Chapter Text
The door to the stewards’ room clicked shut behind them.
George could still feel the tension in his jaw, his palms sweaty where he’d clasped them tight in his lap. He hated every second of being in there—hated the way Max sat across from him, jaw tight, arms crossed, eyes burning holes through his skull.
He started down the narrow hallway, trying to calm the thudding of his heart.
But Max’s voice sliced through the silence behind him.
“You think you’re clever, huh?”
George didn’t stop walking. “Not now, Max.”
But Max’s footsteps picked up speed, his shoes striking the floor hard and fast. In the next second, a hand clamped down on George’s shoulder and spun him around.
“You really think you can smile at me, joke with me, and then stab me in the back like that?” Max growled, his grip tight.
George yanked his arm free, glaring. “Get your hands off me.”
“You’re two-faced,” Max spat, his voice rising. “You’ve got everyone fooled with that polite little act, but you’re just a snake waiting for the right moment to bite.”
George barked out a bitter laugh. “You’re one to talk about biting. You’re the biggest hypocrite in this paddock, Max. You do whatever the hell you want and expect everyone else to fall in line behind you like you’re God’s gift to Formula One.”
Max stepped closer, so close George had to tilt his chin up slightly to hold his gaze.
“I expect people to race fair,” Max hissed. “Not to run crying to the stewards the second they feel hard done by. You couldn’t beat me on track, so you went whining off-track instead. Congratulations, George—you’ve got your little penalty. Feel proud?”
George’s nostrils flared, his chest heaving. “You blocked me in the pit lane. It was dangerous and you know it.”
“It wasn’t dangerous,” Max snapped. “You had space. You just didn’t like that I was in front of you, and now you’ve played politics to fix it.”
“Politics?!” George’s voice cracked. “This isn’t politics, it’s the rules. You think because you’re Max Verstappen the rules don’t apply to you.”
Max’s lips curled into a smirk that didn’t reach his eyes. “The rules don’t apply to me. That’s why I’m a world champion, and you’re still just… George Russell.”
George’s stomach twisted. He shoved Max hard in the chest, but Max barely stumbled back.
Max stepped closer again, close enough that George could see the faint sweat still clinging to his collarbone. “If you had a problem, you could’ve said it to my face like a man.”
“I am saying it to your face,” George shot back. “You’re a bully, Max. You’ve always been a bully.”
Max’s lips curled into a mocking smirk. “Careful, George. You’re lucky we’re not on track right now. Otherwise I’d put your head in the fucking wall.”
George’s breath caught. The paddock around them felt too quiet suddenly, too heavy.
“Do it,” George said, his voice low but shaking slightly. “Go on. Prove me right.”
Max’s nostrils flared. He took another step forward, until George was backed up against the side of the Mercedes motorhome.
“You’re such a pain in the ass,” Max growled.
“Go to hell,” George spat back.
Max laughed, low and sharp. “Oh, I’ll see you there, sweetheart.”
George stiffened as Max stepped forward again, pressing him back against the wall. Their noses nearly brushed, the heat rolling off Max’s body suffocating.
“You know what your problem is?” Max murmured. His voice was softer now, but it was no less dangerous. “You act like you’re all calm and composed, but you’re just as desperate as the rest of us. Desperate for wins. Desperate to prove you belong here.”
“Fuck you,” George said, though his voice was quieter this time, the words catching in his throat.
Max’s eyes flicked down George’s face—to his lips—and then back up again.
For one terrible second, George thought he was going to do something insane.
But Max pulled back, a sharp breath leaving his nose.
“I’ll be taking that position back on Sunday anyway,” Max said coldly. “So enjoy your little victory while it lasts.”
George clenched his fists so tight his knuckles went white.
“Stay out of my way, Verstappen,” he said, forcing his voice steady.
Max smirked again, but there was something darker in his eyes now.
“Not a chance.”
And then he was gone, striding down the hallway with his shoulders stiff and his jaw tight, leaving George standing there, chest heaving, heart pounding too hard.
