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MAX VERSTAPPEN ENTERS THE PADDOCK FOR THE FIRST TIME AS A FOUR-TIME WORLD CHAMPION - NOT IN HIS RED BULL KIT
Questions over the future of F1 star driver Max Verstappen have been swirling ever since it became clear that the Red Bull driver would not enjoy the same dominance that he had last season again, and - though Verstappen clinched his fourth consecutive driver championship last week in Las Vegas - the rumours have not abated whatsoever. Verstappen has been linked with prospective moves to both Mercedes and Aston Martin, with both Mercedes boss Toto Wolff and key figures Aston Martin stating their interest to have the Dutchman in their lineup.
Verstappen has always denied the rumours of his departure from Red Bull, citing loyalty to the team that he has been apart of since childhood, yet the rumour mill has been stirred yet again as Verstappen arrives at the paddock in Qatar in a plain tee shirt and jeans, forgoing his usual team kit…
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It was Alex who read the story aloud to George, sprawled across the bed in George’s hotel room. His feet were dangling off the edge, only because George had shoved them off it when it had become clear that Alex had no intention of removing his trainers, but the rest of him swallowed up the space on the mattress, leaving George to claim a chair by the bed and prop his own feet up beside Alex. This was their routine on grand prix weekends: George and Alex would check into their respective hotel rooms, unpack as quickly as possible, and text each other their room numbers. Whoever text first designated their room as the meeting place, and as George tended to be the most organised between them, he always had the dubious honour of hosting Alex. It meant that he didn’t have to leave his hotel room on the night time at the very least, whilst Alex spent his hopping between team duties and visiting George before the actual driving began.
But he almost wished, as Alex read aloud the coverage of Max’s triumphant return to the paddock, another star to burn on his helmet, that they were in Alex’s room, far away from the place that George would have to exist and sleep and breath for the next few days. Even in speaking Max’s name, he almost felt as though the name itself was seeping through into the bones of the place, to linger and taint it until the thought of the other man was inescapable. Alex, of course, did not know that George was incapable of being ordinary about Max at the moment - he had not heard what had happened in Las Vegas and George wanted it to stay that way. He didn’t think that he would ever be able to look Alex in the eyes if he ever confessed.
“Christian must be spitting mad,” Alex commented, humming as he considered the glow of his phone screen. “First Jos stirring shit and now Christian’s golden boy himself.”
There was a small smile on his face, barely noticeable - but George, who had made a habit of cataloguing the little tics on the faces of those around him, noticed, and recognised it. It was the same smile Alex always had when something went wrong with his old team, a quiet and almost guilty thing. He had, in some way, almost always been involved with Red Bull - their junior programme, their junior team, their second seat. He claimed that everything that had ensued because of it was in the past, and that he had moved on long ago. A year off, he claimed, was enough to give anyone perspective, and he was grateful, apparently. George thought that was rubbish - thought that if anyone deserved better than the lot Red Bull had handed them, it was Alex. He was happy enough to be angry for the both of them; mostly because he knew that Alex, deep down, was also angry - it was just that he was a better person than most. But there were times like now, when things were falling apart regardless of whether or not Alex was there to pin the blame on, when something flickered across his face and George liked to think that it was satisfaction.
“Verstappen won’t actually be leaving,” George replied.
“Verstappen? Awfully formal of you, Georgie.”
George rolled his eyes. He felt sick to his stomach, the anticipatory sting of Alex somehow discovering the very thing that he was trying to hide roiling underneath his skin. Thinking about Max, feeling things about Max, spiralling about Max - it was all swiftly becoming untenable, unsustainable. George didn’t know what the kiss had done to him, but he did know that he couldn’t last much longer under the weight of all the pressure that he felt because of it, the expectation. He was supposed to know, this far into his career and his life, who he was and what he wanted. Max didn’t factor into that at all - sometimes, he could barely stand the man - but even George could recognise that kissing Max had maybe dredged up things about himself he had never thought that he would find. And he didn’t want to credit Max with having a hand in any part of him.
