Chapter Text
Zandvoort buzzed with energy, a festival of speed and chaos. The grandstands were quite literally bursting with a sea of orange as flares sent clouds of smoke drifting into the humid air. Fans roared every time a car passed but they saved their greatest accolades for their home hero, Max Verstappen. The purpose built track, narrow and winding, was coming alive as the teams practised ahead of qualifying on Saturday.
Among the drivers on the track, lapping up the energy of the crowd was Daniel Ricciardo. He was back where he belonged after a beleaguered absence from the grid.
His AlphaTauri car was daring through the second sector, its rear wing twitching as he carried every bit of speed he could manage into each banked corner. He felt the tires bite into the tarmac, the car responding with precision to his every move. It had been a long time since driving felt like this: intuitive, seamless. He was carving through the laps, alive with confidence that had eluded him for far too long.
“Good pace, mate,” his engineer crackled over the radio. “Currently in the top 6. The crowd is loving you as much as Max.”
It hadn’t always felt that way. Not long ago, Daniel had convinced himself that the cheers were gone for good.
He could still remember the phone call that had changed everything. It was a sticky July afternoon, and he’d been sitting in the garden of his Monaco apartment, feet propped up on the sun-warmed tiles, half a beer forgotten beside him. His phone buzzed on the table, a private number calling. When he picked up and heard Christian Horner’s voice, his heart had stopped mid-beat.
“Daniel, mate,” Christian had said, his tone clipped but warm, “we’re pulling Nyck. AlphaTauri needs you in the car next weekend.”
The call to replace Nyck de Vries had been the break he needed, no question about it. Formula 1 was ruthless—always had been—but Daniel used to relish in its cutthroat nature. If you weren’t winning, someone else would take your seat. And now, the tables had finally turned back in his favour. He’d been handed the wheel mid-season, a shot to prove he was still the driver Red Bull had once built a team around.
While the call had put him back in the driver’s seat, it couldn’t erase all the damage done. The wounds of McLaren still felt raw, the memories of that final meeting with Zak Brown gnawed at him. The strained smiles, the empty reassurances. “We just don’t see it working out,” they’d said, cutting short a deal that held so much promise. And when the axe had fallen, it hadn’t just been his career that took the hit—it was his confidence, his hope.
He was relegated to the backseat as a reserve driver. Reserve bloody driver. A fancy way of saying you were good enough to be seen, but not trusted to compete. It had taken everything he had to walk back into the Red Bull garage with his head high, joking with the crew as if he wasn’t falling apart inside.
But now? Now, things were different. Three weekends back in the car, and he could feel it—the rhythm, the sharpness, the quiet hum of belief returning. The grid had shifted since his last full-time season, younger drivers taking seats once held by veterans. Oscar Piastri was the driver who had replaced him at McLaren. Not that Daniel held a grudge, if anything it was the one silver lining. Daniel had watched the kid rise through the ranks with something between pride and nostalgia, seeing flashes of his younger self in Oscar, albeit Oscar had swapped extroversion for introversion.
In some ways Daniel felt like a rookie again too. He was here to prove to himself, to Red Bull, to the world, that he deserved to be in F1.
The voice of his race engineer snapped him out of his thoughts. “Okay, Daniel, we’re clear. Tire temps are good, let her rip.”
“Copy,” he replied, his voice steady. He took a deep breath, his hands digging into the steering wheel.
The pit straight loomed ahead, and Daniel opened the throttle, the car surging forward. Somewhere in his mind, he saw Christian Horner’s face, his calculating stare. They’re watching. Show them.
Daniel was locked in, lining up Turn 1. He braked hard, turning in with precision, the tires sticking just right. The rush of speed gripped him as he exited and accelerated toward Turn 2.
Another perfect exit.
But suddenly, a flash of yellow flickered off to the side of the track. Yellow flags .
As his eyes darted back ahead, a blur of orange appeared, dead centre on the racing line.
His stomach dropped. There was no time to think.
“Fuck!” The word tore from his throat as his foot slammed onto the brakes, the pedal vibrating beneath him. Time started to slow, and as the AlphaTauri skidded ever closer he recognized the helmet in the other car—Oscar’s.
