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Max’s day was fucked as soon as his car engine decided to die on what could’ve been his first win all season.
Sure, his engine was due for a replacement — everyone else in the grid had taken a second one already and his was supposed to be replaced next week — but considering how qualifying went, he and his garage were confident that it could last him long enough to win this race. They thought it was better to not alter anything at all that gave him the position he got in qualifying — don’t try to fix something that’s not broken, as the saying goes.
Well, his car turned out to be fucking broken and in need of fixing, thank you very much, but at least he was home earlier.
And because he was fixated on racing (and he was nosy too), he watched the rest of the Monaco race from the comfort of his own apartment, Sassy sitting next to him on the couch wagging her tail, looking out the balcony window instead of the TV as Max absentmindedly petted her.
The race had been an eventful disaster. So much had gone wrong, so many penalties were handed — and Max would bet actual money that it was all a mistake courtesy of the FIA and their shitty new speed limiter software — so many DNFs, crashes, even a pothole appeared on what was supposed to be a very straightforward race once Turn 1 was done.
He should have just watched the race, turned the TV off and continued about his day like any normal person without personal stakes in it. This was still his circus, but he had the day off and the monkeys should not have concerned him anymore.
Except he was not a normal person apparently, because something about how Russell’s race was poorly handled by Mercedes just irked him inside. Gun to his head, he could not tell you why that was, but he scoffed at the TV while seeing how poorly the five-second penalty in the pits was handled. This should not be happening at this level in the sport, it could, but you would expect it from a midfield team, and not fucking Mercedes. If it had happened to Max, he would not have let it slide, he would’ve driven the car back to the pits again and made them serve the goddamn penalty instead of risking a drive-thru penalty, then he would’ve unleashed his complaints regarding the shitty decisions taken during the race at the debrief, maybe even thrown a couple bitter jabs about it during his interviews.
When the race was red flagged, the stream showed George talking to his engineer and Max could tell George was beyond angry.
“Good,” Max said to no one in particular, approving of George’s anger, of George fighting back. At this point, he might have gotten a little bit too invested in the race, but it was okay, it was normal, though he had no stakes in it. Maybe he should have been rooting for his teammate, who was close to scoring his first podium with the team if he managed to keep the engine from failing, but eh.
As the transmission kept going, they kept showing bits of George now on his garage, angrily pulling at the sleeve of his racing suit and grabbing the pair of headphones from the table — Max assumed it was to review the footage of the botched five-second penalty pit stop.
There was something about observing George angry while Max was not the source of his anger. It entertained Max. Not in a make-fun-of-George way, more in a compelling way where he couldn’t look away. If he could pick a driver’s perspective to follow outside the car while the race is stopped it would’ve been George, so he could observe how the situation unfolded, so he can be a metaphorical fly in the wall as he watches his main rival on track solve this issue, because if Max was sure of one thing it was that George would do anything within his power to settle something with the stewards and manage to get his way. He should know because he’s been on the losing side so many times.
He saw some brief seconds of George jumping over a temporarily placed concrete block, running off to the stewards’ office, alone, to plead his case most likely. Good, Max thought again, because even if on-track he wanted to demolish George, stuff like this should not go unchallenged.
It felt like an eternity for the race to restart, and when it did, Max narrowed his eyes as soon as he saw the red FIA penalty announcement banner at the top of the stream saying that George got a drive-thru penalty. For fuck’s sake.
Now Max was pissed off — which was stupid as hell, because it was in George’s behalf, when no one had asked him to, and they weren’t even really friends to merit this reaction out of Max. But all he knew in that moment was that he was angry and annoyed, at the FIA and also at Mercedes. How could you call yourselves a top-tier team then pay dust to one of your drivers? Horner might’ve been a piece of shit as a person, and he got fired for less incompetence than this, but he would always fight on Max’s behalf even for the stuff that shouldn’t have been argued in the first place.
He watched as the restart of the race progressed, how George managed to climb to P3 then hold up the traffic accidentally — Max snorted at that, because he was sure in his heart that it had been intentional. He knows how much of a petty bitch George can be when he’s fuming, but he also knows George would never admit to doing it out loud. To be honest, Max would’ve done the same. Two sides of the same damn coin and all of that.
