). Max opens his eyes again and clicks on his phone. He’s swiping away at the notifications before he can process what they say. It’s not worth it right now. It’s not what he needs.
Reluctantly, he takes a peek at only one message thread, pinned to the top, unused for months and still quiet. There’s a dreadful feeling of disappointment that shoots down to his chest. Max isn't sure how many tiny pieces of hope he can keep losing, he didn’t even know that he was wishing for them.
Did he stop keeping up with the season? Had he been disappointed earlier in the year and decided that I wasn’t worth watching if I wasn’t going to win it? That must be it. He hasn’t texted in months.
Max grumbles to himself as he closes the app. It was fine, he’d find something else to soothe the ache in his chest. In his camera roll, in a locked album, he keeps the most pathetic of his wishes. Stupid TikTok edits of the two of them to sappy songs, all the photos and videos he’s taken over the years, screenshots of messages he’d sent Max, the list went on.
And the worst ones, in his opinion, were two screen recordings of voicemails Max received (One on his birthday, the other after he secured the title in Las Vegas) last year. He thinks these two videos might be able to fuel him for life. They were pretty short and sweet, only a few minutes put together, but really, they contained all he ever wanted to hear.
04:23 September 30, 2024, Monaco.
—Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday Max Verstappen, happy birthday to youu. *Daniel chuckles* Man, I can’t believe you’re 27, it’s crazy how fast time flies. I don’t know how to feel about how much you’ve grown since we first met, it makes me feel real old. Soon you’ll be old, too. Almost 30! Wow. Um, yeah… I wanted to wish you a happy birthday. I’m not really sorry that I’m missing it, I needed a break from all of… all of it -- you know I’m retiring so of course I did, but I hope you have a great day anyway. Hope this call doesn't wake you at buttcrack o’clock because I just remembered that it's your birthday and I’m not gonna wait for you to wake up when I’m, like, eating dinner. That’s about it, good luck with the rest of the season, I’ll be rooting for you Maxy!
23:58 November 23, 2024, Las Vegas.
—Max Emilian Verstappen, you're a four time world champion! What a ride you’ve had, yeah? I don’t know if you can hear it in my voice or not, but I’ve got a big ol’ smile on my face for you. I’m so proud of you, I’m sure you’ve heard it enough, but I’ve gotta get mine in too, you know? You’ve been brilliant all year, and you deserve nothing but the best break when the season is done. Don’t let the people get you down, win the rest of the races -- I don’t wanna see the Mclarens above you! I’m only mostly joking, but my point still stands. My family wanted to make sure I sent their congratulations over as well, so here they are. *He whisper-yells to imitate a group of Ricciardos* ‘Rahhhh! Congratulations, Max! Woop woop!’ We’re all real happy for you, cleared the rest of the day for a little party. *Someone calls for Daniel, but the words are unintelligible* Ah, they’re calling me back already! I still have shit to say… Whatever. Well, I hope you party your arse off, you’ve earned it. You know I love you lots, have a good night, Max.
Max knows that next year may be an even tougher fight for the championship. He knows that sending himself years back, trying to relive something he missed was probably not healthy. Nobody else knew about this, though. When someone eventually comes to fetch him from his driver's room, he’d replayed the videos enough to make his lungs a little lighter. He’s able to be happy for Lando, he’s able to be graceful in his defeat. He knows Daniel would also be proud of his composure. Max can’t fight his lips from quirking up a bit.
Max knows a lot of things. Max knows that Daniel was rooting for him as of September 30, 2024. He knows that as of November 23, 2024, Daniel had said he loved him lots. Really, that’s all that matters to him.