His mind didn’t have time to process it. A flash of self-preservation and anger turned to a sharp pang of fear—for Oscar. The rear wing of the McLaren loomed impossibly close. Daniel jerked the wheel instinctively, his AlphaTauri lurching sideways as he aimed for the wall instead.
The crash was deafening. Metal shrieked as the car slammed into the barrier, the impact slamming him against the harness. As the wheels bent in the opposite direction, the steering wheel instantly snapped back with huge force. Pain shot through his left hand, sharp and immediate. He gasped, the air knocked from his lungs as heat and fumes filled the cockpit.
It was over in seconds.
Through the haze, he looked up and saw the McLaren, untouched, its orange paint still gleaming under the midday sun. Oscar’s okay .
The grandstands roared on, oblivious to what had just happened. But for Daniel, the world had stopped again.
The hum of the medical car’s engine was muted, not that Daniel could hear anything against the storm raging in his head. He sat hunched in the back seat, his left hand cradled gingerly in his right. The pain was sharp, pulsing with every beat of his heart, but it was the kind of pain he could handle. It was the thoughts about the future that were unbearable.
He stared down at his hand, already starting to swell, the skin stretched tight across his knuckles. He flexed his fingers slightly—enough to test it—and sucked in a sharp breath as pain shot through him like a live wire. Something was definitely broken. He’d known it from the moment of impact.
This is bad. Really bad.
His head fell back against the seat, helmet long gone but the sweat still clinging to his brow. His chest felt tight, every breath shallow and shaky. The high he’d been riding for weeks, the momentum he’d felt building, it was crumbling away. His mind raced through the implications, the race this weekend, his place at AlphaTauri next year, the possibility of a Red Bull return.
It all felt like it was slipping through his fingers—literally.
The car slowed, gravel crunching beneath its tires as it came to a stop outside the medical centre. The door swung open, and Daniel could feel hands guide him, hear their voices, but it all felt distant, like he was watching it happen to someone else.
The sterile, white interior of the medical centre was blinding and a doctor was waiting in trepidation for him. She gestured for him to sit down on a waiting chair.
“Let’s have a look,” she said softly, reaching for his hand.
Daniel clenched his jaw as her fingers gently pressed against the swollen skin. The pain made him flinch, his breath hitching involuntarily.
“I’m sorry,” she said, her tone genuinely apologetic. “Nearly done.”
He nodded mutely, his throat too tight to speak. Her hands worked quickly but carefully, probing the joints, testing the mobility—or lack of it.
“So, we might have a fracture here,” she said finally, her words professional but tinged with a concerned tone that only added to Daniel’s anxiety. “We’ll need to get a scan to confirm and go from there. Alright?”
Daniel gave a shallow nod, his eyes fixed somewhere over her shoulder. The words felt heavy, final, even though she hadn’t said much. A fracture. A scan. Next steps. He already knew what it meant.
She rose to her feet, signalling to the staff nearby. “Let’s get him to the Noord-Holland.”
As he was ushered into another car, the first roar of engines from the resumed session reached his ears. The sound made his stomach churn.
It’s all falling apart.
Daniel walked slowly through the maze of sterile corridors, his left arm strapped in a sling, the swelling only continuing to increase. His steps were heavy, his mind fogged with exhaustion and the weight of what he already knew: he wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t serious.
The AlphaTauri doctors flanked him, their voices calm but clipped as they directed hospital staff at every turn. They spoke in hushed tones, handing over documents, waving off questions. Daniel barely noticed. He was just a passenger in all of it, ushered from one room to the next like a piece of cargo.
In the X-ray room, the technician gestured for him to sit and positioned his injured hand on the table. The machine clicked and whirred, the process over in minutes. He barely looked at the screen as she finished, he couldn’t bring himself too .
When the images came up, the doctors crowded around the monitor, their heads bent close as they examined the scan. Daniel sat motionless, watching them murmur and point, occasionally nodding at one another.