It felt like a betrayal, of Alex and of Toto and of Lewis and of pretty much everybody cared about, to flourish at the guiding hand of someone who had fed into such bitter years, of crushing defeats and controversy and personal hardships. Maybe it had been Red Bull, and outside forces that Max had no control over, but it was a betrayal nonetheless. Carmen had told him that he was being ridiculous, but Carmen - through no fault of her own - had never understood what it was like to be part of something as big as Mercedes and motorsports, a role that far transcended even himself.
“He probably just ran out of polos,” George said. “He wears them all the time - either he doesn’t wash them at all or he has a really efficient laundry routine.”
Alex snorted. “Please. I think they’re the only clothes he owns. He doesn’t need to wash them - he can wear it once, bin it, and pull the next one out of his bulk supply.”
“Perks of a Red Bull contract,” George japed. “The energy drink and tee shirts.”
“They didn’t give me any of that. I had to fund my caffeine addiction from my paycheck.” Alex sighed. “But no, you’re right. Max isn’t ever leaving Red Bull. A guy can dream though.”
George tried to breathe. He had pulled up the article on his phone and there, in all his glory and triumph, was Max. Max, out of the stupid Red Bull polo shirts, smiling enough to crinkle the corners of his eyes. It was a strangely nice smile - very unreserved, for the most introverted guy that George had ever met. He was waving to one of the cameras, even as he strode past them in his customary, no nicety way, a clear indication that he wouldn’t stop for anything. The tee shirt liked nice, comfortable - like Max could be just any other person, rather than the cold-blooded killer that George knew he was on track.
“Put that away,” Alex said, suddenly, and he was right in George’s personal space. George barely had time to slam his phone down, screen hidden, before Alex was leaning over his shoulder. Alex tsk ed irritably. “An hour, George. No use in reviewing your notes now, mate.”
“Notes?” George asked, somewhat blank, his mind still reeling.
Alex frowned, looking suddenly concerned. “For the GPDA meeting?”
“Shit,” George muttered.
The GPDA meeting. An hour, a hotel boardroom, and he had managed to corral all twenty of them into a room together, though he hadn’t managed to extract any promises of cooperation from anyone - except for Carlos, who was good and kind and cared about these kind of things. He didn’t understand how he had forgotten - he had been the one to badger everyone extensively over the matter, to follow up on the meeting that they had in Mexico before the race. In that meeting, they had discussed COTA, and George had hoped that they wouldn’t have to follow it up; then Max had gotten himself two ten second penalties in an effort that George could only describe as both impressive and idiotic, and the WhatsApp group chat had come alive once more. Another meeting, and the vain hope that people might actual be able to reach a consensus on matter.
And Alex was right - George did have notes. Notes that he hadn’t yet reviewed, even in the week since Las Vegas and the Thursday that they had finalised everything. He’d been rushed off his feet today, with so many media appointments to wrap his head around. A lot of it had been with Lewis, of course, counting down to his approaching departure - and Lewis, throughout it all, had been pointed enough that George had known he wasn’t planning on letting the Sunday night in Las Vegas go anytime soon. But George always reviewed his notes, and had never before forgot. He had a responsibility, a duty - he had been voted into his position and trusted to do what was best. He needed to be prepared.
“You have flash cards, don’t you?” Alex said, at last, watching as George gaped like a fish on land.
George blinked. “Of course. Why?”
“I’m testing you. Where are they?”
Mutely, George pointed at his bedside table. Alex rooted around in the drawer and produced the thick sheathe of cards with a quiet, “blimey,” when he saw the size of the stack. But he settled cross legged without complaint, resting against the headboard of George’s bed, and George could feel the gratitude swelling in his throat as he looked at Alex and his open, expectant face, no suggestion that he would want to be anywhere else. He shuffled onto the bed so that he was sat facing Alex, took a deep breath, and let himself fall into the rhythm of it all. This was what he needed, he told himself. Order, regulation, a script; George Russell was unstoppable when he stuck to a plan. He wouldn’t - couldn’t - let anything derail him from that.
