Chapter Text
George Russell had faced humiliation before, mostly in the form of a thinly veiled insult from a professor or a jab from an ex, but he had never expected it to land as a calendar invite in his inbox titled “Quick Chat- urgent” from his editor at 6:10 a.m. on a random Thursday. The Review of Science and Society did not do quick chats, the alarm bells had already started going off for George. The editorial team at the London Review were the polished sort. They held strategic meetings and recalibrations. Quick chats were usually reserved for the office kitchenette when the oat milk ran out, or the occasional gossip. Nevertheless, he went, tie perfectly knotted, iPad under his arm, the picture of professionalism.
The editor in chief, Dr. Harriet Taylor, had perfected the art of looking unimpressed without saying a word. But her feedback and the suggested edits she left on the Google Doc were always encouraging enough. George liked Harriet, but he wasn’t sure how much longer that would last. She nodded to the chair opposite her desk.
“George,” she started, in the tone reserved for promising graduates and also fraud suspects during interviews. “You’re aware...I assume, of the reaction to your piece on the Aston Martin electric platform?”
Oh, he was aware. His inbox was still blowing up. The piece had been, in his opinion, a masterpiece of engineering ethics. Meticulously sourced and elegantly phrased. However, it had also caused a minor economic earthquake. Aston Martin’s share price had plummeted, several MPs had called for inquiries, and some had tried to shun the magazine for ‘flinging insults’ at an elite British brand. But perhaps most significantly, one of the Review’s major donors who happened to sit on Aston Martin’s board had declared George “an alarmist with a God complex.” A bit harsh, if George was being honest.
“I stand by the data. I have provided all the facts and figures. Besides, the editorial board approved it. You, included,” George shrugged.
“Right...” Harriet sighed. “I understand, but unfortunately, the board also stands by the advertising contracts. The situation has become… delicate.” This was followed by a pause, the sound of which George did not like at all.
“You’re being reassigned,” she said at last, almost gently. “Temporarily, ofcourse. You’ll continue on staff, but not in your current capacity.”
The words hit with the blunt force of bureaucratic and capitalist violence. “Reassigned,” George repeated.
“Effective immediately. You’ll be covering,” she consulted her computer before continuing, “the Formula One world championship. Starting this weekend.”
For a moment, he thought he’d misheard her. “Pardon me, did you say I will be covering Formula One?”
“Yes, motorsport! Glamorous fast cars. Photogenic people saying idiotic things into microphones. The PR department believes it will do wonders for your, uh- versatility. Plus, Aston Martin competes there so… it’ll give us a chance to mend bridges” Harriet’s expression didn’t change even as she tried to make the new assignment sound enticing. Atleast she realised how ridiculous all of this was, George thought to himself.
George blinked. “With all due respect, Harriet. I write about engineering ethics and green data accountability. I just received a doctorate from Imperial, which you know I worked tremendously hard for!”
“Ofcourse! And now you’ll apply that engineering doctorate to exhaust fumes and podium interviews. Think of it as… broadening your scope. It’ll be fun! It’ll do wonders to increase readership, we don’t want to be known as the stuffy and posh science magazine. The marketing team and editorial board thinks this will give the magazine an edge with young readership. Besides, you’ll get to travel the world, all paid for by us,” she said crisply, her tone turning mildly encouraging near the end.
"You know, a lot of the engineers who work for those teams have doctorates, too! You will basically be with your peers!" she added in another failed attempt to cheer George up. George wanted to say he appreciated it, but that would be a lie.
He stared at her, genuinely at a loss for words. “You can’t be serious.”
“Dead serious. The season has already begun, so you’ll have to catch up a little. The paddock will be in Bahrain by Friday. You’ll receive the credentials in your inbox soon.”
There was something perversely graceful about how easily Harriet had dismantled George’s life in the last twenty minutes.
“Harriet,” he tried again, lowering his voice, in an attempt to convince her one last time that this was a terrible idea. “I revealed a major design flaw that could’ve endangered lives. It’s public service journalism. That’s not a scandal! That’s what we are meant to do.”