The silence was deafening.
George lay flat on his back, chest heaving, his skin slick with sweat and still tingling where Max’s hands had held him down. He stared at the ceiling like it might have answers, but all he saw was the mess of what they’d just done.
What he’d just done.
Max shifted beside him. The mattress dipped with his weight as he sat up, raking a hand through his damp hair. His broad shoulders were rising and falling with each uneven breath.
Neither of them spoke.
George wanted to say something—anything—but his throat felt tight, words lodged somewhere between anger and shame. He clenched the sheets in his fists, trying to ground himself, but his heart kept hammering like it hadn’t gotten the memo that it was over.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not with him.
Not with Max Verstappen.
“Don’t look at me like that.”
George blinked, startled. Max’s voice was low, sharp, but there was something frayed at the edges of it.
“I’m not looking at you,” George shot back reflexively.
Max turned slightly, his eyes catching the dim hotel light. They were still dark, intense, but softer now than they had been all night.
“This doesn’t mean anything,” Max said.
The words landed heavy in George’s stomach, even though he’d already been telling himself the same thing.
“I know,” George replied, his voice tighter than he meant it to be.
Max’s gaze lingered on him for a beat too long, then he swung his legs off the bed and stood. He moved around the room in silence, collecting his shirt from where it had been flung onto the floor.
George forced himself to sit up, tugging the rumpled sheets around his waist. His whole body ached in ways he wasn’t ready to think about.
“You could’ve just left me alone, you know,” George muttered.
Max paused in the middle of pulling his shirt on. “Could’ve. Didn’t.”
The quiet that followed was worse than the fight they’d had earlier.
Max didn’t look back as he finished dressing. He moved to the door, his hand hovering over the handle for a moment.
“You know I’ll still take that position back on Sunday,” he said, his voice smooth again, like he hadn’t just unraveled George entirely a few minutes ago.
George smirked bitterly. “Try not to get another penalty while you’re at it.”
That earned him a low chuckle from Max, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
“Goodnight, Russell.”
The door clicked shut behind him.
George exhaled shakily and buried his face in his hands.
It didn’t mean anything. It couldn’t.
So why did it feel like the ground had shifted beneath him?
This didn't mean anything. It wouldn't change anything.
God, how wrong he had been.
Chapter Text
George stormed into the garage, his heart pounding with frustration. He couldn’t keep his hands from shaking as he yanked his helmet off, throwing it to the ground with a sharp, rattling thud. The feeling of disappointment weighed on him like a lead blanket, suffocating him with every step he took. He’d been on pole. He deserved a podium. But Max had somehow pulled off yet another perfect race, finishing first, with that smug, infuriating smirk on his face.
Fucking Max.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He’d fought tooth and nail to get that pole position. He’d fought with everything he had to secure the advantage, and yet here he was—P4. Sixth in the championship. Max had, once again, made it look so easy. Even with the grid penalty he’d earned after the qualifying incident, Max had found a way to dominate the race. And George, despite all the energy, all the strategy, all the sweat, had been left in the dust.
But that wasn’t what was burning through him the most right now.
He had to stop looking at him. He couldn’t let himself get distracted by the sight of Max casually leaning against the wall, still wearing that confident, almost teasing expression on his face, watching him like he knew exactly how much it stung. How much it fucking hurt.
George clenched his fists, but his eyes refused to look away, drawn by that dark, irresistible pull. A memory—too vivid, too raw—flickered in his mind. The fight they’d had the night before. The words that had been spat out in anger, the rawness in the air that had led to something neither of them had planned.
Had it meant anything? For a split second, he let himself wonder. Max had kissed him, and George had kissed him back with the same kind of hunger, the kind that made no sense but still felt so damn right. Their bodies had come together in a tangle of heated touches, a storm of passion born from resentment and desire. But now, in the cold reality of the pit lane, George was left with an emptiness that gnawed at him, mingled with a rising uncertainty.
Did it mean anything?