“There,” one of them said, tapping the screen. Another leaned in, squinting before nodding in agreement. The sound of quiet confirmation settled over the room like a verdict.
Daniel shifted in his seat. “Guys,” he said, his voice breaking the silence. “Just tell me.”
The lead AlphaTauri physician turned, his face impassive. “It’s the metacarpal. The scan shows a fracture—right here.” He gestured toward the screen, but Daniel didn’t bother looking. “It’s going to need surgery.”
Daniel nodded stiffly. “And how long am I out for?” His tone was steady, but the question carried an edge of urgency.
“Let’s see how the surgery goes first,” the doctor replied, his tone measured.
Daniel’s jaw tightened. “Come on. You must have an idea.”
Another doctor spoke up, this one younger and more direct. “At least a month.”
Daniel’s stomach sank. A month . He shut his eyes, exhaling slowly, the tension in his chest settling into a cold weight.
“Jesus.” he said flatly, the word carrying no argument, no fight. He had nothing left to say.
The AlphaTauri team gestured that it was time to go, ushering him out of the consulting room. Half of them were already on their phones, updating those back at the track. Their conversations continued behind him as though Daniel wasn’t there, he was now a broken asset. A liability.
Daniel rounded a corner, his arm still in a sling, now wrapped with additional protection to stabilise the break. His mind was heavy with everything he’d just heard, but something caught his attention—a flash of orange standing out starkly against the sterile white walls.
For a moment, his chest tightened, the image of the McLaren stopped on the racing line flashing through his mind. But it wasn’t a memory. It was Oscar Piastri.
Oscar stood there, seemingly alone, his hands clasped in front of him, his expression unreadable. Daniel felt a sudden wave of panic, his eyes scanning for signs of injury. But as he stepped closer, it became clear that Oscar was fine. Physically, at least.
Oscar was staring straight at him, his gaze unwavering. Daniel could see past Oscar’s composed demeanour to the unease that lay within.
“What are you doing here?” Daniel asked, blatantly confused.
“Is it broken?” Oscar interrupted, his voice steady but low as he dodged Daniel’s question.
Daniel nodded. “Yeah,” he said simply, his tone betraying the exhaustion creeping in.
Oscar closed his eyes, inhaling deeply as though he needed the pause to process the words. When he opened them again, there was no hesitation. “I’m so sorry, Daniel. It’s all my fault.”
Daniel’s brow furrowed. “No, it’s not,” he said firmly, and he meant it, but the AlphaTauri personnel behind him looked less convinced.
Oscar shook his head, his composure slipping just slightly. He dropped his voice, and Daniel thought he could see his bottom lip starting to quiver. “It is, though. I know what you did for me.”
Daniel’s jaw tightened. “Don’t think about that,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “It’s done.”
Oscar looked down for a moment before meeting Daniel’s gaze again. “How long will it take?”
“A month, at least,” Daniel replied, his voice softer now. “But seriously, why are you here?”
“Well…that’s why I’m here,” Oscar said, his tone steadying. “I wanted to help with your recovery.”
Daniel stared at him, caught off guard by the simple earnestness of it. “Oscar, you don’t have to do that. It’s not necessary.”
“Please, Daniel,” Oscar said, his voice cracking slightly. “I’ll stay in the spare bedroom. I’ll do everything for you—whatever you need.”
Before Daniel could respond, one of the AlphaTauri doctors leant forward, pausing his phone call. “Actually,” the doctor interjected, their tone clinical but practical, “having someone assist you during recovery is highly recommended. We don’t want you risking further injury.”
Daniel looked back at Oscar, who was staring at him with a mix of guilt and hope. “Please,” Oscar said again, his voice barely above a whisper. “Please let me do this.”
Daniel let out a soft sigh, his resolve softening. He could see the immense toll the day had taken on him too—how horrible he felt about everything.
Finally, Daniel nodded. “Alright. I guess it might be nice to have some company.”
Oscar’s face lit up, his smile bright and full of relief. Seeing it, Daniel couldn’t help but feel the faintest tug of his own lips. For the first time since the crash, he smiled too.