“I agree,” she replied, and for a fraction of a second, her tone softened as well. “But you embarrassed very wealthy people. And you know as well as I do that embarrassing the wealthy is a firing offence.”
He sat very still. The faint hum of the office AC was suddenly unbearable. George knew he was fucked. “This is absurd.”
“I don’t disagree. But it’s done,” she shut her computer off with a decisive click. “You’ll do the season. Maybe try writing some scientific essays on the build and construction of the cars and mix in some clever cultural essays about risk and masculinity! Or whatever it is they do. And then, provided there’s no further uproar, we’ll review your position.”
He wanted to argue, to insist that he’d rather resign. But the thought of unemployment, going back to the London flat share market, sending more freelance pitches, and explaining to his parents that he’d thrown away the most prestigious science desk in the continent stopped him.
So instead, he nodded once, with the kind of restraint that, frankly, George thought should have earned him a medal.
“Good lad,” Harriet smiled, happy to pretend the matter was resolved. “Try to enjoy the sunshine. I hear Bahrain’s lovely this time of year.”
----
Four days later, George was standing in the middle of Terminal 2 at Heathrow. George had always assumed airports were a uniquely depressing human invention. George feeling miserable at Heathrow at dawn did little to correct that impression. He was prepared to board the flight to Bahrain when his phone buzzed with a new message: Assignment Pack – Formula One 2025 Season. He opened it and scanned through the credentials, travel itinerary, contact at FOM, dress code (“business casual,” which he considered unprofessional), and a list of team press officers and the drivers they represented. One name leapt out immediately. Oracle Red Bull Racing's Max Verstappen.
Even George, who considered sport a social necessity for straight men, had heard of him. The Dutchman who’d rewritten every record in the book, perpetually scowling, but fast enough to make it into Physics textbooks. But George also knew that the tabloids loved the man for the wrong reasons. He was known for being rude to journalists and apparently allergic to humility.
Perfect. At least he would get to interact with the legend that was Lewis Hamilton. George used that information to console himself. George had a propensity for admiring British icons and Hamilton was certainly one of them.
Somewhere between the boarding queue and the overpriced coffee, the absurdity of his situation fully struck him. He was being exiled to report on men who drove in circles for a living.
By the time his plane touched down in Bahrain, he’d reread his briefing packet twice and annotated the margins with questions that would almost certainly irritate everyone involved. What are the carbon-offset mechanisms for the team’s freight transport? Who audits these figures?
----
The paddock greeted him with sunlight, which shocked his British sensibilities at first. Everything smelled faintly of petrol and sunscreen, and every person looked either stunning or exhausted. Everything and everyone fell into neat categories and binaries. Not the best first impression.
George adjusted the collar of his white shirt, feeling both overdressed and underdressed at the same time. Even the F1 official who presented his press credentials at the gate gave him a grin that he was sure was part amusement and part pity.
Inside, it was chaos. Mechanics swarmed over cars, PR assistants clutched headsets, some journalists shouted into cameras, and rich people frolicked sipping on drinks and clicking pictures. George immediately realised he wasn’t going to enjoy this. George instinctively took a step back as members of the Mercedes team pushed through with a large crate of front wings.
By the time the driver interviews began, George had an existential headache and made zero friends. It truly felt like the first day of university all over again. The press pen was a narrow strip of shade where a dozen journalists jostled for position. Fellow Brit Lando Norris laughed with someone from Sky Sports on the side, while the Ferrari driver Charles Leclerc leaned casually against a barrier, when it was finally George’s turn.
George gave the man a quick smile and polite greeting, mildly surprised at the man’s politeness and recognition of the fact that George was new. Atleast his first ever F1 interviewee seemed polite enough. George asked, still polite, “Mr. Leclerc, could you speak to the thermal management system changes this season? Specifically, how your team is managing airflow optimisation in the conditions in Bahrain?”
