Chapter Text
The morning started with a piercing ring that seemed to drill right through his brain. Max pulled the pillow over his head with a low growl, hoping the sound would vanish, but Daniel's phone on the bedside table next to him kept blaring. The most annoying part was that Dan himself, sprawled on his bed in a star pose, didn't even move. Sleepily blinking and feeling the usual anger at his roommate boiling inside, Max sat on the edge of the bed, heavily rubbing his face with his hands. Sleeping again wasn't going to happen. The adrenaline, even if caused by irritation, had already sent the blood rushing through his veins.
Throwing on his team hoodie and tossing a heavy sports bag over his shoulder, Max stepped out into the cool morning street. The Ice Arena met him with an unusual silence and the hollow echo of his own footsteps. He walked down the corridor, rummaging through his pockets for the locker room keys which had been given to him as captain. The Red Bulls' practice was first on the schedule, but there was still plenty of time before it started. Max planned to hit the ice alone and run a few warm-up laps to knock the remnants of sleep and annoyance out of his head before the noisy team crowded into the locker room.
His fingers felt the cold metal of the keys when his ears caught a rhythmic, cutting sound. Someone was on the ice. Max frowned, slowing his pace. It was too early for the team, and none of the guys were known for being early birds. Perhaps Sebastian had come before dawn again to check the ice or set out the cones. Max turned toward the stands and approached the boards. The words he wanted to shout to the coach as a greeting got stuck in his throat. It wasn't Vettel on the ice.
It was a guy he didn't recognize. He glided across the ice with such striking ease that for a second, it seemed to Max like he wasn't touching the surface at all. Max never understood figure skating. To him, the ice was a battlefield, a place where speed, power, and hard hits ruled. But what he saw now broke all his usual perceptions. The guy moved smoothly, flowing from one choreographic element to another. Max froze, unconsciously gripping the edge of the board with his fingers, unable to look away. It was strangely fascinating. He didn't even think about the fact that it was now time for the hockey players, or that he needed to chase the stranger away. He could only watch.
The figure skater's speed increased. He went into a difficult jump, soaring into the air, but at the moment of landing, something went wrong. The skate slipped at an unnatural angle, and the guy collapsed onto the ice with a dull thud. He didn't try to tuck or get up immediately, but remained lying on his back, arms spread out to the sides, completely motionless. Max's heart skipped a beat. The heavy bag hit the floor with a crash, and he, forgetting everything, vaulted over the board. His regular sneakers immediately slid on the smooth surface, and Max nearly fell himself, clumsily shuffling his feet and balancing with his arms to keep from falling as he ran to the center of the rink.
"Hey, can you hear me?" Max's voice sounded raspy and louder than he expected as he dropped to his knees on the cold ice next to the guy.
The sticky fear that gripped Max's chest only began to recede the moment the brunette slowly, almost reluctantly, opened his eyes and shifted his gaze to him. Max swallowed hard, suddenly realizing how close he was. The guy in front of him was strikingly, confusingly handsome. The gaze of deep green eyes slid over Max's face with slight curiosity. His delicate features relaxed, and barely noticeable dimples appeared on his cheeks from a soft, soothing smile.
"I'm fine," the voice sounded quiet but surprisingly calm, as if the fall was just part of his routine.
"Are you sure nothing hurts?" Max cleared his dry throat, feeling a completely unfamiliar, strange flutter starting under his ribs, making the blood rush to his ears.
"I lie like this often," the brunette explained, making no attempt to get up. "It helps... cool my head. But thanks for the concern, anyway."
The gaze of the green eyes became more piercing. The figure skater carefully studied the hockey player hovering over him, his eyes sliding from the messy blonde hair to the tense line of the jaw. This direct, searching attention made Max feel even more uneasy. He was used to the stares of fans or opponents, but this look was different. Unable to withstand this strange pause, Max stood up abruptly.
"If you lie there for long, you'll catch a cold," he grunted, trying to return his voice to its usual firmness, and held out his hand.
The guy hesitated for a second, then placed his thin, elegant palm into Max's wide hand, which was covered in hard calluses from his stick. Max, used to the weight of hockey gear and massive teammates, pulled him up. He didn't want to be rough, he just didn't calculate his strength. The figure skater turned out to be incredibly light. The jerk was too sharp, and the brunette lurched forward by inertia, losing his balance on his skates. He crashed right into Max's broad chest. Instinctively, Max wrapped an arm around his waist so they wouldn't both collapse onto the ice. The movement stopped as abruptly as it had begun.
They froze, their faces unacceptably close. Max could feel the heat of his body through the thin training shirt and felt the figure skater's breath lightly touch his own lips. In the silence of the empty arena, all that could be heard was the two of them sharing one ragged breath. Max looked into the green eyes, widened with surprise, and realized that his fingers gripping the guy's waist weren't in a hurry to let go, and there wasn't a single coherent thought left in his head about the upcoming practice.
"Verstappen," a calm but multi-echoed voice suddenly rang out over the empty arena.
Max's whole body flinched, as if he'd been splashed with ice water. The figure skater in his arms also exhaled sharply, and they recoiled from each other with such haste it was as if they'd been burned. The distance between them instantly widened to a familiar and safe one, but Max still felt the phantom warmth of the other's body on his fingers. His heart was pounding somewhere in his throat, making it hard to breathe normally. Turning his head, he saw Sebastian. The coach was standing by the boards with a cup of coffee in his hand and looked far too cheerful for such an early hour.
"I'm glad you had so much enthusiasm to come to practice early today," Vettel continued, with playful glints appearing in the corners of his eyes. "Especially considering your love for being late."
"Good morning, coach," Max forced out, feeling like a clumsy teenager who had just been caught doing something completely illegal.
Sebastian didn't finish his student off and shifted an inquisitive gaze to the figure skater. The guy had already managed to pull himself together, though his chest was still heaving heavily.
"I don't remember the figure skaters having a morning practice today," Seb said, and there really wasn't a hint of irritation or anger in his tone, just slight confusion.
The brunette smoothly pushed off the ice and skated closer to the boards, stopping a couple of meters from Sebastian. Max mechanically took a step in the same direction, trying to keep his balance on his sliding shoes.
"I'm sorry," the figure skater said with sincere regret, looking down. His shoulders tensed slightly in anticipation of a reprimand. "I hoped to leave before anyone arrived, but I stayed a bit too long."
