Chapter Text
Gianpiero got the news two hours before the general public. Not even in person mind you. No he got a notification for an email that simply informed him that “Internal decisions were that Max Verstappen would be replacing Daniil Kvyat from Barcelona onwards.”
It had taken Gianpiero three minutes to understand what that would mean for him in particular. (Give him a break, it was a long week.)
Of course he had heard of Max Verstappen before. Who within Formula 1 and especially Red Bull Racing hadn't.
He had seen the kid trailing behind his father around the track, always wide-eyed looking around with awe. He had heard his fair share of drivers complain about the kid too, mainly Daniil in debriefs, but also Sergio when they met up for a drink after a race or Sebastian when he came to visit Rocky.
He had seen what Verstappen had accomplished on track, his aggressive driving style, his overtakes and his unbelievable amounts of talent.
The young man had made history as the youngest F1 driver ever, youngest pointscorer and now seemingly youngest Red Bull Racing driver.
And Gianpiero would be the race engineer for this young, impulsive talent.
Great.
Immediately Gianpiero pulled up the data and onboards he could find from the previous races of the teen, studying his approaches on track, but also with his engineer. Of course he would need to find his own way on how to deal with Max during high-pressure situations during the race, but it always helped Gianpiero to get a first feel on what he could try.
Right from the beginning, Max seemed to hate being given orders that would compromise his own race position even for the benefit of the team. He also talked back on some other decisions, but here he'd at least do it anyway.
Max would need someone who was no push-over, but also someone who could take some heat during stressful situations. Someone who could challenge him, while also bringing him back down to earth.
He could work with that. The rest would come with trust and experience, when they adapted to each other.
“Paddy? When will Verstappen arrive for his seat fit? I'd like to also speak to him.”
Paddy looked at his schedule.
“Ah so they finally filled you in? Jos said, their plane is landing at two.”
Half past two, Jos Verstappen entered the factory in Milton Keynes, his son trailing a bit behind him, looking around with wide eyes..
With a smile Gianpiero walked up to them.
“Mr. Verstappen, Max. Welcome to Milton Keynes. I'm Gianpiero Lambiase and I will be Max' race engineer from now on.” Jos Verstappen eyed him for several moments, before getting stuck on his outstretched right hand, raising an eyebrow at the black mark of an unfound soulmate that stretched across his entire palm. He made no move to shake it, so Gianpiero turned to Max and asked: “Why don't I show you where you can put your stuff and then I'll take you to the seat fit?”
For some reason Max seemed to look surprised that Gianpiero was talking to him, and glanced nervously over to his father before nodding.
“Alright, Mr. Verstappen. Christian is in his office on the fifth floor, I'll bring Max by once we're done.”
Jos pursed his lips for a moment, before he turned to Max with a stern “Behave” and left towards the lift.
As soon as Jos was out of view, Max visibly relaxed. He even sent a small smile to Gianpiero.
“Now, first we should get you to the seat fit, they need the most time to get that done. Afterwards I can show you your driver's room here at the factory and all the other rooms you need to know?”
Max shrugged: “You don't have to Mr. Lambiase… I'm sure you're busy.”
“First of all, call me GP, everyone does. And secondly, since I'm gonna be your race engineer I'd like to get to know you.”
Max continued to stare at him like a dear in the headlights. For a moment GP thought he had completely broken Max, just by offering kindness. Just what had Jos done to this kid, until now.
“Max, your father will be busy for a while, and I’m not gonna let you stand around here, or get lost while trying to find the right room. Come with me, I’m gonna show you around and introduce you to the team.”
Reluctantly, Max nodded and slowly followed GP, both hands clutching his backpack and the other trunk closely. Gianpiero wondered what Max could have in there, but he wasn’t sure if Max would answer him, with the way he still looked three seconds from bolting away.
“Okay… You can put your stuff in here for now. You’ll get your own room after Barcelona, but Daniil still has some stuff in there. This is my office, so it’ll be locked when we’re gone. Don’t know if you have anything valuable in there.”
Max shrugged again, but he neatly put his stuff into a corner, dusting his hands on his trousers.
“Alrighty, next stop seat fit.”
He took the teenager down various halls and assembly stations, filling the whole way with chatter and explanations, trying to ease the tension out of Max. But Max stayed silent, only watching his surroundings, but he listened attentively.
Twenty minutes later, they were finished and on their way back to the lobby, usually a seat fit would take longer, but Max already had a seat from Toro Rosso, so they just had to check if it would fit into the RedBull.
Gianpiero delivered Max back to his father, with the promise to meet him again the next day for some simulator work.
– – – – –
Max didn't know what to think. Or maybe he didn't even have time to think. One moment he was preparing for Barcelona with his team, the next moment his father called him to pack his bags because they would be flying to Milton Keynes.
He was being promoted to the senior team. Immediately.
Starting in Barcelona.
Max had never scrambled faster for his go-bag and his travel simulator – surely his father would want him to train, once they were back at the hotel – to not make anyone wait for him.
Once they arrived, there was a man waiting for them. Max had seen him around the paddock in passing. His future race engineer; Gianpiero – GP.