After the drive-thru penalty, George placed 13th at the end of the race provisionally, but Max felt uneasy, a feeling akin to when you eat food but it doesn’t sit well in your stomach. How this situation went down didn’t sit well with Max, and he wasn’t even in the team. Why the fuck did he even care. Whatever.
He switched to George’s perspective on the app and heard George’s stupid engineer telling him that Barcelona is next week and to focus on it — Max didn’t even remember the exact words, because he turned the TV off and grabbed his phone, put his shoes on and left the apartment, his cats being briefly confused but ultimately used to it.
It should be filed under one of the most moronic decisions Max has made so far this year that he returned to the paddock again willingly, when he had concluded all interviews and was essentially done for the day. If anyone asked, he was ready to say he was going to debrief with Red Bull or something, even though he was not. He was determined to find the person who was his personal nightmare on any other given day, and thankfully this year Red Bull’s hospitality was next to Mercedes’.
He was about to enter the building, plausible deniability excuse in hand and say that he was going to congratulate Kimi on his win if anyone asked, but he figured everyone would be too busy celebrating the multitude of records the teenager broke today and no one would see him or wouldn’t even bother to ask why Max Verstappen of all people was stepping onto enemy territory.
Max was right for the most part, only a couple scattered Mercedes employees were there but no one batted an eye at him as he walked the familiar path by now to George’s room. He’s been there too many times to yell and argue with George for whatever bullshit either of them decided to pull on the other — although there had been times in the past where he had frequented George’s room back when he was at Williams, to just talk for hours on end about the cars, the sport, anything really. That seemed like an entire different timeline nowadays.
He approached with caution once he was outside the door, waiting to hear any sounds of things being thrown, angry muffled yells or anything that sounded apropos to the situation. He was using the same caution one would use when approaching a feral cat — which Max was used to, with both his cats and George mad at him in the past — but he was met with the sound of plain silence, the door slightly ajar.
Max didn’t bother knocking, he slightly pushed the door and as the hinges creaked and gave him away, he was met with the look of a very defeated George, sitting on the floor of his room, head in hands, not even bothering to look at the intruder.
“Bad day at the office?” Max said as he walked inside looking like a man with a death wish, because he was anything but prudent in volatile situations. Most of the time he always made things worse.
He was expecting George to bite his head off, scoff and say something like “You would know,” to drag him to the pits of hell as he usually does when it comes to Max, or even to kick him out of the room, but he was met with silence in response.
“I watched the race,” Max said to fill the silence, starting to get antsy because George was not showing any of the signs of rage that he should be showing. “What happened to you was a shitshow.”
“Yeah, well. I’d say get in line, but there’s only one other person in this paddock who thinks that, and that would be me, so,” George said and he sounded downright defeated.
Max sighed.
“And what are you going to do about it?” Max hoped that that would elicit some sort of different reaction in George, that the question would bring back that anger he showed earlier, but—
“Nothing.”
And there was the problem.
Maybe that is why a part of Max decided to make the five-minute trip back to the paddock from his apartment. Maybe a part of him — the part that knew George as well as he did, because they have been orbiting each other’s existence for the better part of twenty years — knew that this would happen, and Max could simply not let it stand.
But.
Max was not a comforting person. Hell, he didn’t even know what to say on a good day, much less on a bad day. What could he say, when his own race was over before it even started. What could he say, when all he ever knew was that when mistakes like this happened, his father would unleash his anger towards him, regardless of if it was his fault or not, and all that he was taught as a kid was to unleash his rage against anyone who was incompetent enough to cause him that mistake.
What could he say to George, who was looking like he was sinking deep and fast on the same bullshit from two weeks ago of “the Gods don’t want me to fight this year for the championship”, which for the record Max did not believe in, because regardless of if the universe is conspiring against you or whatever, he was taught to fight against the current instead of just letting himself get dragged away.
“You should go full Britney,” was what Max said, because apparently that was the best his brain could come up with.
George scoffed.
“I’m serious Russell, maybe it’s time for you to rip Toto a new one, let him know he should respect you and put the same level of effort that they’re giving your teammate, or else you will never win.”
“Cheers, thanks for the reminder,” George said, but he didn’t even sound the slightest bit angry. He wouldn’t budge.
