Chapter Text
The garage had never been so quiet. Not because there wasn’t noise, no.
Air guns screamed, mechanics shouted over the din of the garage, engineers argued over telemetry.
It was quiet because nobody dared speak to Max Verstappen.
The RB22 sat on its stands high above the ground, stripped of bodywork after another miserable Friday practice.
The car had been horrendous. Oversteering into some corners, understeering into others. Balance was just a concept to the piece of junk supposedly worth $20 million.
A four-time World Champion shouldn’t have to squint to find his name halfway down a timing screen week in and week out.
Max ripped off his gloves with a frustrated huff and threw them onto the table, “what am I supposed to do with this shit?” he snapped, gesturing at the car.
Nobody answered.
A few nervous glances were tossed around between mechanics who pretend it’s absolutely necessary to tighten a wheel nut that didn’t need tightening, and data engineers staring at laptops as if it was urgent.
Max laughed, humourless. “Great.” He turned toward the engineering station, “we’ve gone backwards again.”
Still silence, no one daring to meet his eye.
The RB22 had no front grip, no rear stability and seemed to become slower every time the team brought new upgrades in the hopes of saving an already sinking ship.
Every race weekend, the same speech followed. The new upgrades would improve his lap times, would make the car more drivable. But none of the empty promises have come true so far.
A voice interrupted Max’s spiralling thoughts, “Laurent would like to see you,” a mechanic said quietly.
“I’m busy.”
“…He said immediately.”
Max exhaled sharply and turned without another word, heading to the team principal’s office.
Laurent Mekies’ office was as spacious as it could be in a motorhome. Devoid of any personal belongings save for a team issued water bottle and some corny motivational quote propped on his desk in a cheap wooden frame.
Max entered without knocking, “you wanted to see me?”
Laurent looked up from his laptop, smiling and intertwining his hands in an effort to look more disarming. “I did.”
He gestured toward the empty chair.
Max ignored it. Laurent smiled as if it was expected.
Max hated when he did that.
“We need to discuss communication.”
“We need to discuss the car.” Max replied with barely concealed frustration.
“We are.”
“No we’re not. We’re too busy with our heads up our asses while Mercedes are six tenths faster than us and McLaren are improving every race.”
Laurent waited.
Another thing Max hated.
“You’ve gone through three race engineers this season,” Laurent spoke again in a tone he perceived to be that of a friendly mentor.
“They weren’t listening.”
“They were.”
“They were all shit.”
“They were trying.”
Max huffed a humourless laugh.
Laurent decided it was better to rip the bandaid off quick, “which is why I’ve hired someone new.”
Max froze in disbelief, “what?”
“A new race engineer,” Laurent irritatingly answered the rhetorical question.
“I don’t need another one.”
“I disagree.”
“You think throwing new race engineers at me every other week is going to fix the problem? I don’t need to be coddled, I’m a four-time World Champion.”
“And I’d like you to win a fifth.”
Max crossed his arms, levelling Laurent with a death stare. After a few moments of Laurent looking back at him with that annoyingly expectant look, Max rolled his eyes, “so who’s the poor guy?”
Laurent smiled, “you’ll meet him soon.”
One long impromptu break following a couple of race cancellations later, the engineering room at the factory was bustling with indistinguishable chatter.
Max walked in silently like a sulking child and sat on the first empty chair he could find.
A few minutes later, Laurent walked in, “I’d like everyone’s attention.”
The chatter quieted and everyone looked up.
“We have a new addition to the team,” Laurent smiled.
A tall man stepped through the open door wearing a Red Bull team shirt that looked fresh out of the packaging.
Dark hair, green eyes, and completely relaxed despite thirty pairs of eyes locked onto him.
“Everyone, this is Charles Leclerc.”
Max blinked at the new guy. He looked young. Max couldn’t help but notice the dimples that peeked out slightly as the man — Charles — smiled politely at the sea of faces.
“Nice to meet everyone, it’s a pleasure to be working with you,” Charles spoke in a diplomatic tone. He was met with mumbled responses and polite smiles.
Laurent continued, “Charles will be Max’s race engineer starting this weekend.”
The room collectively paused, eyes turning to Max at record speed.
Max laughed, “him?” he pointed mockingly at Charles.
Laurent looked at him. “Yes.”