His stomach twisted at the thought. He hadn’t even noticed it at first. Not when he was caught up in the adrenaline of the race, not when he was determined to prove everyone wrong. But now, as he stood there, still trying to catch his breath, a faint flutter in his chest reminded him of something that had been buried too deep.
Max might have won the race. But George had won that night. He had claimed something too, something Max couldn’t take back, even if he pretended it didn’t matter.
It wasn’t until the stewards started filing in, the other drivers milling about, that George snapped himself back to reality. The spotlight, the tension, the pressure—they all seemed to blur together. All the while, Max was still watching him, still wearing that same insufferable smirk.
“Good race, Russell,” Max said, his voice low, amused.
George’s breath hitched for a second, and for a moment, he almost lost himself. But he forced himself to look away, back toward his team, back to the task at hand. They didn’t need to know. He didn’t need to know. He couldn’t let last night mess with him.
“Yeah, thanks,” George muttered, the words sour on his tongue. He could feel Max’s eyes still on him, but he refused to meet them.
As he moved to grab a towel, wiping the sweat from his face, the familiar weight of the thoughts returned. What if it didmean something? What if Max had felt it too, just for a moment?
But the silence in the garage answered him with nothing more than the hum of the cooling engines. And Max? Max was still smirking.
The race was over, the final race of the season. George hadn’t made the podium, but he didn’t care. P5—just one place ahead of Max. It was pathetic, really, how good that felt. But in this moment, it was everything. After everything that had happened—after the fights, the tensions, the nights he couldn't shake from his mind—it felt like a tiny victory. And God, did he need one.
He pulled off his helmet, the cool desert air of Abu Dhabi hitting his skin, and exhaled a long, heavy breath. The season had been a mess. A nightmare in some ways, like it had all been a blur of chaos. He’d fought tooth and nail all year, battling for every inch on the track, for respect in the paddock, and for a sense of peace that never came. And now, as he walked back to his garage with the faint taste of victory on his lips, it almost felt unreal.
Max had been behind him. He hadn’t been on the podium. The smugness, the cocky attitude—he hadn’t earned it today. And George? George had come out ahead. It was just one place, sure, but it was something. Something small to latch onto, something that made him feel just a little bit better about the way things had unfolded.
He glanced across the paddock, spotting Max already in the media pen, surrounded by reporters. The same arrogant posture, the same self-assuredness, but George knew better. He didn’t need to say a word. He didn’t need to rub it in.
Max might have been the better driver, but tonight? Tonight, George had won.
By the time George made it back to his hotel room, the adrenaline had worn off. The weight of the entire season finally hit him like a ton of bricks. He let out a long, exhausted sigh as he kicked off his boots, collapsing onto the bed. The sound of the last race of the year—the cheers, the engines cooling, the celebrations—felt distant now.
For the first time in a long time, George was allowed to just… breathe.
The last few months had been nothing but a blur of stress, and it was finally over. The uncertainty, the constant tension between him and Max, the endless pressure to perform—gone. He could finally go home, back to England, where everything was familiar and comfortable. Where he could relax, or at least pretend to.
But before he could forget about any of it, he still had one last stop to make. It was the most ordinary thing, but in this moment, it felt like the most necessary thing.
A pharmacy.
He had to refill his birth control prescription. His pills. Plan B pills. Protection. All of it. Just in case.
It felt routine. And that’s what he needed right now. Something routine, something predictable to balance out the chaos of everything else. He’d been so careful all season. Too careful, maybe. The last thing he wanted was to let the one stupid night with Max lead to something even more complicated.
George shook his head, rubbing his temples, trying to clear his thoughts. It wasn’t like him to let one mistake, one wild night, dictate everything. But it was there, in the back of his mind, no matter how much he tried to ignore it.
Max.
No. He couldn’t think about that now. He was done with it, done with him. He had the rest of the season to think about, to focus on, to survive. And now that it was over, now that he’d come out on top, he could finally breathe again.
He could finally leave all that behind.
The pharmacy was a quiet stop on his way back to his hotel, a brief, unremarkable task in the midst of the chaos of the season. He picked up his prescription, grabbed the emergency contraception, and even bought a couple extra packs of condoms. All routine. All necessary.