It was a sad sight to see, in Max’s opinion. To see someone who is capable of verbally putting someone into place — once again, Max knows this for a fact from previous experiences — look so defeated. George’s biggest issue was his blinding loyalty to Mercedes. Max has seen it previously destroy other drivers little by little, one example being Charles and whatever fuckery Ferrari did week by week to his car, but it still hurts to witness, because George is capable of fighting for himself if only he wasn’t so dead set on being loyal to the team that currently doesn’t give a fuck about him, and also if he stopped playing into the politics of the paddock.
That’s something that’s always irked Max about George, the fact that he has the same hunger as Max to win, and the same abilities to get angry and fight for himself, but where Max unleashes them to the world — talking first and not thinking about consequences until later on — George always pauses and thinks first before speaking.
But you could still see glimpses of the person George tried so hard to repress everyday.
For example, in Canada when Max rewatched the full clip of George’s engine failure later that night, he saw the way George threw that headrest and he fully laughed. Max was not laughing at George, it was more of a ‘There he is!’ laughter, there’s the man with the hunger, so desperate to win and so frustrated. Once upon a blue moon that side would always resurface sooner or later.
Max hates that George always tries to hide that side because Max has always liked that side on him the most. He also knows that that kind of behavior is the one George criticizes the most about Max, as if it was such a horrendous thing to show your negative emotions on your sleeve. He hates when George looks down on him for it all because he has a handle on his temper and emotions, and Max does not. Although lately life has humbled him, and after some team-mandated therapy (courtesy of Barcelona ‘25), he’s gotten better at being less impulsive and less reactive.
Still though, he will say things honestly without filter, paddock politics and consequences be damned.
He wishes he knew what to say to George to activate that sleeper agent within him that makes him fight, the one instinct that makes him look alive, a force to be reckoned with, feared, respected, admired even. One that even when it’s directed towards him, it makes it impossible for Max to look away from George.
“Believe it or not, Russell, I didn’t come here to piss you off,” Max said, a white flag of sorts.
“Well, you could help with that by leaving. I’m not in the mood for whatever it is you came here for,” George said, still defeated, wallowing in his own pity party, unmoved, uncaring.
Unstoppable force versus immovable object. What a pair of fools they make.
There were four things Max was sure of at this point:
One, he was sure George — at least for the remainder of the day, potentially even the week — was not going to change his mind on his approach to this situation. All the fight seemed to had been sucked out of him, and there was no chance at getting it back under the current circumstances.
Second, Max was shit at giving pep talks and whatever he was doing was not yielding any results. He was not like George, a mastermind at planning and carefully picking his statements to ragebait the hell out of Max — like that time months ago when Max was threatening retirement and George came up with a several-step plan that included pissing him off with his comments about Nürburgring, followed by the impromptu FIA meeting he managed to pull as GPDA director just so they would hear Max’s complaints about the new regulations and take him seriously.
Third, Max knew he was wasting his time standing here because they were at an impasse, and they would just continue wasting time with an argument that wasn’t even good because George was not doing well, and Max was losing the last bit of limited patience he had.
Fourth and final, Max didn’t know why the fuck he cared this much about what happened to George at the team, or at all, but he did somehow and he was bothered enough to be here trying to awaken the beast, zero sense of self-preservation and all. For a man who has been swamped with rumors of potentially being George’s replacement next year at Mercedes, he surely was giving one too many fucks about situations and people that didn’t concern him.
Max sighed, crossed his arms to show his disapproval of it all, then uttered a “Fine,” took a turn and walked out of the room. Because if he was not equipped to give George a pep talk, then he could find other ways to get his way.
Sunken cost fallacy, Max told himself as he walked right back into the media pen, a place he so clearly hated and was only determined to be inside of for the mandated time by the team, answering questions of vultures that were only looking for drama for their next headline to get some clicks and interactions on their articles.
He had no business being here anymore— his job was done, he had wrapped up his interviews early before he went back to his apartment, and yet here he found himself again among the rest of the drivers who were still making their rounds across the media pen.
Max walked towards one specific corner where there was a journalist he didn’t despise. She was in the ‘Neutral’ section on his mental list of journalists’ rankings — where the worst were people who only focused on drama and gossip, and the best were the Dutch media, because they cared more about the racing aspect of things and he was free to speak his own first language — but right now this type of journalist was just what he needed.
“Back so soon, Max? Didn’t expect to see you here again today,” she politely said, as if she was merely stating a fact rather than an opinion. Not judging, but her interest was clearly piqued. Luckily, Max was still wearing his team polo, team cap, and paddock pass. For all anyone know, he could’ve stuck around all this time unless someone took video of him leaving on his yacht.