There was a long minute of silence. Leclerc blinked, as did his press officer. “Uh- it’s hotter?”
Some of the other reporters chuckled in the background, and even Norris stopped his interview and turned to look at the pair. Someone muttered, “Christ, he’s serious.”
George didn’t respond to any of it, he simply made a note as expected of a journalist.
Later, as the drivers drifted off, a few journalists clustered around him. A woman from Motorsport.com leaned in conspiratorially. “You’re the new one, aren’t you? The science kid who got Aston Martin in trouble?”
“Apparently so,” George sighed.
“You’re causing quite the stir. Nobody’s asked a technical question like that in a while to one of the drivers. That’s usually reserved for the Team Principles or mechanics,” she informed him with a smile.
He wasn’t sure if that was a compliment, but her smile seemed kind, so George decided to accept whatever little support he could get and thanked her.
----
Max was half-slouched in the corner of his driver’s room, a data tablet balanced on his knee, half-listening as GP talked through sector deltas. Max wasn’t really listening, he’d already memorised the numbers, but his mother had raised him to have manners so he nodded along, occasionally, to everything the older said.
The door opened without a knock, and his press officer slipped in, phone in hand and a grin that usually did not mean good news for Max.
“You won’t believe what the new journalist just asked in the pen,” she said, perching on the edge of the sofa.
Max didn’t bother to look up, “Which one?”
“You know, the new one! Tall, British, very BBC Evening Update energy. George Russell. Sorry, Dr. George Russell. He’s apparently doing a stint with the London Review of Science and Society. That posh science paper.”
GP's eyes uncharacteristically lit up. “Wait. Is he the kid who tore into Aston Martin about their safety design?”
“Yep,” she responded, scrolling. “the first question he asked Norris was, and I quote, ‘Do you think the new aerodynamic regs have made the sport safer, or just faster at hiding risk?’”
That got Max’s attention and his eyebrows flicked up. “He asked that? In the media pen? These changes aren’t even part of the slated new regulations.”
“I know! He asked that on camera. Straight-faced. Poor Lando nearly swallowed his mic,” she confirmed.
Max huffed a quiet laugh, more incredulous than amused. “That’s fucking hilarious. Sounds like a journalist who’s about to hate his life. This could be fun,” Max replied, tossing the tablet aside.
His press officer grinned. “I have a feeling you’d like him. He doesn’t seem scared of anyone. Very no-nonsense, like you.”
“Then he’s an idiot,” Max said, reaching for his cap.
“Fantastic. Another journalist who thinks he’s clever with a microphone,” he added, but the slight smile on his face made it obvious that at the very least he was amused.
----
But it seemed like it wasn’t only Max and the people at Red Bull who were amused. By the end of the media day, the paddock bar buzzed with rumours.
“He corrected a Sky producer about battery density,” someone said.
“He told Toto Wolff their sustainability report was greenwashing,” added another.
“Yeah, but he’s fit,” concluded a third, decisively.
George, blissfully unaware, was in his hotel room typing notes that read-
Motorsport appears to function as a self-sustaining spectacle of inefficiency and genius in equal measure. Investigate the psychological profile of participants.
He hesitated, then added another line- Interview Max V. Reported to be both brilliant and insufferable. But the first preference was still Lewis Hamilton, of course, he was a British hero after all.
However, George had no idea the man in question was, at that very moment, asking his team principle with cool irritation, “Do we really have to do media with the new posho British journalist tomorrow?”
“Afraid so,” Mekies said, too cheerfully. “He’s the only one who asked a proper question all day.” Ofcourse, an engineer like Laurent would think that, but Max didn’t say that out loud. Instead, he just found himself letting out a deep sigh, “Brilliant.”
---
The next morning, George woke to the shrill buzz of his hotel alarm and the realisation that he’d dreamt about lap times and combustion ratios. It was, he decided grimly, a sign that the sport was already infiltrating his subconscious, and that was unacceptable.