He paid for it, and as he walked out into the cool night air, George felt something like a weight lifting from his chest. It was just the smallest of things, but in this moment, he could almost pretend that everything was fine.
Almost.
As he got back into his car, heading back to the hotel for his flight home, he let himself reflect on the things he’d been through, the people he’d met, and the race that had just ended. It had been a hell of a season. A season full of highs and lows, of hope and disappointment, of Max and everything else that had been tangled up with him.
But now, he was leaving it all behind. The tension. The uncertainty. And, for now at least, Max.
Maybe one day, he’d figure it all out. But for tonight? For tonight, George was just going to be… George. And that was enough.
The glitzy ballroom was buzzing with conversation, laughter, and the clinking of glasses. The atmosphere was equal parts celebratory and tense, as drivers, teams, and sponsors mingled in the luxurious setting after the final race of the season. The 2024 season had been nothing short of chaos—drama on and off the track—but tonight, it was supposed to be about unwinding.
At least, that’s what George had hoped.
He’d been running late, as usual, trying to get through the last of his sponsor obligations, his stomach tight with cramps from the past few days. He’d hardly eaten, barely slept, and now, all he wanted was to sit down, maybe have a glass of wine, and avoid the drama.
The dinner was nearly in full swing when he arrived, and as he entered the room, he could already feel the heat rising to his face. His eyes scanned the tables for an empty seat. He wasn't expecting much—he knew the seating arrangements were always carefully orchestrated, but surely there had to be something left.
And then, he saw it.
Max.
Max fucking Verstappen.
There was no mistaking it. Max had that smirk plastered on his face, his eyes locked on George from across the room, a knowing look in his eyes. And the worst part? Max was gesturing—inviting him. Right next to him.
George’s blood ran cold, and his stomach churned in frustration. It was bad enough that he was dealing with the physical discomfort of his cramps. It was bad enough that he was already on edge from the aftermath of the season, but to walk into this—into the same room as Max, who had publicly called him two-faced and accused him of making everything harder than it had to be—now he was asking him to sit next to him?
The audacity of it.
Max had that look on his face, the kind that George hated. The one that said he knew exactly what he was doing, enjoying the discomfort he was stirring up. His smugness, his arrogance, like he was above everything, above George. And there he was, still acting as if they hadn’t nearly torn each other apart over the course of the season.
Not a chance.
George’s jaw clenched as his gaze flicked to the remaining empty seats. He didn’t care if there were no obvious alternatives—he was not sitting next to Max. He wasn’t going to let him get under his skin like that. Not now, not here.
With a deep breath, George turned sharply, ignoring Max’s now even more pronounced invitation. Instead, he made a beeline for a seat at the table where Lewis Hamilton was sitting. Lewis, who was talking quietly with a few of his colleagues, looked up as George approached, a warm smile lighting up his face.
“George! You made it,” Lewis greeted him, pulling out the chair next to him. “Come on, sit. You’re just in time to avoid Verstappen’s fan club,” he added with a teasing wink.
“Yeah,” George muttered, pulling the chair out, “I’m really in the mood to sit next to him.”
With a final look in Max’s direction, George sat down next to Lewis, relieved that he had managed to escape that trap. Lewis shot him a knowing glance, but George just settled back into his seat, finally letting himself exhale.
The evening continued with the usual chatter—team updates, the typical social niceties, and a few too many glasses of wine. George tried to ignore the tension in his gut, tried to forget about the cramps that were still bothering him, but it was hard with everything swirling around him. And then, of course, the inevitable happened.
The photo shoot.
They had all been lined up, as usual, for the obligatory team photos. The sponsors were waiting, the cameras flashing, the smiling faces barely hiding the underlying exhaustion that came with a long season. But when it came time to organize the seating, George’s stomach dropped.
Max.
Max was there, standing front and center as always, with his typical arrogant air of superiority. And then the worst thing possible happened.