Max noticed how nervously the guy was fidgeting with the edge of his training sweatshirt. It was obvious he was afraid of the consequences: one call to Toto Wolff for unauthorized use of the ice, and he could have problems. But Sebastian only gave a warm and understanding smile.
"Don't worry, it'll stay between us."
"Thank you," the tension dropped instantly, and the figure skater smiled happily, showing those charming dimples on his cheeks again. Something inside Max squeezed treacherously at the sight.
The guy skillfully stepped off the ice onto the rubber floor, walking on his blades with such confidence as if they were regular shoes. He had already taken a few steps toward the corridor, but suddenly stopped. For a fraction of a second, he looked back over his shoulder and stared straight at Max. Something hard to read, soft and catching, flickered in his green eyes. Max, completely forgetting the coach's presence, greedily caught that gaze, watching the graceful figure until it disappeared around the corner. Only when the footsteps faded did Max awkwardly approach the boards. Sebastian had been standing there with his arms crossed over his chest the whole time, and now he was looking at Max with blatant interest. Under that mocking squint, Max wanted to sink through the concrete slab right into the arena's basement.
"I always thought your focus was exclusively on the puck," Sebastian mused, taking a sip of coffee, "But apparently, graceful spins and beautiful eyes distract even the league's best forwards."
Color instantly flooded Max's face, burning his cheeks. His eyes widened in outrage and embarrassment at the same time, and his breath caught.
"I... he just fell!"Max waved his hands actively, opening his mouth to dump a thousand ridiculous excuses on the coach. "I was checking if he'd crashed, we don't even know each other, and..."
"Go change," Vettel interrupted with a chuckle, patting his tense shoulder, and his voice instantly took on its usual, strict coaching tone. "You'll help me set up the equipment before the team arrives."
Max shut his mouth, realizing that any further arguments would only make things worse. He gave a sharp nod, picked up his discarded bag, and walked quickly toward the locker rooms. Thoughts, no matter how hard he tried to focus on hockey, stubbornly returned to the guy with the green eyes.
The ice crunched under the blades with a pleasant, almost soothing sound. Max was breathing heavily, leaning on his stick and watching Sebastian skillfully send another puck exactly into the top corner of the empty net.
"Not bad for a warm-up," Sebastian exhaled, skating up to Max and braking so that snow spray scattered in all directions.
Before Max could answer, the click of a heavy door opening sounded from the direction of the locker rooms. Max instinctively straightened up, taking his usual pose as a self-confident captain.
The first on the ice, as always, with the precision of a Swiss watch, was Oscar. Piastri skated out onto the rink with perfect posture, slowly fastening his helmet strap. Oscar was the only one on the team who viewed the schedule not as a recommendation, but as an inviolable law of the universe. Being an incredibly smart and meticulous guy, he approached both hockey and his studies with academic seriousness. Oscar glanced over the empty stands, then looked at the neatly placed cones and, finally, stopped his calm, expressionless gaze on Max.
"I could've sworn today was Tuesday," Oscar said in a level tone, skating up to them. "But since Verstappen is on the ice before the official warm-up starts, it means a space-time shift has happened, and we've all missed the beginning of the end of the world."
"Very funny, Piastri," Max grunted, lightly hitting the ice with his stick. A slight irritation mixed with carefully hidden awkwardness stirred inside him. "I just couldn't sleep."
"Considering we have a midterm test in sports psychology tomorrow, I'd assume you've been preparing all night," Oscar turned smoothly, starting to do warm-up laps, moving exactly along the set radius. "But we both know you don't even know what color the textbook cover is."
"I'm the captain, my psychology is scoring goals, not writing essays about them," Max snapped, but without real anger. It was hard to argue with Oscar; he never raised his voice and just stated facts that were difficult to dispute.
The crash of a flung-open door and loud voices interrupted their dialogue. The rest of the team began to spill out onto the ice. First, stumbling over his own skates and complaining loudly, came Daniel. His curly hair stuck out in all directions from under a loosely fitted helmet, and his eyes were throwing lightning bolts.
"Traitor!" Ricciardo yelled across the arena, pointing his stick at Max like a prosecutor in court. "You abandoned me! You left your best friend to die to the sounds of that devilish alarm clock."
Max rolled his eyes, feeling his lips stretch into a smirk on their own. Dan knew how to turn any little thing into a Broadway tragedy, and his energy always had a calming effect on Max.
"It was your alarm clock, moron," Max shouted back, pushing off and gliding toward his friend. "And you were sleeping like you'd been concussed. If I'd tried to wake you up, I'd have had to pour a bucket of ice water on you."
"I'd have preferred the water to your sneaky escape," Dan dramatically clutched his heart, skating closer. "I wake up, and my roommate's bed is empty, the coffee isn't brewed, and the apartment is silent. I thought you'd been abducted by aliens or decided to transfer to the art department out of boredom."
The others followed Dan. Carlos, adjusting his gloves, listened to the bickering with interest, while Checo, yawning so wide his jaw almost clicked, lazily flicked the puck from blade to blade.
"Wait a second," Carlos stopped, leaning on his stick and shifting his gaze from Max to the already set-up shooting trainers. His eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Verstappen got here before us? Before Oscar?"
"I arrived exactly on schedule, to the minute," Oscar piped up, skating past them backward. "But Max broke the system."
"Dude, are you sick?" Yuki, the shortest and loudest of them all, skated up to Max and unceremoniously poked him in the side with the butt of his stick. "Did you get hit in the head at yesterday's practice and we didn't notice the concussion?"
Max felt the treacherous heat rushing to his cheeks again. He hated being the center of attention for such stupid reasons.
"Oh, fuck off," Max brushed Yuki away roughly and pushed off the ice hard, taking the puck from Checo with a sharp movement. "I just decided you guys were too slow, and I needed a proper warm-up before you started getting under my feet."
"Oh, look at him, Mr. Captain is on fire today!" Daniel burst out laughing, immediately joining the play and trying to intercept the puck from Max. "I bet he just ran away from the chaos we made in the kitchen yesterday. Admit it, Max, you were afraid of the unwashed dishes."
"I was afraid you'd try to cook your 'special' protein pancakes again, which make the whole floor smell like burnt rubber," Max countered, carving a sharp turn and getting away from Dan.