“Yeah, you know how it is, debriefing and all,” Max fake-sighed, overselling his point. He didn’t know how Russell did it, playing the journalism game and managing to sound so genuine when Max was sure he probably hated every single question he got asked.
He remembered how last year before Horner got fired, George had indirectly helped his case by spilling to the media that Max had been in meetings with Mercedes — a simple, innocent comment that while it hadn’t been true (because he had no thoughts of leaving the team, he just wanted a leadership change), it had helped him immensely to push Horner out and make a case that favored him in the eyes of the Red Bull board, because it was clear they would do anything to not lose their golden boy superstar, anyone was expendable but him to a point.
What followed was some long, arduous months of being asked a variation of the same questions at the media pen, even after Horner was long gone. For Max it got tiring quickly, but he was slightly surprised at how effortless George had planted that seed of doubt, and how he had helped him in some way to get what he wanted. All this happened after Max had made a comment complaining to George during one of the rare days where they were getting along. He had said, “sometimes I feel the only way they would listen is if they saw the threat of me leaving the team as real, because they would not come back from that loss if it happened,” to which George had said nothing, only hmm’d and moved on and changed topics, and two days later he was in the media pen dropping this bombshell.
It had in some way also benefited George for his own contract negotiations, him being so sure that Max was in fact not leaving Red Bull, Toto being photographed with Max on Sardinia, Toto pursuing the futile effort of trying to sign Max, George’s performance during Baku and Singapore being exemplary of why he’s an asset to the team at the expense of his own health, it all helped him negotiate a higher salary and newer conditions for an automatic renewal of those tedious one-year contracts — conditions that right now might be biting George in the ass, but that’s neither here nor there.
All of this to say that if Max was not successful into making George fight for his own damn self, then maybe he could return the favor and pull something out of George’s own book.
“Crazy race, huh?” Max tried to sound enthusiastic starting up this conversation, he was really trying his damn best.
“Crazy race indeed, all of this happening in Monaco was unexpected,” the reported added, half paying attention to Max, the other half focused on wrapping up her notes from the last interview she did.
“You know,” Max leaned against the rail separating the journalists and the drivers in the media pen, acting like he was comfortable enough gossiping. “I find it quite interesting that Mercedes are putting a subpar performance with one of their drivers while doing an excellent job with the other.”
At this, the reporter abandoned her notes, her interest piqued by what the known gossip-hater, four-time world champion was saying.
“How come?” she said, giving him an in to continue his train of thought out loud. She casually clicked on the ‘Record’ button on his phone, trying to make it seem natural but Max had noticed. Bingo.
“You have two drivers fighting for a championship, but one of them keeps running into all these technical issues that are out of his hands while you have a team that claims they’re giving them equal chance at fighting for the championship,” Max mused, suddenly interested in the length of his own nails that he’d been biting down to the quick for years and years. “I wouldn’t be surprised if the driver who keeps getting the short end of the stick ends up looking towards other places.”
The journalist stared at him trying to figure out if he was implying what he was implying, trying to figure out a way to pry more information, if there was some, out of Max without spooking him.
“Is this something you would be considering if you were in his place?” the journalist asked, trying to test the waters.
“If, if, if. Luckily I’m not in that situation, and the team and I are working towards fixing the issues we currently have this year. And as I’ve said before, if regulations stay the same and I keep losing interest, I might be looking at retirement and continue racing in other categories. But, I mean, I wouldn’t be surprised if other drivers were having conversations about their future in said team,” Max politely mustered up a smile, trying to bite his tongue to not snap and say this isn’t about me, because he was here on a mission.
“Have you heard of conversations taking place?” the journalist took the bait after all, she fell for it hook, line and sinker. “I mean, not that you would precisely know, of course, I know you’re in Red Bull and the team has not expressed their near-future desire to sign any new drivers.”
“Maybe,” Max said, keeping it vague. “Maybe conversations are taking place in Red Bull, maybe not.”
The journalist paused and smiled nervously, and Max matched the smile, hoping it wouldn’t give away that he was bluffing.