They made him sit next to Max.
As the photographers barked orders, George was guided into position and pushed directly next to Max, who was already grinning, clearly delighted by the situation. George couldn’t even look at him. The smirk on Max’s face was like a fucking trigger, and all George could do was force himself to smile, to play the part, to look like he didn’t want to punch him in the face.
The photographers snapped away, the camera flashes blinding him momentarily.
But all he could see was Max. Max, enjoying this. Max with that insufferable smirk. The bastard was soaking it up. It was like he knew exactly how much this was getting to George, and it made George’s blood boil.
“Can you just move a little closer?” one of the photographers called out, and George felt the sharp nudge in his ribs as Max shifted to close the gap.
It was too much. The proximity. The familiarity. The audacity of it all.
George’s grip tightened on his jaw as he tried to hold it together. He wasn’t going to let Max get to him, not now, not with everything riding on his calm, composed appearance. He could feel the heat radiating from Max’s body, the closeness, the smugness oozing out of every pore.
“Great. That’s it,” the photographer finally called, and George let out a quiet breath of relief. He stood up quickly, almost too quickly, and walked away before anyone could say anything.
Max was still smirking behind him, and George hated himself for feeling like he couldn’t just walk away from it all.
But tonight wasn’t about Max. Not anymore.
The offseason should have been a chance for George to catch his breath. To let his body rest, to recover from the constant grind of the season, and to let go of the adrenaline that had kept him up for months. But that wasn’t how things went.
It started with the cramps. Small, dull pains in his abdomen. Nothing that stopped him in his tracks, but enough to make him shift uncomfortably in his seat during the long flights back to England. At first, he chalked it up to stress. A long season, followed by too many post-race celebrations and travel. His body had been on overdrive for so long—maybe this was just his muscles, his organs, begging for a break.
But it didn’t stop.
The cramps came and went. Some days they were mild, other days they would spike, leaving him clutching at his stomach in discomfort. He tried ignoring it, pushing through it like he always did, but it started to get harder. His energy levels were low. He couldn’t get through a full workout without feeling wiped out. The nausea was there, too—sometimes in the mornings, other times creeping up in the late afternoon. A dull, rolling sickness that wouldn’t go away.
At first, George thought it was something as simple as food poisoning. Maybe he'd eaten something dodgy while traveling. Some strange meal that his stomach just couldn’t handle. He had a tendency to eat whatever was available when he was in a rush, sometimes skipping meals, sometimes grabbing the closest thing in the paddock. He could have picked up something from any number of places.
That had to be it. E. coli or some other bug.
But as the days dragged on, it didn’t go away. The bloating had started to become more noticeable—his stomach, which had always been trim and lean, now felt distended and uncomfortable. He’d wake up in the morning, hoping it was a bad dream, only to find that his pants were a little tighter than they should have been, his skin a little more stretched than it was used to.
But he still didn’t want to face it. He refused to acknowledge the possibility that something might be wrong. After all, there was no reason for his body to be acting this way. He’d been careful, right? He had made sure to always take the necessary precautions. Maybe he was just out of sync. Maybe it was stress, or the jet lag, or some strange illness his body was fighting off. It would pass. It had to.
And yet, as the days passed, nothing changed. The nausea lingered. The bloating remained. He wasn’t feeling like himself—his usual energy and drive were buried beneath layers of exhaustion, a fog that wouldn’t clear.
He tried to push through it. He continued training, even though he wasn’t performing at his best. He kept up his normal routine, even when it felt like his body was telling him to slow down. It was just a phase. It had to be.
But then one night, after a particularly bad bout of nausea, George was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling. He hadn’t felt this out of control in years. There had to be an explanation, something logical. He couldn't keep dismissing it.
E. coli? A bug he had picked up somewhere along the way? It wasn’t ideal, but it seemed plausible. The cramps, the bloating, the nausea—it could all be from something he ate. Something that didn’t agree with him.
Right?