"Hey, my pancakes are perfect for bulking!" Dan protested, racing after the puck.
Alex, the team's goalie, slowly rolled onto the ice last, dragging a huge bag with heavy goalie gear. He looked the sleepiest of all, his eyes barely open.
"Can you guys yell a bit quieter?" Alex groaned, dropping his bag by the net and rubbing his temples through his helmet. "I don't even get why we have to hit the ice so early. And why does Max look like he's already played a whole period in the cup final?"
"Because our captain decided to become the perfect role model today," Carlos smirked, joining the skate-around and easily taking the puck from a distracted Dan. "I'm afraid to imagine what's next. Maybe he'll start saying 'please' and 'thank you' to the refs?"
"Hell will freeze over first," Oscar stated from the other end of the rink, neatly guiding the puck around another cone.
The team erupted in a chorus of laughter. Max, gritting his teeth, struck the intercepted puck with force, sending it straight into the board with a deafening crack. The sound echoed through the arena, making everyone fall silent for a second.
"Enough yapping!" Max barked, trying to put all his captain's sternness into his voice, though awkwardness was still bubbling inside him. "Pair up. Dan, you're with me. If you've got this much energy for talking, it means you're ready for shuttle runs from board to board!"
The guys groaned in protest but obediently started pulling toward the center. Dan, skating up to Max, lightly bumped his helmet against Max's shoulder.
"Alright, alright, don't get worked up," Ricciardo chuckled conciliably, looking his friend in the eyes with his signature, impossibly wide grin. "But you still owe me breakfast for leaving me at the mercy of the morning blues."
Max only snorted, shaking his head. The familiar rhythm of practice, the guys' rough but sincere jokes, and the weight of the stick in his hands were gradually returning his sense of control over his own life. He was in his place, on his ice, surrounded by his team.
The hot shower washed away the sweat and muscle tension of the practice. Leaving the spacious locker room, Max tossed his heavy bag over his shoulder as he walked. His hair, damp after washing, felt unpleasantly cold on the back of his neck, and a sharp, athletic scent of shower gel drifted from the wet towel inside the bag. Yuki was loudly and emotionally arguing about something with Checo, waving his hands, while Carlos lazily hummed in agreement without taking his eyes off his phone screen. Max walked a bit behind everyone, feeling a pleasant, pulling heaviness in his legs. It was the right kind of fatigue, the kind that usually brought him a sense of accomplishment.
The Ice Arena's corridors were wide and bright, with high vaults that reflected the footsteps of several pairs of sneakers in a hollow echo. The team passed a long wall traditionally reserved for information stands, schedules, and the halls of fame for various sports sections. On the right stretched a huge panel for the university's hockey team, illuminated with cold light. Max cast a fleeting glance at it. There, right in the center, as befitted the Red Bulls' captain, hung his own photo. He hated that picture, just as he hated the whole process of posing for a lens. On the glossy paper, Max looked morose, tense, and with his eyebrows drawn slightly together. It always felt to him like the camera sucked all the life out of him, leaving only a cardboard shell. He never knew what to do with his hands or how to properly relax his face, so he preferred to just look into the lens with a cold, almost hostile challenge.
Right after the hockey stand began the figure skaters' territory. Usually, Max would walk past this section without even turning his head, completely ignoring it. But today, something made him slow his pace. His gaze, as if guided by an invisible, irresistible magnet, slid over the rows of neat and aesthetic portraits. Suddenly, Max froze. The guys had moved a bit ahead, continuing their loud argument and completely failing to notice that their captain had fallen behind. Max stood rooted to the spot, unable to look away from one specific face on the board. His legs, as if possessed by a will of their own, made him take two slow steps closer.
The figure skater in the photograph looked completely different than he had sprawled on the cold ice in his training sweatshirt, yet he remained the same. The shot was so perfect it looked like it was meant for the cover of a glossy magazine. Soft studio light highlighted the refined features, and a light, barely noticeable sincere smile touched his lips, revealing dimples on his cheeks. Green eyes looked straight ahead, calm and confident, as if inviting the viewer to solve some mystery. His hair was styled with a light, effortless elegance. There wasn't a hint of the painful stiffness in this guy that Max always felt in front of a camera. He existed in the frame as naturally as he breathed.
Max swallowed hard, feeling his mouth go suddenly dry. He slid his eyes down to a small, neat plaque under the photo and read the letters engraved in an even font.
Charles Leclerc.
Max said the name in his mind, tasting it. It sounded soft, rolling off his tongue with smooth sounds that were completely unfamiliar to him. The name suited this face, this striking grace, and this calm gaze of green eyes perfectly. He stared at the black letters, trying to memorize their shape forever, even though he knew perfectly well he was unlikely to forget them now. He suddenly wanted, with a mad intensity, to reach out and touch the smooth surface of the stand.
A heavy, weighty slap on the shoulder made Max's whole body jump, and he nearly dropped his sports bag from his weakened fingers.
"Hey, Earth to Verstappen!" Daniel's loud voice rang out right in his ear.
Max spun around sharply, his heart beating somewhere near his throat as hard as if he'd just run a cross-country race in full gear. Dan was standing too close, peering over his shoulder with a sly squint. Ricciardo smelled of citrus cologne and sweet gum, and his signature wide smile was shining on his face.
"What are we looking at, cap?" Daniel craned his neck, boldly trying to trace the direction of Max's frozen gaze. "Decided to radically change your profile? Realized hockey is too rough for your sensitive soul and wanted to put on a shiny leotard with sequins?"
Max felt the treacherous hot wave of blood rushing to his cheeks. Panic pierced his mind. Under no circumstances could he let Dan see exactly who he'd been staring at so blatantly. Ricciardo was his best friend, but he was also too perceptive and completely incapable of holding his tongue when it came to jokes. If Dan realized Max had spaced out on a photo of a guy from the figure skating section, he wouldn't leave him alone until graduation.
Max took a wide step to the side, completely blocking the relevant section of the stand with Charles's photo with his broad shoulders.
"Shut up, Dan," Max tried to give his voice its usual, slightly irritated rasp, roughly pushing his friend aside. "I was just seeing how much budget the university wastes on these primped-up princesses instead of getting us decent nets for the goals."
Daniel laughed loudly and heartily, not at all offended by the rudeness. He wasn't bothered by Max's sudden maneuver; he took it as typical captain grumpiness and a desire to argue.