He and Alex were the first in the meeting room - because George wanted to be there half an hour early, and because he had dragged Alex down with him. It was only Mercedes staying in the Qatar hotel this time, and so George expected that the other drivers would take a little while longer to arrive, with the obvious exception of Lewis. With time to kill therefore, George set about setting everything up. The meeting, less formal this time, certainly not as official, was supposed to be more of a conversation - trying to get everyone on the same page, Sebastian had said when George had notified him and the other directors about it, in the somewhat casual tone that Sebastian had adopted for many driving matters now that he was retired. George knew always that Sebastian would come in swinging for any of them, and he was the perfect appointment for GPDA and had mentored George at the beginning of his tenure - but in matters like this, it was always very evident that Sebastian wasn't driving in Formula One anymore, that the grasp he had on the emotion of it all was sort of skewed and out of date. And sometimes, more damningly in George’s opinion, it was difficult to forget that Sebastian had been a Red Bull driver before he had ever been a friend.
George copied him into a document for the meeting minutes, along with the other directors, and handed Alex the laptop. Alex was not as fast a typer as George, but George could not type and talk, so Alex was his begrudging volunteer, though George knew that he would trawl through and edit, because Alex often thought that it was funny to interweave his own thoughts into the missives and George had spent too many occasions fielding emails about professionalism and the likes.
It was Carlos who arrived next, dragging Charles in after him; they were on time, though Charles looked rather begrudging about the fact. The Lewis came sidling into the room, tapping George on the shoulder with a smile, and taking the seat beside Charles, nodding at his soon to be teammate and the man that he was replacing. Carlos looked rather sour about it, though he made an admirable job to hide it with a smile, and Alex leaned over the table to strike up a conversation with him. Franco waltzed in, followed by the McLaren drivers, then Haas, and then Aston Martin. Esteban and Pierre arrived separately, but sat together, though they did not talk, scrolling on their phones under the table. The Sauber drivers were next.
It was another half an hour before anyone else arrived. George was very well aware at the glaring absence in the room - and after Mexico, so was everyone else. There were some looks swapped over the table, and, selfishly, George was glad. It was easier to hide his own complicated feelings on the matter under the guise of annoyance, which everyone expected from him. It was easier to pretend that that was all it was, even to himself - and maybe it was. Maybe George was spiralling over nothing, and was simply feeling a lot of pent up emotion about the belligerence of Max to coordinate for one track.
The door burst open and Yuki and Liam scurried in, already muttering apologies. Checo followed them in a lot more sedately, though he had the decency to look just as apologetic.
“Sorry we are late,” he said, turning to George. “Really, traffic was a nightmare, and Max slept through his alarm. I hope everybody has not been waiting too long.”
George didn’t respond, though it was probably somewhat rude and Checo was entirely undeserving of it, but he was looking at Max, who stood in the doorway. It was the first time that he had seen Max in person since he had spied him sleeping in that Las Vegas hotel bar, since Lewis had told George that it had been Max who had wanted to make sure that he got home safely. He felt it like a punch to the gut, the world reeling around him dizzily. If Max felt it, he didn’t show it on his face.
“I don’t understand why we need to be here,” Max announced, glowering. George felt the tension ratchet up a notch, felt a little taken aback at the outright aggression in Max’s voice. Strange - maybe, or maybe just George’s perception, the way that things had changed for him after Las Vegas not also felt by Max. “We did this whole thing in COTA.”
“And there were some concerns raised after Mexico,” George explained, steeling his voice, “that made it necessary to sit down again.”
Max did not sit. “You mean me. I’m the concern.”