“He doesn’t know the car.”
“He’ll learn,” Laurent replied calmly, expecting this backlash from Max.
“He doesn’t know me or anything about this team.”
Charles suddenly interrupted, “I imagine I’ll learn that as well.”
His voice was quiet, accompanied by a smile that Max could swear was patronising.
Max looked him up and down. “What, new guy’s got some balls?”
“I’d like to think so.”
Max narrowed his eyes, jaw clenching in irritation.
Everyone else in the room looked on silently, holding their breath. Nobody spoke to Max like that.
He stood up and stepped closer to Charles, puffing up his chest in an attempt to take control of the situation.
“I’m difficult. I yell. I swear.”
Charles nodded, that stupid smile still plastered on his face, “I’ve heard.”
Max furrowed his brows. Why was this not working?
“And don’t expect me to nod and ‘yes, sir’ you any time soon. I like things my way.”
“I’m fully aware.”
That caught Max off guard. He’d never been so close to choking the life out of someone he’d just met five minutes ago.
Normally this was where people started apologising, or defending themselves, but Charles simply stood there, hands clasped behind his back and meeting Max’s fiery gaze head on.
Max pursed his lips and turned, but not without subjecting Laurent to a withering glare on his way out.
The next Friday morning after a five week break brought clear sunny skies and the trademark lively atmosphere that was the Miami Grand Prix.
Max’s side of the garage buzzed with life and the ongoing noises of wheel guns and overlapping conversations.
FP1.
Max climbed into the cockpit, after avoiding his new race engineer who was sat donning a pair of bulky headphones and clicking through various graphs and data schematics.
He went through the routine of clicking his belts into place and putting on his racing gloves, his jaw clenched without him realising as he gripped the steering wheel and looked around the garage at the constant movement of mechanics surrounding him.
He feels the car being lowered as the mechanics look on, waiting to take the tyre covers off.
Then a new voice crackles abruptly through his earpieces.
“Radio check,” an accented voice said.
Max froze as if forgetting the concept of a race engineer, or rather not prepared for the jarring change of the voice in his ears. What was that accent again? French?
“Radio check, Max?” the same voice repeated.
Max blinked and quickly pressed the radio button.
“Yeah, yeah, radio check.”, he answered in a forcibly bored tone.
“Loud and clear.”
Max stared straight ahead, vision obscured slightly by the halo that would be forgotten once the car was on track.
He refused to look to his left, knowing he would catch a glimpse of Charles’ back in that embarrassingly tight Red Bull team kit.
Seriously, was extra small the only size available?
“You can go, Max,” the voice crackles again in his ears, startling him.
He looks up to see he’s being ushered out of the garage.
Damn it.
Five laps on a brand new set of medium tyres later, Max hits the radio button with a bit too much force.
”The balance is terrible,” he complains on a cooldown lap.
“Copy that,” is all he gets.
His hands grip the steering wheel tighter. “It’s completely undrivable, this is bullshit.”
”I understand that you believe it’s terrible.”
“I don’t believe. I know.”
“Then let’s improve it.”
Max frowned and wished he could roll his eyes but that’s probably not a good idea while driving. “Yeah no shit, why didn’t I think of that.”
“Language, Max.”
Max barked out a laugh of disbelief, “language? Mate, what are you, like five years old?”
“Max.” The accented voice came through sharper, sending a jolt down Max’s spine, “I mean it. Not over the radio. Now tell me what’s wrong with the car in a bit more detail.”
A beat of silence passed as Max trundled the car through the Marina chicane, mind blank yet racing at the same time.
“The front doesn’t bite. I understeer into the corner then oversteer out of it. The downshifts are horrendous and I can’t attack the corners. My seat also keeps sliding,” Max lists off in a surprisingly level-headed tone before clicking the radio off.
“Good.” Charles said before quickly following it up with, “Copy, box this lap and we’ll figure something out.”
Max made his way to the pit lane on autopilot.
What kind of engineer was this? And why did he listen to him?
Back in the garage, Max was told to climb out to fix his seat. He stands there awkwardly for a moment before Charles approaches him, “the rear’s awful.”
Charles nodded. “I agree.”
Max blinked at Charles through his open visor. “You do?”
“Yes.”
“So?”
”So we’ll adjust it.” Charles replied simply.
“You didn’t even look at the telemetry.”