"But what costumes they have!" Dan slapped Max on the back again, nudging him toward the arena exit. "Let's go already. You're lucky we're not having breakfast at our place today, otherwise I'd make you watch me eat your favorite cereal as punishment for leaving me to sleep alone."
Max breathed a sigh of relief, allowing himself to be led away from the stand. The transition from the cool ice arena to the campus was short, but the contrast always struck Max. The arena was literally two steps from the main academic buildings, and as soon as they stepped outside, the silence of the sports complex was instantly replaced by the deafening, chaotic noise of student life. The guys from the hockey team, standing out strongly in the diverse crowd with their matching logo sports bags and sturdy builds, easily merged into the stream of students. Yuki was shouting something indignantly about an uncompleted, difficult statistics homework assignment, Checo was patiently trying to calm him down, and Daniel was already actively waving to some girl he knew from a neighboring department. Max walked right among them, nodding mechanically and briefly in response to the occasional greetings from acquaintances.
They approached the huge glass doors of the main academic building. The crowd of students thickened noticeably, pulling them inside.
After an hour and a half of an absolutely tedious lecture on the basics of sports management, where Max was openly nodding off, the guys went to the cafeteria together. It was the peak of the lunch break: the deafening hum of hundreds of voices, the continuous clink of metal utensils against ceramic plates, loud laughter, and the smells of fried potatoes, coffee, and fresh pastries.
Daniel slid two empty tables by the panoramic window together with a deafening screech. The plastic legs squeaked piercingly against the linoleum, making several students at nearby tables look around in annoyance, but Ricciardo only gave them a radiant smile, not at all embarrassed.
"Let's drop here!" Dan invited, unloading his tray, piled high with food, onto the table. "I swear, if the professor had droned on for even five more minutes, my brain would've just leaked out through my ears. How can someone talk about budgets like they're reading an obituary?"
"You're just mad he called you out for watching cat memes in the back row," Yuki snorted, dropping his tray opposite with a bang. He immediately stared at his portion of pasta with clear suspicion, poking it with a fork as if he expected it to attack back. "Overcooked again. Why does no one in this university know the concept of al dente? It's a crime against culinary arts."
"Eat what you're given, Yuki, you need the carbs," Checo said tiredly, with the tone of a father of many, sitting down nearby and starting to methodically slice a chicken breast.
Max sat down silently on a chair at the edge, feeling his legs throb with tiredness after practice. He pulled his cap off his head, tossed it next to his plate, and looked at his lunch without much appetite. Carlos, settled opposite, managed to chew his salad and fix his hair at the same time, looking into the dark screen of his phone as if it were a mirror. Oscar, who had taken the seat to Max's left, neatly laid out his notes even here, managing to combine eating with reviewing material for tomorrow's test. The atmosphere was relaxed until Alex approached their table. Albon dropped his heavy backpack on the floor, flopped onto an empty chair, and leaned forward conspiratorially, resting his elbows on the tabletop. His eyes sparkled with the bursting desire to share fresh news.
"Guys, you won't believe what I just heard in the administration building," Alex began, lowering his voice just enough to make everyone at the table listen.
"I hope you heard that they're raising our food stipend," Yuki muttered with his mouth full.
"Better," Alex paused intriguingly. "Hamilton and Wolff have started a massive PR campaign. They're going to create a separate, high-end website dedicated exclusively to our Ice Arena. And most importantly, we'll be the face of this promotion. They want to attract more sponsors, boost ticket sales for matches, and turn us into real campus stars."
"Really?!" Daniel's eyes immediately lit up with enthusiasm. "That's just amazing! Finally, the university realizes who brings the real glory here. I can already see the big headlines and crowds of fangirls."
"That's not all," Isack cut into the conversation, having just approached the table with a glass of juice and sitting next to Carlos. "I heard rector Hamilton's assistant discussing the budget. They're hiring a personal photographer for us, who'll also run the social media. They'll film us at practices and in the locker rooms and do cool reports from the matches. Full exclusive."
Max felt his jaw muscles tighten involuntarily, and the fork in his hand froze halfway to his mouth. He exhaled sharply through his nose, rolling his eyes in irritation.
"What a load of trash," Max snapped, his low, tense voice contrasting sharply with the general excitement. "Don't we have anything better to do? We're hockey players, not fucking models. I go on the ice to hammer pucks into the net, not to pose for some random guy with a camera."
"I agree with Max," Oscar said quietly but firmly, not taking his eyes off his notes. "It's an extra distraction. Cameras at practice mess with concentration. We need to think about the playoffs, not about how we look in a lens."
"Oh, come on, you two are just bores!" Carlos protested, looking up from his reflection in the phone. A smug smile played on his face. "It's cool. Imagine high-quality action shots. It's good for the personal brand. Someday we'll go pro, and a media presence will only help us."
"Personal brand, Carlos? Seriously?" Max huffed, crossing his arms over his chest. "My personal brand is the goal stats. If this photographer gets under my feet on the ice, I'll accidentally slam him into the boards. And I'm not joking."
"Don't get worked up, cap," Daniel patted him on the shoulder conciliably. "No one's going to make you smile if you don't want to. You can just be your usual, grumpy Dutchman. Girls like the 'bad boy' type. I'll take on the role of the team's charming face!"
Max only shook his head gloomily, feeling his mood sour. He hated the invasion of his personal space. The idea that every move he made would now be captured by camera flashes caused him almost physical discomfort.
"By the way, it's not just about us," Liam suddenly spoke up, having been silently finishing his burger. "I heard the figure skaters are going to be actively promoted too. They've got some competitions of their own coming up, and they want to focus on aesthetics and all that. So the photographer will be split between our sweaty helmets and their sparkly costumes."
Figure skaters.
Max suddenly caught himself shifting his gaze, which had been fixed on the plastic surface of the tray, to look around the vast space of the cafeteria. He looked at the hundreds of faces around him, at the students scurrying back and forth, at the coffee lines, and a question suddenly popped into his head: where does Charles go to university?
Max frowned, feeling his fingers unconsciously grip the edge of the table. He'd never really thought about the size of their university before. The campus was like its own city. Dozens of departments scattered over a huge territory, different schedules, different cafeterias, and different lecture halls. It was quite possible that Charles was sitting in this very hall right now, lost among the noisy students. Or maybe he wasn't here at all. What if he's just a contract athlete who only comes to the Arena for practice and has nothing to do with the university?