“But if said driver was looking elsewhere because he’s fallen to the position of second driver in his current team, I doubt he would be having said conversations on a team where it’s clear the only position available would be that of the second driver,” the journalist tried to argue against Max’s nonsense politely, trying to make sense if this was just bluff or if she could be standing on a landmine of what would be the biggest headline in the news cycle since Hamilton announced his move to Ferrari.
Max was mentally weighing how much trouble he could get in for this stint with Red Bull and his PR team, how far he could toe the line between a blatant lie and plausible deniability of getting away with saying, “The journalist took my words out of context,” and live to fight another day without being locked in PR jail, again.
“Maybe the first seat is having an opening, maybe not.”
The key was the word maybe, Max had decided.
Max felt a slight thrill run through him as he was stirring the pot, especially when he saw the journalist’s reaction and how she lit up like Christmas just came early and so did her bonus and a potential promotion. Maybe this is what George got off on, the thrill of causing a ruckus and walking away peacefully, except that Max was not thinking of the consequences this could entail while George always thought six steps ahead.
The journalist grabbed her phone and raised it, the pretense that she had not been recording this entire conversation be damned.
“Are you saying—”
“Maybe I could be George’s race engineer, with GP’s departure and all, who knows. At least I’m sure I would be doing a much better job at it than whatever happened today with that tragic pit stop,” Max said, the last sentence dripping with venom, and he was turning into the exact thing he criticized George of being: a venomous snake.
But it was fine, it was for the greater good.
He nodded, turned around after that last statement and left the media pen, the journalist looking like she had a million more questions to ask him now that he had opened what she thought was Pandora’s box, when in reality it was just a can of fake-worms manufactured out of Max’s annoyance and a little bit too much free time after his DNF in the race.
Without looking back or bothering to go look for George again, he made his way out of the paddock and onto his yacht again, finally heading home feeling lighter but also buzzing with adrenaline from what he’d just done.
Max woke up the next day to a heavy pounding outside his door. Whoever it was, they were relentlessly banging on the door like they wanted to knock it down.
A couple seconds later after being rudely awakened, Max’s brain finally rebooted to life and his first instinct was fear that he might have been swatted or some crazy fan had managed to get inside of his building. After all, he had accidentally explained in too much detail to Checo and Kimi where he lived while they were being filmed.
“Verstappen, open up!” The voice yelled as the relentless knocking continued, and oh, he knew that voice.
Yeah, apparently that was not the only dumb thing he said yesterday.
He crawled out of bed and padded to the living room to get to the door, his cats already hissing at the intruder for the noise, ready to pounce probably as soon as Max opens the door. Cats were so smart, Max was not surprised that they could sense the negative energy radiating off the other side of the door.
Max took a pause before opening the door, surely aware now that he was about to experience the full meaning of the phrase ‘fuck around and find out’, but he just thought he would be hearing an earful first coming from the Red Bull PR department instead of the person he had done this for.
He took a deep breath, exhaled, closed his eyes and opened the door.
“Russell, I—”
George did not even give him a chance to finish his sorry ass apology, because the next thing Max knows he was being pushed into the nearest wall. He felt the coldness of the wall seeping through his white shirt when his back made contact. George had him pinned with one arm placed against his chest, and damn those strict gym sessions that George had ditched him for instead of accepting any of the multiple invitations to play padel with Max had paid off.
Was it an inappropriate moment to admit to himself that he didn’t mind being pinned like this at fuckass o’clock in the morning? Probably.
To top it all off, all three of his cats didn’t even help him when George abruptly came in, the little traitors. Jimmy had even closed the door by pushing it hard with one of his paws, Sassy and Donut just looking at both of them with disdain as if saying, “Oh, it’s you two at it again, how shocking,” the three of them walking off to different sides of the apartment.
“Do you actually think before you speak, or is there something fundamentally wrong with you that you don’t have a filter when it comes to talking? And to the press, nonetheless?” George spat out, and there it was, the anger Max was looking for since yesterday but fuck, why was it being aimed at him instead of Toto?
“George, I think you have bigger fish to fry rather than fighting me—” Max began and George pushed his arm harder against his chest. Wrong choice of words. “I know what you’re talking about, but listen, I—”
“Oh, here we go, the great Max Verstappen is about to enlighten us on why he thinks adding ‘George Russell moving to Red Bull’ rumors to the list of things I have to deal with right now was a good idea,” his voice was dripping with sarcasm and something borderline dangerous, as if the mere idea of that statement pained him.