“I did.”
“When?”
Charles pointed behind him. “I know what I’m doing, Max.”
He looked over Charles’ shoulder, only to be met with an array of data from brake traces to tyre degradation. Everything already organised.
”You’re fast.” Max mumbled, still analysing the colourful screens.
“So I’ve been told.” Charles smirked slightly.
Max frowned and averted his gaze to the mechanics adjusting his seat. He told himself the burning he felt on his face was due to the Miami heat.
“You’ve done this before.”
“I’ve engineered racing cars before.”
“What kind?” Max instinctively asked, his curiously piqued.
Charles smiled with raised brows. “Different ones.”
“You avoiding the question?” He asked.
“I don’t think my résumé helps the car.”
Max opened his mouth the closed it, looking for something to say, but Charles was already back at his computer.
Annoying.
Very annoying.
Qualifying ended in P9.
Another disaster after barely scraping into Q3.
Max climbed out of the car, furious, and stomped towards Charles.
“What happened in sector two?” He angrily asked, pulling off his helmet and balaclava.
Charles met his ire with a blink. “We lost rear stability.”
“I know that.” Max snapped.
Charles nodded. “Then we’re in agreement.”
Max glared. “You’re impossible. You should be arguing with me.”
Charles tilted his head. “Why?”
Max had no answer.
Because everyone else got angry and eventually cracked. Eventually pushed back or ignored him.
Charles didn’t.
“Go to the media pen for your interview then take a cold shower and cool off. You need to rest before the race.” Charles almost ordered in a tone that showed he was confident Max would do as he says.
And Max did.
Sunday came too soon. He had dropped three positions due to a bad start, but managed to claw himself up into P7 by lap 23.
The Red Bull was struggling behind the Alpine of Pierre Gasly for 8 laps and counting.
“This thing won’t rotate,” he angrily complained over the radio, then forced himself to ask, “what do you suggest?” through gritted teeth.
“Exit mode seven, engine position 11. So, exit mode seven and engine position one-one.”
Max switched it during the straight and immediately felt the difference in handling.
He refused to acknowledge the improvement over the radio but Charles’ smug voice crackled in his ear once again, “better?”
“…Yes.” He begrudgingly answered.
“Good.”
Two laps later, he overtook Gasly. The radio remained silent.
No congratulations, no celebration, just silence.
Max hated that he felt disappointed by that.
He finished the race in fifth following a fortunate Mclaren DNF.
Not good, but somehow better than expected.
Back inside the garage, Max removed his helmet. Charles was already reviewing data.
Max leaned against the desk next to him. “You weren’t celebrating.”
“There wasn’t much to celebrate.”Charles replied, eyes never leaving his screen as he bit back a smile at Max’s words.
Max furrowed his brows. “Fuck you.”, he said but it came out whiny more than anything.
Charles smirked to himself, eyes still on the screen as silence settled between them.
Max awkwardly stood there, helmet still in hand as Charles clicked through various files as if he wasn’t there.
A minute later, Charles closed his laptop and turned to Max. “You drove well.”
Max looked up, eyes widened slightly. His throat suddenly felt too dry. His hands involuntarily tightened around his helmet as he stared at Charles in disbelief.
They were just simple words. Not exaggerated or over the top.
Max still couldn’t help the strange fluttery feeling in his stomach which he stomped down as quickly as it arose.
He cleared his throat and looked away in what he hoped was disinterest (it wasn’t), “…yeah, thanks.”
Charles smiled and regarded Max for a moment. The flush high on his cheeks, and his white knuckles straining as he gripped the helmet like a lifeline.
“See you tomorrow.” He smiled before walking away, leaving Max dumbly rooted to his spot.
Max watched him disappear through the garage.
GP, his former race engineer turned Head of Engineering, wandered over.
“So…” He poked with raised brows.
Max didn’t answer immediately.
Finally he muttered, “he’s weird.”
“Because he doesn’t react?”
Max looked toward the door Charles had disappeared through.
“No.” Max responded but didn’t elaborate further, the unspoken words suspended in the air between them:
Because I wanted him to.
GP watched on with a raised brow and a knowing smirk.
For the first time in months, Max wasn’t thinking about the car.
He was thinking about the man who refused to let him get under his skin. And somehow, that was even more frustrating.