He dressed precisely again despite the ridiculous looks he received before. A light blue shirt, pressed trousers, and a laptop to hold his notes. The paddock was already alive by the time he had arrived. The crowds seemed a lot more rowdy compared to before, which made sense since it was qualifying day. Fans clustered behind fences, and camera crews ran around the paddock.
The media room after the qualifying session was worse. Rows of journalists sat elbow to elbow, the laptops glow reflecting on their faces as they rushed to write articles about today’s sessions.
It was the two McLaren drivers who entered first, but it was when Max entered that the energy in the room shifted. It wasn’t subtle. People sat straighter, and conversations hushed. George had already begun noticing that the reigning world champion had that effect. George found himself observing him with scientific curiosity, or so he thought. Up close, Verstappen was… younger than he’d expected, though there was an intensity in his eyes that spoke of someone who lived fast and judged faster. He carried himself with the hostility of a man who didn’t care to be liked.
The moderator opened the floor for questions. Predictably, the first ones were softballs.
“How’s the car feeling?”
“Confident about the race tomorrow?”
All three drivers answered with perfunctory charm and tired smiles.
Then George’s hand went up.
“George Russell. The London Review of Science and Society,” he said. A few heads turned at the formality of it, the prestige of the magazine now being associated with motorsports did have that impact. But some of them also turned out of mild curiosity. “I have a question for Mr. Verstappen regarding the thermal degradation patterns in the new tyres. Pirelli’s compound data suggests a quicker drop-off, yet the FIA regulations limit aerodynamic modifications that could offset that. Has your team found a balance in terms of energy recovery strategy, or does that compromise still exist? Your tyres seemed to struggle today compared to the McLarens.”
The silence that followed was immense. Someone in the back actually snorted.
Max blinked once, slowly. “Mate,” he said, leaning into the microphone, “I just drive the thing.”
Laughter erupted. George found the response only mildly amusing though. Unfazed, he jotted down a note. “So, you defer technical specifics to the engineering team, not keen on studying them yourself?”
Max gave him a sideways glance, part irritation and part amusement. Max was smart enough to recognise a veiled insult. “That’s one way of putting it, yeah. But we are figuring the degradation part out. As the season goes on, I think we will get better. Too early to say if we’ll catch up with the McLarens, though. But the teams have all spoken to Pirelli about our issues with the tyres so I suppose you need to ask them these questions now.”
A few of the journalist nodded along in agreement. Glad that they weren’t on the receiving end of Max’s discontent.
A journalist from Autosport leaned over to George and whispered as the moderator moved on, “Bold move. He eats people for breakfast.”
“I’m just interested in understanding the interface between driver and data,” George replied under his breath.
“Well, good luck with that,” came the amused reply.
The next few questions drifted toward more familiar topics, race pace, teammate dynamics, sponsorships and so on. But George, unfortunately, continued to stand out. The paddock loved a new toy, and the insufferable science journalist from the posh “non-motorsport” magazine had become its latest curiosity.
When the press conference wrapped up, George quickly got up and started packing away his notes, ready to retire for the night when he heard a voice behind him.
“Do you actually know what any of that meant, or were you just trying to make me look stupid?”
George turned around and saw Max standing there, arms folded, with that same half-grin from earlier still in place. Up close, he radiated the kind of confidence that came from knowing the world would move to make space for him. The other journalists seemed to have stalled, as if waiting to witness a disaster, but one look from Max had them rushing through the packing-up process again. From the corner of his eyes, George could see even Lando and Oscar pause.
A part of George wanted to pull out the pictures of him receiving his doctorate, but he knew that would make him look even more insufferable and probably like a cunt. He turned to properly meet Max's gaze, “I assure you, I only ever aim for accuracy. I work for a science and society magazine afterall.”
“Right, because usually when someone throws that much jargon at me, they’re either trying to sell something or prove they’re smarter,” Max scoffed, stepping closer.