The thought somehow caused a strange, pulling sense of disappointment inside. Max clenched his jaw, angry at himself. What did he care? They were completely different. They had nothing in common besides the Ice Arena building. Charles was aesthetics, art, and refinement. Max was aggression, power plays, and opponents' knocked-out teeth. If Charles was studying something creative, their paths in this massive campus might never cross in ordinary life. They rotated in completely different orbits.
And yet, despite all the logical arguments, Max found his eyes continuing to slide through the crowd. He peered into the faces of brunettes passing by their table, unconsciously searching for familiar features.
"Earth to Max," Daniel's voice broke through the thick veil of his thoughts, making Max jump. "Why are you spaced out? Already figuring out how to break the photographer's camera over your knee?"
"What?" Max blinked, struggling to focus on his friend's face, and tried to wipe any expression from his face that might give away his embarrassment. "Yeah. That's exactly what I was thinking about."
He lowered his eyes to his plate, feeling a strange, aching anxiety settle in his chest. The idea of the website and the photographer still seemed terrible to him, but now, somewhere in the darkest depth of his mind, a tiny, selfish thought was born: if this project covered the life of both sections, maybe he'd have a chance to learn a little more about Charles Leclerc than just a name on a board.
Suddenly the world before Max's eyes plunged into darkness. Someone's cool palms with perfectly smooth skin and long nails rested on his eyelids. The air around him was instantly saturated with a thick, suffocatingly sweet scent of vanilla and strawberry.
"Guess who," a ringing, intentionally playful girl's voice sounded right next to his ear.
Max let out a heavy, long sigh, feeling the remnants of his already fragile patience fraying at the seams. His shoulders slumped tiredly.
"Aren't you tired of greeting me like this?" he asked in a flat, almost emotionless tone, without even trying to lift his hands to remove the palms from his face.
An annoyed but still flirtatious click of the tongue came from behind. The hands disappeared, returning Max's view of the brightly lit cafeteria and his snickering teammates. In his peripheral vision, he caught a sharp movement. Maddie, not at all embarrassed by his cold reaction, unceremoniously shoved Oscar with her hip.
"Move it, Piastri," she declared authoritatively.
Oscar, whose face remained just as inscrutable, only sighed quietly. He methodically gathered his notes, slid his food tray over, and without a single word moved to the next chair, giving up the seat. Maddie squeezed in between them immediately, triumphantly crossing her legs and pressing her shoulder against Max's. As soon as Max looked up, he was met with a whole bunch of mocking and teasing glances. Daniel, across from him, stretched his lips into such a wide grin that it seemed his cheeks might crack. Carlos wiggled his eyebrows meaningfully, while Checo just hid a smile behind a glass of juice. The whole team, and half the campus for that matter, knew perfectly well that Maddie had her eye on Max. And the fact that the girl was more than interested in him was obvious to everyone, from the freshmen to the professors.
Many in the team genuinely didn't understand why Max persisted in turning her down. By their standards, and the standards of most guys at the university, Maddie was the dream. She had luxurious, always perfectly styled long blonde hair and big brown eyes. When she needed something, she knew how to look with those eyes so that she resembled an abandoned puppy. It was a trick that worked flawlessly on ninety percent of the male population on campus. She knew her worth and always dressed to highlight her assets: short skirts, tight tops, low necklines. Maddie proudly showed off her flawless figure, honed by hours of training, since she was the captain of the cheerleading squad. She was bursting with energy, possessed strong leadership qualities, and was used to getting whatever she wanted.
But Max remained completely indifferent. Despite his obvious detachment and regular, though polite, rejections, Maddie didn't give up. She continued to cling to him at every opportunity, sat next to him in the cafeteria, waited after practices, and, according to rumors, even called him her boyfriend when she was with her friends. Max didn't ignore her demonstratively or act rude without reason, but he treated her with such marked neutrality, as if she wasn't the hottest girl on campus, but just a classmate. He had long since gotten used to her tricks, her sudden hugs from behind, and her sweet perfume. But the main problem was that Max didn't believe a single word she said. He didn't know if she was even capable of sincerity. He had a strong feeling that Maddie only wanted him for one reason: status. They were both captains, both in the spotlight, both had authority. In her perfectly constructed worldview, a union between the cheerleading captain and the hockey captain was simply a mandatory condition for creating the strong, hot, and most popular couple at the university. It was a beautiful trope from American movies that she wanted to bring to life.
She didn't know the real him at all. She didn't know that behind the rough facade was a person who valued silence. She didn't know that he couldn't stand being in the public eye. She didn't care about his real thoughts or feelings, she was only interested in the image. And Max didn't try to explain it to her. He didn't try to explain anything to anyone at all. Let them think what they want. He had long since gotten used to the many rumors circulating around his name, and those rumors never bothered him.
"Can you imagine, Maxie," Maddie chirped, turning her whole body toward him. Her hand habitually rested on his forearm, her fingers with their perfect manicure lightly stroking his athletic jacket. "Chloe managed to twist her ankle right before the base pyramid at practice today. I thought I'd kill her! We have regionals in a month, and my flyer is out of commission. The coach is furious, the girls are panicking, and I had to spend half an hour rearranging the whole choreography. It's just a nightmare!"
She continued her monologue, gesturing actively with her free hand, genuinely believing that Max was incredibly interested in dance staging problems. Meanwhile, Max methodically finished his portion. He looked at his plate, mechanically moving his jaws, and only occasionally nodded when she paused, expecting a reaction.
"...and that's why I told her that if she doesn't find a proper brace, she'll be on the bench for the rest of the semester," Maddie finished her tirade, proudly lifting her chin. Then her tone changed abruptly. The commanding notes disappeared, giving way to a soft, pleading purr. "Maxie... I really need your help."
Max chewed the last piece of chicken, put down his fork, and finally turned his head toward her.
"What kind?" he asked shortly.
"I need to carry a whole stack of art history books from my locker to the library," she pouted, looking up at him. "They're really heavy, and I'll never manage on my own. Who else can I turn to but the strong captain?"
A loud, absolutely indecent sound came from Daniel's direction, suspiciously sounding like a muffled snort. Yuki started coughing, hiding his face in his hands, while Carlos whistled quietly.