If George argued with him, he thought that he might have support. George did not want to argue with him, not when so much hung in the balance of things. Not when he did not understand where they stood, after everything - and that, for George, was the concern. Not Max himself, but the fact that George had been voted to do a job, to represent everyone as impartially as he could. And he liked his job, was good at it, could seize the challenge between his teeth and would rag it bloody to stand up for any one of his colleagues. Whatever he felt about Max was in the way of that, especially in this.
George took a centring breath. “If you have any concerns,” he said, as levelly as he could, “we can talk about it after the meeting, one on one. This meting, however, is not about any individual on track, but sporting regulations and the consistency of penalties.”
“What consistency?” scoffed Max.
“Exactly.”
Max huffed a laugh, little more than a puff of air and a sound of acknowledgment. But the sound was very much there, and Max looked as surprised as George did to hear it. It was almost genuine, though Max had rarely found George to be amusing before, and for a moment, George let himself imagine that it was part of the thing that had shifted between them, that maybe George was not alone in feeling strange and off-kilter. It felt a little less lonely, to think that - less like George had been tossed out to sea on his own, more as though there was a hand that he could reach for to keep himself drowning. And under all that, there was satisfaction too. Max had all his four championships and yet he was just as susceptible to kissing in dodgy Las Vegas bathrooms as George was. And this time, the moment did not pass, nor snap as violently apart as it had back then, but shifted a little, still lingering. Max sat down. Checo, looking almost paternal, nodded once in approval. Max saw and refixed the scowl to his face.
But he was sat. Sat, and did not look as though he want to punch George’s lights out or spit in his eye. Baby steps, George called it; he did not want to know what Alex called it, when he saw him gleefully typing away from the corner of his eye.
“All in favour of beginning the meeting?” asked George, a little wry but wary of other diversions. They were all too common in these things, and George wanted nothing more than his bed at this point.
But there was a rumble of general agreement. Many drivers looked to be half asleep themselves. It was a start at least - a slow and painful start, not at all the swirling lurch of momentum that George had been hoping would carry him forward, all of them united in some common purpose. It never was - Seb had warned him about that, when he had been given his role - but starting, in Formula One, was never to be taken for granted. George gritted his teeth, pasted his most beneficent smile on his face, and leaned forward. If he dug in his heels and stuck to his guns, he could make this count. Show time, flawless, to a standing ovation. Everything as he was used to, except for the fact that Max had not stopped watching him, eyes sharp with intent, looking at George as if he understood something fundamental about George himself. George did not want to know what it was; a part of him feared the finding out. He thought that, in doing so, it would hurt more than any shunt could ever.
All in all, the meeting lasted a decent hour. A solid showing, more dedicated than he might have expected from everyone bearing in mind that it was the night of media day and everyone would no doubt be feeling a little like they had been dragged through the wringer, stretched thin by the constant attention and cameras. Or, at least, George did. By the end of the meeting, there was a quiet ache in his bones and an itch behind his eyes. Exhaustion hit fast and hit hard; he could imagine what Aleix would say to George, if he could see him - advise him to go to bed straight away likely. It was no good to be in the car and feeling drained. George knew that as well as anybody else did.
But he couldn’t quite finish yet, one last task to accomplish, a loose thread to tuck away. For his own peace of mind, maybe, but also because he could not fathom working with it still hanging over his head. It was untenable, impossible; Max’s eyes had burnt a hole through him the entire meeting and they had not looked away once.
“Right,” George said. “All in favour of ending the meeting here? We’ve had some good suggestions that I’ll draft up later, send off to the other directors, and then liaise with the relevant FIA members. I’ll keep you all in the loop.”
“Should I unmute the WhatsApp notifications then?” japed Lando. He was leant back in his chair, teetering precariously on two legs, and had one arm flung over the back of Oscar’s chair, who looked long-suffering beside his teammate.