“There’s worse teams you could be moving to, take Aston Martin or even Williams again for starters— Ow! Fuck! Fine, what do you want me to say?!” Max gave up mentally, because it seemed any word he spoke seemed to irritate George more. Maybe it was just the mere action of Max speaking that irritated George.
“What is your plan here, Verstappen? Huh? What do you get out of this? Do you get off on pissing me off, is that it?” There was no way to escape George’s rage right now, the way he was pinned forced him to keep eye contact with the man despite their slight height difference, but Max couldn’t help but look down briefly for an imperceptible second to George’s lips as he was saying the last sentence, sue him. Not that George noticed either way — he was sure of it, because if he had, Max would probably be halfway to deceased by now.
“I’m not getting anything out of this — hell, I could even get in trouble for making up things about the team,” Max admitted because maybe honesty was the best policy. Wrong, a mental buzzer in his brain said as George shifted and pressed him harder against the wall.
“Then why in the bloody hell would you make up something like that?! You being my race engineer? Me moving to Red Bull?! Hell would have to freeze over before any of that happened, you and I both know it,” George said, and lord forgive him, but Max couldn’t help but be mesmerized by how pretty George looked right now while he was angry.
Maybe there was something terminally wrong inside of his brain after all.
“I was trying to help you!” Max admitted, and that seemed to snap George out of whatever anger-induced trance he was in momentarily.
“What?” George let go of Max, scoffing in disbelief. “Why would you ever want to help me?”
“Because, George,” Max tried to straighten the wrinkles on the front of his shirt that had been caused by having an arm pinning you relentlessly against a wall. “You wouldn’t fight back yourself, and Toto and Mercedes need to be put in their place.”
A beat of silence. Then,
“That’s not for you to decide.”
Max scoffed. Unbelievable.
“The hell it isn’t, was I just supposed to sit there and watch you wallow in misery while the man shamelessly basks in champagne, celebrating the multiple records he just earned thanks to his new teenage prodigy?” Max said, as if the reason was as clear as water, as if this was the only logical outcome of the entire situation and George was being the nonsensical one in this scenario.
“You get along with Kimi. You don’t even like me, why would you even care?” George’s perfect eyebrows were narrowed, and Max had a lapse in judgment of wanting to reach out and smooth them so badly because that expression felt wrong in such a beautiful face, the risk of premature wrinkles and all. God, maybe he did hit his head when George slammed him against the wall.
“You’re being disrespected by your team and you won’t even fight back,” Max stated matter-of-fact.
“You have disrespected me multiple times in the past, and will probably continue to do so.”
“So?”
George scoffed. “So? What’s it to you what my team does to me? This is not your fight, we’re not even friends, Verstappen.”
“We were once.”
The silence that followed was so uncomfortable that even one of the cats that was eavesdropping — Donut, bless his soul — felt it and scurried off into the kitchen again.
“Besides, it was just a matter of principle. It is wrong that you are being treated like that, believe it or not. Fighting rivals on track is one thing, but it’s a whole other when your races keep being sabotaged, either intentionally or not, by your own team. That kind of incompetence shouldn’t be present in the sport,” Max tried to steer the topic onto safe territory again.
George let out a deep sigh. “Even if you were trying, in your own twisted way, to help me — which I still do not buy — why would you think starting Red Bull rumors would help me in any way? All I’ve got now is Toto blowing up my phone nonstop waiting for an explanation.”
“It’s what you did for me,” Max admitted and George looked genuinely confused. “Last year, before Christian got fired, you began the ‘Verstappen to Mercedes’ rumors and it helped as leverage to change management within the team.”
“I didn’t do it specifically for your sole benefit, Verstappen.”
“Yeah, yeah, you did it for your own contract negotiations, I know. I’m not stupid,” Max said. “Still, it helped, so I figured I could do the same, you know?”
“You seriously think that ‘Russell to Red Bull’ rumors carries the same weight as ‘Verstappen to Mercedes’ rumors? Are you stupid?” George laughed in disbelief, pondering if Max really was that stupid to believe it in the first place or if he was playing him.
“It should, I don’t see why not,” Max shrugged. “Especially because I made it clear I would not be moving to Mercedes if that happened. It’s not a good look optics-wise for Toto to have one of his most reliable and loyal drivers looking elsewhere for options.”
“Newsflash, Max, it doesn’t.”