"Oh, what a tragedy," Dan drawled, openly mocking them. "Knight, your move! Don't let the lady strain her back."
"Go on, Max, show your best," Liam chimed in, kicking Max under the table.
The mocking jeers of his friends rolled across their side of the table like a wave. Max shot Daniel a warning look, but as usual, it had no effect on Ricciardo. Max slowly exhaled through his nose. Maddie didn't interest him at all, romantically or otherwise. Her staged weakness was annoying, and her manipulations were as plain as black and white. But Max had his own inner code. He grew up in a strict household, his mother had instilled certain principles in him, and one of them was: if a girl directly asks for physical help, you don't have the right to refuse. Yes, on the ice he could be an aggressive beast, and in conversation he was often blunt and unsociable, but his basic upbringing and respect for women were deep-seated. Refusing a girl who needed help carrying heavy things was unacceptable to him, no matter how much the whole situation irritated him.
"Fine," Max said shortly, pushing away his empty tray and standing up.
Maddie's face immediately lit up with a triumphant smile. She jumped up from her seat so fast it was as if she hadn't been complaining about her hard life a second ago. Before Max could react, she leaned forward, wrapped her arms around his neck, and gave him a loud, wet kiss on the cheek.
"You're my hero, Maxie!" she squeaked happily.
Max jerked instinctively, feeling the unpleasant sticky trail of her strawberry-flavored lip gloss on his skin. He winced, barely suppressing the urge to immediately wipe his cheek with his sleeve. Maddie, not giving him a chance to recover, firmly grabbed his hand, intertwining her slender fingers with his calloused ones, and pulled him along, away from the table. She clearly couldn't wait to show the whole campus exactly who was carrying her things.
The hefty stack of art history books in Max's hands seemed to get heavier with every minute. The thick, glossy volumes pressed against his forearms, but the physical weight was nothing compared to the moral exhaustion of this trip. The university campus was truly huge, a real labyrinth, and now it felt to Max as if they had crossed it from one end to the other. In all his years of study, he had been in this part of the university at most once, and even then in his freshman year when he and Oscar got lost looking for a classroom for a general education project. Here, in the music faculty, the atmosphere was completely different. There was no usual sweat and energy drinks like in the sports block. Instead, a faint scent of old wood and floor wax hung in the air.
Maddie walked ahead, clicking her heels and chirping continuously about some student council intrigue, until she suddenly stopped dead in front of a huge glass display case. Gold and silver cups won by the university choir and orchestra gleamed dimly behind the glass, but the girl wasn't interested in them at all.
"Oh my god!" Maddie gasped, staring in horror at her reflection in the glass. "Max, just look! My lipstick lost its contour. How could you not tell me?"
Max shifted tiredly from foot to foot, feeling the top volume threatening to slide off. He had no idea what a lipstick contour was, and he certainly didn't understand how one could notice such a thing.
"Wait here and don't go anywhere. There should be a restroom down the hall, I'll be back in literally a second," she said, frantically rummaging through her tiny purse, and without waiting for an answer, she dashed around the corner, leaving Max alone in the middle of the wide corridor.
Max exhaled heavily, leaning his shoulder against the cool wall and closing his eyes. Irritation bubbled in his chest, threatening to boil over. He was the captain of the hockey team, not a personal porter for a girl who didn't even notice his obvious reluctance to be near her. He mentally counted down the seconds, hoping that Maddie wouldn't take half an hour.
It was at that moment, through the irritation and the silence of the empty corridor, that a sound broke through. At first, it was just a light, barely perceptible key, as if someone were checking the instrument's tuning. But within a few seconds, the timid sounds merged into a single and incredibly beautiful melody. Max had never understood classical music, for him there was only rhythmic hip-hop for warm-ups and heavy rock to get in the mood before a match, but this... this was something else. The music flowed smoothly, like water over stones.
His feet, as if they had a will of their own, pushed off the wall. Completely forgetting about Maddie, Max followed the sound. The melody led him to one of the classrooms at the end of the corridor. The heavy oak door was halfway open. Max stopped, held his breath, and cautiously looked inside. The classroom was spacious, with high windows. In the very center stood a huge black grand piano, with a guy sitting behind it. Max's heart skipped a beat, and then started pounding so hard it felt like the echo would drown out the music.
Charles.
He sat with his back perfectly straight, head slightly tilted toward the keys, hair a bit ruffled, soft chestnut strands falling over his forehead, his long, elegant fingers fluttering over the black-and-white keyboard with incredible ease and speed. They moved so smoothly and precisely, as if it wasn't a physical effort but simple breathing. There was the same hypnotic grace in this movement that Max had seen that morning at the rink.
So he really did study here. And not only did he skate in a way that made it impossible to look away, but he also played the piano, pulling at the soul.
Max froze on the threshold, turning into a pillar. The thoughts in his head tangled into a tight and illegible knot. He completely lost touch with reality, not understanding what he was more captivated by: the stunningly beautiful melody that seeped under his skin, or the way the light played on Charles's cheekbones, how his brows slightly furrowed at complex chords, how the muscles of his back moved under the thin fabric of his shirt. It was too much for one day.
Absorbed in the sight, Max, without realizing it, shifted his weight and leaned forward slightly, trying to get a better look at Charles's face. The heavy stack in his hands betrayed him with a wobble. The top volume, the most massive one with gold embossing on the spine, slid sideways slowly, as if in slow motion. Max tried to catch it, but it was too late. The book hit the parquet floor with a deafening thud. The sound shattered the perfect harmony of the melody. Charles flinched, and the chord broke off with a sharp, dissonant ring. The guy turned around abruptly. His green eyes widened, first staring at the tome lying on the floor, then slowly lifting to meet Max's gaze. A tense silence hung in the room for a second. Max felt the blood drain from his face. He wanted to sink through the earth, dissolve into the air, become an atom — anything, just not to stand here with an idiotic expression on his face, holding books in hands.
The surprise on Charles's face was quickly replaced by recognition. And just a few moments later, his lips twitched, forming a warm and disarming smile with dimples on his cheeks.
"I'm starting to think you're following me," Charles said with a pleasant accent, and there was clear amusement in his voice.
Max swallowed hard. He opened his mouth, intending to say something clever, sarcastic, or at least justify himself. To say he was just passing by and it was an accident. But his throat was dry, and his tongue seemed glued to the roof of his mouth. He had a strong feeling his brains had melted and leaked out through his ears.