What baffled Max the most, was how kind GP was. Even with how rude his father had been, he had still treated Max kindly, and… like an equal almost. Most people he had worked with at Toro Rosso had treated him like a child. He was 18 now, for fucks sake. An adult. And he was not even a rookie anymore, no, he was a Formula 1 driver starting his second season. He could handle things.
After the seat fit and all the general introductions, his father and him were whisked away to the media office, a part of the sport that Max would never understand. Couldn’t they just all leave him alone and let him drive?
He didn’t need to know that the public thought that RedBull would be making a mistake and that he was too young, too inexperienced, too reckless, or whatever else they were coming up with in the safety of their homes.
He didn’t care. He would just have to go and prove them all wrong. That’s what would be expected of him anyways.
That was what his father had trained him for. The rest would just have to suck it up and deal with it.
At least now they had something else to talk about than where his soul mark was – or if he even had one.
Max did in fact have a soul mark, a full handprint stretched across his left shoulder blade, but nobody apart from his father had ever seen it. Jos had just scoffed at Max’ excitement about it and told him to concentrate on his career, and not waste his time with things like soul mates.
The rest of the week was filled with simulator work, meetings, more simulator work and even more meetings. During all of it his father somehow never left his side. Always there, always watching.
Right until the moment, where they arrived in Barcelona, on Thursday morning. Max refused to be nervous. With quick steps he moved through the paddock, refusing to talk to anyone, neither drivers, nor journalists. He didn’t want to answer questions about the change, about if he thought that he was so young and in a major team, about his feelings or about once again, about his soul mark. He didn’t want to deal with the stares and frowns of the other drivers. All those who thought that he was just a reckless teenager and shouldn’t have a place among them.
The only driver who he couldn’t avoid was Daniel Ricciardo. He had pulled Max into a hug, the moment Max reached the RedBull motorhome, grinning over the whole face, and had declared that they would make the best team on the grid.
Quickly Max tried to escape, into the safety of his new driver’s room, where he had put his travel simulator.
Free Practice on Friday was exciting, Max had never felt such power at his control and he had to stop himself more than once, from pushing the car to the max; to keep with the run plan they had agreed upon.
But GP’s voice in his ear managed to keep him in the present, reminding him of his job and that he could prove himself later – for example in tomorrow's qualifying. As soon as Max climbed out of the car, his eyes were sparkling, looking over to GP, his fingers itching to explain every turn and snap of the car. Never had he felt so much fun.
Qualifying was slightly less exciting, with him making a tiny mistake that cost him third on the grid in his final run, but all in all was P4 the highest he had ever been on the grid. And maybe - he almost didn't dare to dream about this - he could actually stand on the podium tomorrow.
Eagerly he listened to Hannah breaking down their possible strategies, pitching in whenever he could. More than once he had to cut himself off from a rant about tire feel or steering angles, whenever his father started glaring at him to shut the fuck up.
Nobody seems to notice that, everyone was too busy to actually work so much more professionally than Max was used to.
The only one who kept eyeing Max with growing concern, was Gianpiero. Not that Max noticed that.
The next day felt like an out of body experience for Max. He sat on the grid, launched the car off the line when the lights went out, watched as both Mercedes vanished in a cloud of dust in front of him and then it was just him and the clear track up ahead. Nobody, not even Kimi could stop him and by the time GP informed him that this was the final lap, Max felt like he was floating.
Had someone told him even a week ago that he would win the race next week, he would have thought they were crazy. He knew that he would win eventually – he knew he had to, or his dad… – but he’d never expected to manage today. With only 18 years of age. He’d be the youngest race winner ever. By far.
“Unbelievable, Max. Unbelievable.”
GP sounded about as emotional as Max was feeling as he crossed the line and saw the chequered flag waved solely for him.
He won. He actually won his first race. On his first race with the new team.
“Recharge on, Max and into the pitlane.”
The first person to congratulate him was Sebastian Vettel. Max tried not to stare, when he shook his hand. He had thought Vettel couldn't stand him.
Next was Dr. Marko, who pulled him into a brief hug and said: “Schau, ich wusste, dass du die richtige Wahl bist.”
He couldn't see his father in the crowd, but he could see a bunch of his mechanics waving him over to the fence, GP in the middle grinning like his biggest dream had just come true. For a moment Max hesitated, maybe he should aim for casual handshakes, but the moment he had walked over to them, multiple hands pulled him close, parting his back and hugging him.
It made his whole skin tingle. Never did he have so many people look so proud of him at once.
He basically floated into the cool down room and onto the podium and it was only when he was back in his hotel room, getting ready to shower off the champagne that he noticed something strange.
His back was still tingling and when he tried to glance at it in the bathroom mirror, he froze.
His soul mark was now a vibrant deep blue, in the exact shape of a hand patting him on the back.
He had met his soulmate. They must be part of the team. He was so fucked.
– – – – –
On a different floor of the hotel, Gianpiero Lambiase was staring at his palm. This morning it had still been pitch-black. The sign he had not yet met his soulmate.
Now it was tingling and in this burned, warm shade of orange that could mean only one thing.
He was totally fucked.