George rolled his eyes. “You shouldn’t have muted them at all.”
Everyone else, it seemed, was in agreement however. As one, drivers began to stand, gathering coats and belongings scattered across the table, quietly chattering to themselves. George observed all of them, looking to see the points of tension, if any, that existed. These were thing that he needed to stay abreast of, if he wanted these talks to have an efficacy whatsoever. The common motto was that what happened on tack stayed on track, and off track was a totally separate beast, but George knew that it wasn’t as simple as that. External pressure could lead to riskier manoeuvres, disagreements to a sort of carelessness.
“Got the notes for you,” Alex said, clapping him on the shoulder as he passed the laptop over. “All good?”
George hummed. “I’m not going to find any little… amendments to the conversation, am I?”
Alex grinned, far too innocent for George’s liking. “Would I ever.”
“I’m editing them before anyone else sees them.”
“Spoilsport. Do you want me to walk up to your room with you?”
George paused. He looked towards Max, and saw that he had not moved, still sat at the table, though Checo was leaning down to mutter in his ear, brow wrinkled in confusion. Loose ends.
“Actually,” he said, and Alex followed his gaze towards Max, straightening as he looked at the Red Bull driver, “I’m just going to have a quick chat with Max. I can meet you at the track tomorrow though?”
“Text me so that I know he hasn’t killed you,” Alex replied - a joke, falling somewhat flat.
“It’s Max. Angry, sometimes, but mostly harmless.”
“Mostly. Mostly , except for the fact that - I don’t know if you noticed - he didn’t stop looking at you once in that meeting. It was like - like - Oh, I don’t even know, Georgie. It was like he was trying to take you apart piece by piece with his mind. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him look at anyone that intensely, except Lewis maybe, when they were fighting for that championship.”
“Lewis has seven to his name and Max has four,” answered George. “I doubt he’s looking at me like I’m any sort of competition.”
“Text me anyway,” said Alex.
Teammate killer, they called Max - George was not Max’s teammate but Alex had been, and that had ended with the sort of horror George did not think Alex had yet gotten over entirely, though he mostly spoke well of Max in the grand scheme of things. Alex was a stalwart friend, good and loyal, and George could only be grateful that Alex liked him enough to worry about leaving him alone in a room with the teammate killer who had helped see off his own career at a championship contending team. George, releasing a breath, nodded and clapped Alex on the shoulder, a tacit agreement and encouragement. Still, Alex was the last to leave, glancing over his shoulder as he did.
And then it was Max and George in a room together. Alone. Alone for the first time since Las Vegas, since everything had come tumbling down around George’s head.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Max said, forging ahead and cutting across him as George opened his mouth to speak. George closed his mouth and leaned back in the seat, ceding the floor to Max. “I want to talk to the GPDA rep.”
“That’s what I’m here for,” George said, tone utterly dry, though he could not entirely suppress the quirk of amusement at the sheer discomfort on Max’s face at the mention of the talk having to be official .
“One, I want it on the record that twenty seconds was fucking stupid,” Max began. “We were racing and I know the rules and I use them. Two, I want it on record that I think the FIA are being idiots. Three, I would like updates on how this application for consistency goes.”
“Can I tackle this point by point?” George asked. Max nodded and crossed his arms. “I’m not putting it on record that you think the FIA are idiots nor the your penalty was fucking stupid . What I will put on record is that you disagree with the measures implemented by official governing bodies in response to racing matters that you believe are still within the remit of the regulations.” George noted it down as he spoke, finetuning the phrasing a little, and ignored Max’s half-unintelligible mutter of something he didn’t think was particularly complimentary. “I will, of course, update everyone on how this dialogue with the FIA progresses, so as long as you haven’t muted the WhatsApp notifications like Lando apparently has, you’ll be kept abreast of everything. Can I be honest with you though?”
“I’d prefer it if you were.” Max’s face was inscrutable. Whether or not he was telling the truth, George could not tell.