“Well, it should. As much as it pains me to say it, you’re actually quite competent out there, probably the best competent driver on the current grid, after me of course,” Max felt heat crawling up from his chest all the way up to his face and the tips of his ears. He tried to cover the compliment under an insult, but he felt he had backfired and what he said was too earnest for both their liking.
“It still isn’t enough.”
“Why, because you don’t have a championship?” Max spat and George’s expression flickered with a trace of pain. “A trophy is just a trophy, George, it does not determine a driver’s ability to be good.”
“Easy for the man who has four of them to say,” George crossed his arms and oh my God, Max was actually getting pissed off at how little George believed in himself sometimes just because he didn’t have a stupid title to his name.
Yes, when you begin during karting, you’re always aiming for first place and the WDC is the culmination of every driver’s dream — especially with Max and George’s upbringings and their fathers’ behavior, it was not surprising that they turned out the way they did. But to erase all the qualities he has just because of a sorry streak that was not even his fault to begin with was just plain stupid in Max’s opinion.
“No, George, that’s where you’re wrong. A trophy is just a trophy, because those at times can be won or lost on technicalities out of our control. Once you stop fighting with all you’ve got, whether that was for P13 or P1, and you stop going for the gap when given the chance, that’s when you should just retire. Just because things have gone sideways for you for the last couple of races does not mean you should just give up,” Max wanted to shake George so badly and drill that into his head until he understood and dropped the defeatist attitude.
“Sometimes fate is not on your side, and it seems despite having a competent car this year, there’s just something out there that doesn’t want me winning it,” George seemed smaller after admitting that, it kind of reminded Max of when they were both in karting and George would look defeated after he didn’t manage to beat the time his father had demanded of him with that watch.
“Fuck that, you shouldn’t be giving up because of that. You make your own path, you don’t get defined by some technical issues, or a car or your garage,” Max’s tone was slightly raised because he was tired of the same fate excuse George was hiding behind. “And if you lose it this year because of your team, then fuck them too. Mercedes shouldn’t be the end-all be-all that defines your career.”
“I’ve always envisioned winning with Mercedes, Max,” George said, hands on his hips, but he didn’t sound so sure of his convictions as he once had years ago. He just sounded tired.
“Yeah, well, look at Charles. He says the same thing about Ferrari. He just tied himself to the team for two more years, potentially even four, and he’s just stuck fighting against a car and a garage that should be helping him instead of making his job harder,” Max watched as George processed the words, nodding reluctantly but at least they were on the same page about the Charles situation. “Dreams change sometimes, you just have to not lose focus of what the end goal is supposed to be.”
George was looking at him in a different way than usual, and Max could not for the life of him figure out what that meant. He was used to George looking at him with disdain, anger, annoyance, even with that look that said ‘Oh, I’m about to get on your nerves today and I will enjoy every second of it,’ but this was uncharted territory for both of them.
So much for Max not being good at pep talks.
But if he was honest, right now he was just being blunt and he did mean all of this. He was not trying to intentionally get a reaction out of George like yesterday, he was merely answering the questions George was throwing his way.
The longer the silence grew, the more uncomfortable Max was feeling because this was not something he usually did with George. He felt a bit too exposed in a way right now, not being able to predict how George would react now after all this was said and done — after he had shown too much grace to his favorite and only nemesis on track. Where do you go from here?
Max snorted, and it snapped George out of his own thoughts.
“What?” George asked, curious.
“I can’t believe your own rival is the one believing in you more than yourself right now, and giving you a talk so you stand up to your own team,” Max chuckled. “Something went fundamentally wrong here.”
“Yeah, well,” George awkwardly chuckled, averting his gaze from Max’s. “A lot of things have not gone according to plan this year.”
They stayed silent for a while after that, but this time it was a bit more comfortable. As comfortable as it could get, given their history.
“At least you could’ve made the lie more believable,” George added. “You being my race engineer? Seriously? How did the journalist even buy that for a second?”
“I would do a damn good job as a race engineer. A better one than Marcus is doing right now for sure,” both Max and George chuckled at that. “Besides, I would be your favorite race engineer, I think.”
“I’m pretty sure you’re overestimating the importance you have in my life,” George replied, and there it was, their usual banter back again.