“Maybe it's both. But I imagine neither works particularly well on you,” George replied lightly.
That earned him the faintest twitch of a real smile, “You imagine correctly.”
There was a brief moment of silence that followed, which was not quite hostile, but it wasn’t friendly either.
“Look, you’re new here. A word of advice? If you keep asking only questions like that, half the grid’s going to think you’re taking the piss,” Max said finally, breaking the silence. George wasn’t sure why Max was even bothering with him.
“I’m not here to make friends,” George replied, perhaps too harshly. The response sounded too familiar and almost made Max laugh. He remembered what happened to the last person who said that in the paddock.
“Good, because you won’t,” Max said, amusement creeping into his tone.
He turned to leave, “but you’ll make headlines. They like that here.”
----
The next evening, as the race weekend came to an end, George filed his first article. He typed-
Formula One drivers exist at the intersection of instinct and engineering. They are data interpreters and data sources — human components in a machine that runs on ego as much as fuel. Some, like Verstappen, have elevated arrogance into an art form, often weaponising deflection and incivility into charisma.
He read the paragraph back twice. The last sentence was too harsh. He contemplated deleting it. But after mulling it over, he ultimately decided to keep it. Was this going to ruffle some feathers? Probably. Was George simply being petty because he was forced to cover men who drove in circles? yes. Was this also because something about Max rubbed him the wrong way? Also yes. But that's just how it was going to be. This would be his way of having some fun, as he survived this punishment. If Harriet and the editorial team thought it was too critical, they’d edit it out. And with that, he pressed send and decided to go to bed.
After the article was published, it already created a lot of buzz. Right before the next race weekend in Jeddah. On their way to Jeddah in a private flight, Lewis adjusted his noise-cancelling headphones and laughed as he read the article. That drew the attention of the rest of the drivers and managers on the flight.
“What’s that?” Lando asked, craning across the aisle, his hoodie pulled up.
Lewis turned his phone around, and the headline gleamed in the cabin light. A curious Oscar also leaned in to read it.“That’s the new guy, isn’t it? The one everyone keeps talking about.”
“The journalist from the Review? I heard he used to write about climate tech or nuclear reactors or something. Got demoted to F1 for being too clever. Hilarious. Who knew being asked to cover F1 and travelling the world is considered a demotion,” Lando laughed as he pulled up his phone to look George up.
Lewis smiled. “He’s not stupid. Listen to this.” He scrolled and read aloud the last paragraph of the article, perfectly enunciating every syllable.
Lando let out a low whistle. Both shocked and mildly impressed. “Bloody hell. He really wrote that? In print?”
Oscar grinned despite himself. “That’s… brave.”
“Or suicidal. I’d bet on suicidal. Max is going to love that,” Lando added, half-smiling.
Lewis, though, kept reading, a faint curve forming on his lips. “No, it’s intelligent and bold. I like that he doesn’t grovel like most of them. It’s honest.”
“Still. You don’t write about Max like that unless you’re looking to start something,” Oscar responded, thoughtful.
“You never know. Maybe he is,” Lewis shrugged, setting his phone down.
----
By the time everyone started landing in Jeddah, the paddock WhatsApp groups were already circulating screenshots. The quote, that single sentence, had taken on a life of its own with everyone sharing it with each other. Unfortunately for Red Bull, George did not write for a minor magazine. The Review’s legacy carried weight and this was their first ever F1 article. Both people who knew nothing, and those who followed the sport religiously were reading it with rapt attention.
The Sky commentators were dissecting it. While Helmut Marko called it “unprofessional.” But Max Verstappen said nothing. He sat in his hotel room, scrolling through the article again. He had read it twice already, once as a driver and once as a person. The first time, he’d been irritated. The second time? He’d felt something colder.
He knew what it was to be the story instead of the person. To be talked about as though you were a symptom of a malfunctioning system rather than someone inside it. But George had managed to sound both scathing and curious at once.