“What you did in Mexico was stupid,” George replied. His fingers tapped idly on the desk, the only external sign of how carefully he was trying to choose his words so not to offend Max. “If I was a steward, I would have also given you a penalty. Any increased consistency in these sort of overtaking matters will likely be for more penalties in forcing drivers wide while overtaking.”
“I was driving as I have always driven,” Max argued. “Lando should have known that he risked going wide and acted accordingly.”
“All the drivers have just nearly unanimously agreed to tighten the regulations on this. Clearly it’s a popular suggestion which people feel will benefit the sport.”
Max’s face soured. “I have won four championships driving like this. I think I know what I’m talking about more than Lando or you.”
“This is why nobody likes you very much,” George snapped, before he could stop himself. He clapped a hand over his mouth, eyes wide. “That was unprofessional of me,” he said, apologising. He tried to take a deep breath - Max had asked for a GPDA lead, not whatever George and his issues were.
At the same time, Max said, “you seemed to like me a lot last week.”
Defensively, George felt his spine stiffen. “I thought we weren’t talking about that.”
Though he knew that they were alone, he found himself glancing towards the closed door, paranoid that he would see a member of hotel staff peering in, maybe thinking that they had all vacated the room and then happening on a more interesting conversation that George ever wanted anybody to overhear, or that he would see that Alex had in fact lingered behind to wait on George and make sure that Max wasn’t planning to axe murder him or something. The thought of Alex discovering all the things that George had kept from him was sickening.
“I want to know that this isn’t going to affect how you do your job,” Max replied. “I do not like politics, but I don’t want the FIA and the GPDA both out for my head. I’m here to drive and to win, and nothing is going to get in the way of that.”
“I can do my job - though I would prefer it if you didn’t make it anymore difficult than it already is. I’m putting out new fires every week.”
“The swearing ban must be a headache. I mean, we’re fucking adults, yeah?”
George huffed a laugh. Max, though the tone of commiseration in his voice was strange to hear, was dead on, and he dropped his head into his hands, dragging his fingers through his hair, as the next wave of exhaustion hit. “Yeah, fucking adults, mate. Charles got a suspended fine after Mexico for swearing, and Carlos has been inundating me with messages to pursue financial transparency. Seb said that this job would be difficult, but I really didn’t anticipate it being this bad.”
“I’ll get out of your hair then,” Max said, and rose to his feet. He plucked his Red Bull cap from where he had left it on the table and shoved it on his head. The hair underneath was messy and George, with a sudden pang, remembered how it had felt to comb his hands through it.
“Max,” he called out, as the other man went for the door, unsure of what urge possessed him. Max paused and turned back. “The GPDA will support you, you know - if you ever need it, for anything, even personally. We’re here to represent people, you know, not just drivers.”
For a moment, George thought Max looked somewhat hesitant, as if whatever George had said had set him off-kilter and on the wrong foot. He almost thought that Max was going to double back and sit down again and talk to George without any pretences between them. And though George was exhausted and longed for nothing more than his bed, he longed for it with an ache that he couldn’t name. Max was something strange to him - in Las Vegas, when George had felt as though he was drifting away from himself and being swallowed entirely under the weight of his own thoughts, it had been Max and his touch and his voice that had anchored George back down. And afterwards, Max had called Lewis to make sure that George made it to a hotel safely, had thought of George enough to make sure that he would be okay.
It was that, more than anything else, that complicated the thing between them in George’s mind.
Yet Max’s face hardened a moment later, the implacable mask descending, and any vulnerability of openness that George had assumed he had seen vanished as though it was never there at all.
“There’s nothing to talk about,” said Max, voice harsh.
George nodded, accepting - but he could not hide his flinch as the door slammed behind Max on his way out. It sounded almost like a declaration of intent - what intent, George did not know, but it did not sound kind. Above all, he thought that he maybe longed for kindness.