"I..." Max forced out hoarsely, wincing at how pathetic his voice sounded. "It's not... I just..."
Charles, chuckling softly at his reaction, rose smoothly from the bench. He moved completely soundlessly, and this again threw Max off. In hockey, all sounds were loud: the clatter of skates, the crash of boards, the shouting. Charles was the embodiment of silence. He walked over to Max, leaned over easily without bending his knees, and with a grace unavailable to mere mortals, picked up the heavy book and straightened up. He looked at the cover, then turned a mocking, playful gaze to Max.
"Renaissance Art," Charles read and carefully, so as not to upset the balance, placed the volume back on the very top of the stack in Max's hands. "I didn't know the hockey captain was into Botticelli and da Vinci. Educating yourself between body checks on the ice?"
Max stood there, tense to the limit, feeling like a clumsy caveman who had suddenly been handed a crystal vase. He stared brazenly at Charles, soaking in every feature of his face from such a close distance: long dark lashes, clear skin, and green eyes with mischievous sparks dancing in them.
"They aren't mine," Max finally managed to work his vocal cords. His voice sounded too rough, too low for this quiet room. "I was asked to help carry them to the library."
"Oh," Charles drawled understandingly, crossing his arms over his chest. He tilted his head slightly, looking at the confused hockey player in front of him with interest. "A knight on an errand? The girl must be very persistent to make the campus's most elusive guy carry heavy things all over the department."
Max frowned, feeling a prick of irritation at the mention of Maddie. He didn't want Charles to think he was running after someone like an obedient dog.
"I'm not on an errand," he grunted, clutching the stack tighter. "I just don't know how to say no when asked for help with heavy lifting. Upbringing."
Charles laughed softly again, and that sound seemed better to Max than any melody played on the piano.
"Commendable. I'm Charles, by the way. Charles Leclerc," he paused briefly, looking Max straight in the eye, and the corners of his mouth twitched again.
Max felt heat betrayingly rush to his cheeks.
"I know," Max admitted, looking from under his brows. "Max Verstappen. I saw your photo on the board. By chance."
"By chance?" Charles raised an eyebrow, clearly amused by the situation. "There are too many chances for one day, don't you think? First you accidentally come to my morning practice, then you accidentally read my name on the figure skating board, and now you accidentally drop art books by my classroom."
Max opened his mouth to protest, to prove it was all just a stupid coincidence, but suddenly a ringing, impatient voice he would recognize among a thousand — and which he wanted to hear least of all right now — sounded in the corridor.
"Maxie! Where are you?"
Charles looked toward the corridor where Maddie's voice was coming from, then looked back at Max.
"I won't keep you," Charles said. "Maybe I'll see you again."
Max stood for another second, feeling everything inside tighten from the reluctance to leave. He nodded, not finding the right words, turned abruptly, and walked out into the corridor, right toward Maddie who was rushing to meet him. And while she started chirping again, clinging to his elbow, Max wasn't listening to her. He was listening to the silence behind him, waiting for the piano to start playing again.
Practice on the ice was always a time of absolute concentration for Max. In full hockey gear, he felt invincible, like a knight encased in armor whose only goal was victory.
At some point, Max's gaze caught a scene completely unacceptable on the ice. Instead of practicing, three of his players were openly slacking off. Daniel, Carlos, and Isack stood in a tight huddle at the blue line. They were leaning relaxedly on their sticks like retirees on canes, talking animatedly about something while staring at a single point beyond the ice rink. Irritation instantly flared in Max's chest. He was the captain, and no one had the right to loaf around at his practices. The playoffs wouldn't win themselves while these clowns discussed girls from the stands. Max pushed off sharply, picking up speed in two powerful strides, and skated to an aggressive halt with a rasp of blades right in front of the trio.
"Did you come here to flap your gums or play hockey?" he said sternly. "We aren't playing golf here! Get to the circles, now, before I make you run the arena stairs until you're blue in the face."
Daniel didn't even flinch at the captain's anger. Instead, with a completely unperturbed look, he turned to Max and slapped him hard with his huge glove on the back, right between the shoulder blades.
"You'd better shut up and look over there, cap," the Australian chuckled, unceremoniously grabbing Max's shoulder and forcing him to turn toward one of the side entrances to the arena.
Max had already taken a deep breath to tell Ricciardo exactly what he thought about subordination, but the words got stuck in his dry throat. In the part of the rink where the high protective glass ended and the low boards for staff began, stood Charles. He was leaning his forearms on the wide edge of the barrier, arms relaxedly crossed, watching the practice with visible interest. He was wearing a soft, oversized beige sweater with a high neck that made his figure look even more refined against the backdrop of the sweaty and massive hockey players in gear. In the bright light of the spotlights, his chestnut hair seemed a bit lighter.
"Dios mio, just look at those cheekbones," Carlos whistled softly, resting his chin on the knob of his stick. "This guy is fucking handsome. Who even is he?"
"I saw him in the hallway a couple of days ago," Isack drawled thoughtfully. "I think he's a figure skater."
"What's an ice princess doing at our rugged practice?" Daniel chuckled, though there was no malice in his voice, only genuine curiosity. "Studying how real men handle a puck?"
The discussion broke off abruptly. Charles, as if feeling the gazes directed at him, turned his head. His eyes unerringly picked out Max's figure in the crowd. For a second, a look of slight surprise flickered on Leclerc's face at the sight of a whole delegation of big guys with sticks staring at him, but then his lips twitched. He tilted his head slightly and, with a slightly embarrassed but completely sincere smile, raised a hand with long fingers, waving smoothly at them. More precisely, waving at Max.
Something dropped in Max's chest, right into his stomach. His brain refused to process the information, leaving only basic reflexes. And before Max realized what he was doing, he raised a hand in a giant protective gauntlet and waved back awkwardly, with an almost wooden movement. A ringing pause hung in the air, broken only by the hum of the arena's cooling system.
"No way..." Daniel breathed, his voice a mix of shock and total delight. He turned slowly toward Max, as if he couldn't believe his eyes. His eyebrows shot up under his helmet. "You've got a boyfriend and you didn't even tell me? I thought we were friends. How could you break my heart like this?"
"How does Max manage to snag the most beautiful ones?" Isack sighed tragically, shaking his head.