His father would have told him to ignore it. They talk because they can’t drive. Jos Verstappen’s voice lived permanently in his head. Still, something about the phrasing stung.
Often weaponising deflection and incivility into charisma.
That sounded too much like insult dressed as the truth. Not to mention, it felt like a personal insult. A lot of journalists over the years had written disparaging articles about him, and yet something about this one hurt. It made him feel like a fool. He had recognised a similar pattern of grit and a no-nonsense attitude in George’s eyes, one that he felt they perhaps shared, which made him curious about the journalist. That’s why the slight burned even more. Max didn’t know why it almost felt like a betrayal. One that Max wasn’t going to forgive or forget.
---
By Thursday, the paddock was humming with new gossip, nobody even pretended to keep it private. And by midday, every driver had at least glanced at George. He had a feeling that this time it didn’t have anything to do with his overtly formal attire. He could only hope the PR teams hadn’t asked their drivers to avoid him. The glances weren’t pointed at him because he was new or asked oddly technical questions anymore. This time, it was because he didn’t seem remotely intimidated by where he was, despite not belonging there.
But George decided to take it in his stride. During the technical briefing, his questions were unnervingly specific. He asked James Vowels about the flow dynamics in the new floor design. He challenged Mekies about the aerodynamic CFD dependency. By the time the session ended, unlike thr rest of the paddock, the engineers seemed to like him. George had managed to overhear whispers about “the journalist who actually knows what a vortex generator is,” from the Mercedes garage. That made him smile.
The drivers’ press conference began at half past three in one of the temporary briefing rooms by the paddock entrance. George slipped in at the back of the media section, opening his laptop to record his notes from the session. He could see some of the journalists, and even the moderator look his way. But George’s expression was unreadable, but his eyes still tracked every flicker of movement around him.
When Max walked in, the temperature in the room seemed to shift by a few degrees. He wore the usual dark navy Red Bull polo, his posture straighter than usual. There was a faint bruise of tiredness under his eyes, or maybe it was irritation. He clocked George instantly. Didn’t even try to hide it. There was a half-second’s pause as they locked eyes.
Max noticed the other journalists visibly turn to look at George when he had walked in, which made him laugh. Ofcourse they would. The room was filled with drama-loving leeches.
The questions began predictably enough. Strategies and balance issues. The reporters, cautious now after the sensation George's article had caused, stuck to safe ground. Until George lifted his hand.
The moderator blinked. “Ah, yes. George Russell, London Review.”
Max’s mouth curved into a scary smile. “Ofcourse,” he responded rather purposefully loud, which even made Carlos do a double take.
George ignored that. If Max couldn’t be professional, George would. “Mr, Verstappen. You’ve often spoken about tuning out the noise. Focusing only on performance instead of perception. But given how much of your public persona relies on being seen as untouchable, do you ever worry that your detachment becomes its own form of vulnerability?”
George knew his question would be seen as an attack. It was precise and too personal, almost in the worst possible way. The room went still.
Max tilted his head, eyes glinting. “Vulnerability?” he repeated. “I don’t think winning every weekend makes me look very vulnerable.”
A few reporters laughed nervously, but George’s fingers didn’t move on the keyboard, eyes still focused on Max. “That depends on what you think people envy. The wins or the mask you seem to put on.”
Max smiled properly this time, however it was the kind that didn’t reach his eyes. “You sound like my therapist,” he responded.
George barely returned the smile, “I doubt you’d listen to one.”
That earned a low whistle from someone in the back. Young Kimi's face reflected a mix of horror and awe, eyes moving back and forth between the two men in question.
“You talk a lot for someone who’s never driven a lap,” Max responded with a laugh that was meant to bite.
“True. But I’ve studied enough systems to recognise when one starts overheating,” George said without losing a beat. Multiple gasps could be heard across the room.
Max leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees. “Careful, George. You keep analysing people like machines, and one day, you’ll meet someone who bites back.”
George didn’t blink. “Oh, I rather hope so.”