“Am I?” Max teased back, but in a way all jokes aside, Max was aware in some part deep inside of him that George, however controversial he was at times, was and will always be an important part of his life, whether that was as a friend, or a rival, or as colleagues. There was too much history there between them, both good and bad, that it was impossible for it to be the opposite.
Maybe deep down, one of the reasons why Max had gone to all these lengths just to help George when he considered George had given up on defending himself was because Max was aware of all the potential George has, and how very similar they are in a lot of ways — all the ways George tries to repress in favor of being more appealing to the masses.
If he ever found himself in a situation similar to what George’s is right now, he wished someone would shake him until he snapped out of it — and in a way, George had in the past, in different ways. When he wanted to quit the sport that he had lived and breathed for years, George pushed him in different ways so he would continue. Of course, maybe George hadn’t done it for pure selfless reasons, he wanted his damn title fight with Max (another thing this year simply refused to give them both too), but he pushed him nonetheless to look at things from a different perspective.
Their stint with the FIA and the preparation for the Zoom meeting had somehow mended a bit of the wounds that Qatar ‘24 had opened in their relationship. George had to hear Max endlessly complain about every single thing that was wrong with the current regulations, even if there had been several dramatic sighs and jabs exchanged here and there, but he had stayed and listened to Max. He had fought alongside of him in that meeting, pulling rank until the directives had no other option but to consider and incorporate the changes to make the sport Max had loved since he was a kid look less of a nightmare with all the technological bullshit changes that had happened in this new era.
It was only fair for Max to return the favor, in whatever misguided way he had.
They got interrupted out of their trance by George’s phone ringing.
“Toto is calling again,” George sighed as he pocketed his phone again, sending it to voicemail. “He’s been on my arse all morning calling nonstop.”
“Tell him to shove it,” Max supplied unhelpfully and George rolled his eyes.
“I don’t think that would be the wisest thing, considering he still handles a big part of my career.”
“Let him suffer a little bit longer. Come on, breakfast’s on me,” Max spontaneously said because why the hell not.
“You really want the man to have a heart attack. Do you know what it would do for the optics if I get photographed having breakfast with you the Monday after your ridiculous vague statement to the press?” George’s eyebrows were raised like he couldn’t believe this was a conversation they were having.
“Serves him right for putting you through this shit during the Sardinia incident,” Max shrugged, and he didn’t know why he woke up and decided Toto was enemy number one, since he had always been somewhat neutral about the guy, but apparently this was who he was now, fraternizing with the enemy that hated his guts equally but that he had defended somehow yesterday.
Thankfully, it didn’t take much convincing for George to agree after that.
“Fine, but I’m picking the place. I don’t trust your food choices enough and I do not want to eat something that tastes like cardboard or Red Bull adjacent drinks that taste like battery acid,” George turned around and twisted the doorknob to open the door.
“As you wish, princess,” Max said turning in the direction of his bedroom to put on some clothes that weren’t just essentially boxers and a white plain shirt he used to sleep.
If they were photographed after all by some sneaky paparazzi who thought he was being stealthy while aiming the camera at them, Max pretended not to notice but he couldn’t help the smirk that crept up his face at the thought of Toto seething in rage seeing George unbothered, sharing breakfast with the enemy after yesterday’s rumors.
If he also positioned the Red Bull can he was drinking a little bit more to the edge of the nice table in direction of the camera on purpose, that was neither here nor there. They ended up eating breakfast in some posh Monegasque cafe George picked, who luckily carried Red Bull drinks as well, small mercies for Max. If he noticed the way George was clearly acting unbothered now, going along with whatever nonsense narrative Max had created for them both, playing the part for the paparazzi, Max didn’t dare comment on it. But a part of him was proud of at least the change in attitude George had. Baby steps after all.
If they decided to take a long walk all the way back to Max’s apartment, well, sue them. They were Monaco residents after all, and they had every right to take their petty walks wherever they wanted. Barcelona was coming up within a few days, but Max hoped for the sake of the balance in the world again that this nonsense served as a wake up call for Toto and Mercedes — and for George too — so they would not lose sight of the actual goal, which was to support George into giving him an equal fighting chance for that championship.
If Max later on that night ended up having dreams about him being stuck in a scenario where he was indeed George’s race engineer after all, and despite their multiple fights throughout it, managed to win him that championship, Max would blame it on weirdness being contagious from hanging around Russell for an extended period of time. He couldn’t say he hated that particular dream though.