Heat instantly rushed to Max's cheeks, burning his skin. He turned sharply to the team, feeling like he'd been caught red-handed at a crime scene.
"Shut up, both of you," he growled, shoving Daniel hard in the stomach with the butt of his stick. Ricciardo doubled over but didn't stop snickering mockingly. "He's not my boyfriend, idiots. Get back to practice before I kill you."
Without waiting for further comments and jabs, Max pushed off the ice. He glided to the boards where Charles was standing, and those few dozen meters seemed endless to him. A thought pounded in his head: what does he look like from the outside? Sweaty, flushed, in heavy, sweat-soaked gear, looking like a Neanderthal with a club. A complete savage compared to the graceful, flawless Charles.
Max braked sharply right in front of Charles, whose smile grew a bit wider. Max leaned his elbows on the boards, looming over him slightly in his massive protection and breathing heavily after the intense skating. The distance between them shrank to a minimum.
"Is it your turn to spy on me now?" Max asked in a low, slightly raspy voice.
Charles laughed softly. That sound, just like yesterday, seemed incredibly pleasant to Max.
"I have to admit, it's addictive," Charles replied, not at all embarrassed. "Besides, I had to make sure you actually know how to stand on skates. What if all this intimidating hockey gear is just a cover?"
Max snorted, feeling the tension that had gripped his shoulders start to slowly release. It was surprisingly easy around Charles. All that intimidating elegance of his didn't press down — it attracted.
"What are you doing here?" Max asked curiously. "Figure skaters don't have ice for another two hours."
Charles shrugged lightly in his soft sweater. His gaze slid over Max's face, lingering on a bead of sweat running down his temple. Max swallowed, suddenly feeling very hot under the thick layers of his uniform.
"Got out of a lecture early," Charles replied. "Decided to stop by for a coffee at the arena snack bar, and then I heard the crashing and shouting. I got curious about what real, primal aggression looks like in its natural habitat. And it's quite impressive. Brutal, loud, but in its own way... fascinating."
"Fascinating?" Max arched a skeptical eyebrow, frowning in disbelief. It seemed to him that Charles was openly mocking their rough sport, but there wasn't a hint of arrogance or sarcasm in the figure skater's face. "We just slam each other against the boards and try to shove a piece of rubber into a net. There's no aesthetics here like you're used to. None of your pretty spins or jumps, just bruises and knocked-out teeth."
"There's an aesthetics to speed and brute force too, Max," Charles said his name so softly and naturally that a shiver ran down the hockey player's spine.
The noise of the arena, the shouts of teammates, the clatter of pucks — it all suddenly receded, became background. Max looked only at Charles. At the way the light fell on his face, at how his lips were slightly parted. Something thick and palpable hung between them, some kind of electrical tension that made his fingertips tingle. Max, not realizing what he was doing, leaned forward slightly, crossing the invisible boundary between the ice and the stands. Charles didn't pull away, his eyes widened slightly as he watched Max's movement, captivated.
"Everyone over here!"
The sharp, piercing sound of the coach's whistle shattered this fragile moment. Max jerked back instinctively, blinking as if waking from hypnosis.
Sebastian Vettel walked onto the arena with a confident stride. Following him, looming like a tower, walked the Director of the Ice Arena, Toto Wolff, in his flawless suit. Closing this strange procession was a guy Max didn't know. Short, with a whole mop of unruly black curls and a professional camera hanging around his neck.
The hockey players reluctantly glided to the boards. Seb, stopping at the gate, scanned the team with a stern look, but when his eyes landed on Max, frozen right next to Charles, an interested expression flickered on the coach's face. He raised an eyebrow, clearly remembering catching them together the same way yesterday morning.
But Toto wasn't one to stay silent. Noticing Leclerc standing behind the boards, the director frowned.
"What's a figure skater doing at a hockey practice?" his deep baritone echoed across the ice rink.
Charles immediately pulled away from the boards, his back straightened, and the mask of perfect politeness returned to his face.
"My apologies, Mr. Wolff," he apologized, tilting his head slightly. "I was just passing by and lingered. I'm leaving now."
He was already about to turn toward the exit, but Toto suddenly raised a hand, stopping him.
"No, Charles, stay," the director said unexpectedly softly. "It's even for the better, you can give our new guest a tour."
Charles blinked in surprise and looked at the curly-haired guy with the camera. He looked back at Charles, and they both exchanged slightly awkward, shy smiles, like two school kids sat at the same desk.
"Guys, a moment of your attention!" Toto announced loudly, turning to the hockey team lined up along the boards. "I present to you Lando Norris. Lando is a professional photographer, and starting today, he'll be working with us. He's also becoming the head of our new official website. His task is to promote our athletes and make sure everyone in this city and beyond knows about the Red Bulls and our figure skaters. Please give him a warm welcome!"
Following old hockey tradition, the players all banged their sticks against the ice. This dull, drumming sound filled the arena. Lando, clearly not expecting such a warm and noisy reception, gave a wide and genuine smile, his eyes shining with enthusiasm. He immediately raised his camera, taking a few test shots of the team banging on the ice.
"You'll get to know each of the guys individually later," Toto continued, addressing Lando now. "There will be a lot of work. And now, Charles, be so kind as to give Lando a tour."
"Of course, Mr. Wolff," Charles nodded. "Come on, Lando."
They turned and moved along the boards toward the exit while Max watched them go. He saw Lando immediately start telling him something actively, waving his free hand, and Charles, listening intently, laughed. They found a common language so quickly that a strange, completely unfamiliar feeling until that moment pricked Max's chest.
The guys on the ice continued to whisper, watching Charles and Lando walk away, until Seb decided the break had gone on too long. The coach put the whistle in his mouth and gave a deafening blast that made half the team's ears ring.
"What are you frozen for?" Vettel said loudly, clapping his hands. "Practice isn't canceled. Line up on the blue line, we're doing shuttle runs with sprints. And look alive!"
The team began to turn around with dissatisfied humming, reluctantly returning to the hard work. Max was the last to push off the ice. He took a final look at the doors where Charles and Lando had just disappeared. He gripped his stick hard. For his whole conscious life, Max Verstappen had considered figure skating just boring dancing on skates, but now he suddenly caught himself with one clear thought: there was now one figure skater for whose sake he was ready to sit in the stands during every single performance.