Even the moderator seemed unsure whether to move on or stay out of it entirely.
Afterwards, the journalists spilled out into the corridor for a quick break before the next session in a flurry of whispers and caffeine.
“That was something,” some from the Race sighed.
“I thought he was going to throw a mic,” another whispered.
Lando found Oscar by the exit, half-grinning as they waited for their turn in the next driver’s press conference. “Your man’s got nerves of steel.”
Oscar frowned, “He’s not my man.”
“Sure, but you’re staring. You’ve been staring a lot," Lando said with his usual troublemaker grin painted on his face.
“I’m just… impressed. He doesn’t even flinch around Max. Most people do.”
Oscar watched George pack away his laptop at the back of the room, calm as ever, while Max stood by the door, pretending not to look.
But he was looking.
When their eyes met again, there was something new in them. Not curiosity or anger, but rather something that bordered on obsessive attention.
George too decided to step out for a smoke break before the next session began with Oscar, Lando and Lewis. In all honesty, he was quite excited about it. He wasn't a motorsports junkie, but he knew of Lewis Hamilton. Everyone did, and the prospect of interviewing the man was something George was looking forward to. Perhaps, also partly to forget the tense exchange that had just taken place. But he was not going to admit to that. Even to himself.
He’d almost reached the end of the walkway when he heard his name being called.
“Russell.”
As if it had become a habit, when he turned, he saw Max was standing a few metres away, hands in his pockets. There was something feline about the stillness.
“Mr. Verstappen. Again,” George said politely, as if they’d simply run into each other at a networking event.
“Fuck sake. Drop the act. Just say Max,” he rolled his eyes. “You think you’re clever, don’t you?” he added. His voice was low and too even for someone’s whose eyes clearly reflected the frustration he felt.
“I think I’m literate. There’s a difference,” George blinked. Was the response a bit pretentious? Sure. But George didn't mind being seen as pretentious.
“That article. You knew exactly what you were doing,” Max said, stepping closer to avoid any eavesdroppers.
George, in all honesty, had expected someone from Red Bull to reach out to him about it. But he hadn’t expected that someone to be Max, himself. “I mean, I did write it.”
“You called me arrogant and uncivil.”
“I said you’d turned arrogance into an art form. I thought that was quite generous,” George corrected, tone maddeningly calm, which frustrated Max even more.
Max let out an unamused laugh, “You think you can understand me after five minutes in the paddock? You sit behind your keyboard and think that makes you qualified?”
“I didn’t claim to understand you. I just observed a pattern. You deflect and provoke. You like to perform control to make it look like you’re indifferent. But that’s not true, is it?” George replied instead of backing down. That landed harder than either of them expected.
For a moment, Max just looked at him, as if trying to decide whether to be angry or mildly amused.
“You think you’re so much better than everyone here because you quote philosophers and use big words,” he replied finally.
George tilted his head. “Firstly, No. I am a science journalist, not a literary critic. Secondly, to answer your question, I just find it remarkable that a sport built on physics still relies so much on ego and personality to function.”
“The ego and personality you speak of with disdain is what wins races,” Max shot back.
“Maybe, but it also ruins people,” George replied.
The sound of a golf cart whirred past somewhere behind them, the faint laughter of mechanics carried across the paddock but neither of them moved.
Max took a step back, jaw tightening. “You should be careful, George. This isn’t the world of journalism you’re used to. People here don’t like being dissected.”
“I noticed. But as I said, I’m not here to be liked,” George said.
“Then what are you here for? Free trips in business class and stays in fancy hotels until the Aston Martin people have been placated enough to return your job?” Max asked, chuckling humourlessly. Satisfied with how the jab has landed purposefullypurposefullyand caused George’s jaw to clench.
But George was not one to back down. He met Max’s gaze all level and steady before responding. “To tell the truth. Even if it irritates the subject.”
Max stared at him a long moment, expression unreadable, before giving a small, humourless smile. “You’re going to regret that.”