The next morning, he pushed the thought to the back of his mind. He would focus on getting through the offseason, keeping up with his training, maybe visiting the doctor if it didn’t get any better. He’d rest, and the symptoms would disappear, just like they always did.
And so, George carried on with his life, ignoring the nagging feeling that something else was at play.
Until pre-season testing.
Pre-season testing was supposed to be the start of the new year. The fresh air of possibility, the calm before the storm of the 2025 season. It was the time for teams to fine-tune their cars, for drivers to shake off the rust and get back into the rhythm. It should have been routine for George, the excitement of the new season keeping him focused. But everything was different this year. His body, his mind, were betraying him.
It started on the first day of testing. George had just climbed out of the car after his session, his breath heavy, his arms sore from the grueling laps. But before his feet even hit the ground, his stomach lurched. His body was moving before his brain could catch up, and he was bent over, retching violently into the pit lane.
“Jesus,” he muttered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. It wasn’t the first time it had happened. Over the past few days, the nausea had been worsening, a constant weight in the pit of his stomach that he couldn’t shake. He thought it would pass. It hadn’t.
By the time the second day rolled around, it was clear: this wasn’t just a little bug. He barely managed to finish his morning session before the nausea hit him again, worse than ever. He felt drained, sluggish, like someone had drained the life out of him.
But he wasn’t going to admit anything was wrong. He couldn’t. Not when he was in the middle of a pre-season test, not when he had a whole year ahead of him. He just kept pushing through, even when his stomach churned and his head felt like it was going to explode.
The worst part came during media day, when Kimi Antonelli—his new teammate—sat down beside him with a bag of chili chips. George had always been fine with spicy food, but the smell of those chips hit him like a freight train. The second the bag was opened, the scent of chili, garlic, and salt flooded his senses, and his stomach twisted violently.
Without warning, George leaned forward and gagged, the chips’ scent alone enough to make him retch. He quickly grabbed a nearby trash bin, his face pale, his breathing shallow.
Kimi, so new to the grid and fresh, looked startled. “You alright, mate?” he asked in that deadpan way of his. When George couldn’t respond, Kimi, the poor kid, bit his lip, muttering under his breath as he threw the chips out the window. He even rubbed George’s back, though it was more out of awkwardness than genuine care.
George appreciated it—barely. He was too focused on keeping himself from throwing up again.
“You’ve been off since testing started,” Kimi said as he leaned back, tossing a glance over at the photographer’s station. “You sure you’re alright?”
“I’m fine,” George croaked, his voice weak as he straightened up. He wasn’t fine, but he wasn’t going to admit that, not in front of anyone. Especially not Kimi, who didn’t have time for anything other than racing.
The nausea didn’t stop. It only got worse.
Toto had noticed, of course. The ever-observant team principal was sharp as ever. During one of their debriefs, he asked, “George, are you feeling alright? You look… unwell.”
George just shook his head, forcing a smile. “Just a little off today, Toto. Nothing to worry about.”
But Toto’s eyes didn’t soften. “If you’re sick, we can always adjust the schedule—”
“I’m fine,” George snapped, cutting him off, before quickly realizing how harsh that sounded. “I’m fine,” he repeated, quieter, softer.
But Toto wasn’t convinced. Alex, his best mate, wasn’t either. Alex had been friends with George long enough to know when something wasn’t right, and he began to bug him with questions after every session. “George, seriously, what’s going on? You can’t just keep pushing through it.”
“I’m fine,” George insisted, his frustration growing. He hated the questions. He hated the attention. But every time he saw the concerned look on Alex’s face, his stomach churned even more.
Lance had caught on too. It wasn’t just the cramps. George had been pale for days, and when Lance finally said something about it, George couldn’t hold it in anymore.
“You look like shit, mate,” Lance remarked one evening after a particularly bad session. “You’ve been barely making it through the tests. Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Lance,” George said with a tight smile, “I’m fine. Seriously, just a little under the weather.”
But Lance wasn’t buying it. None of them were. And every day, the nausea, the fatigue, the cramps, got worse.
Then came the final day of testing.
George was leaning against a pillar near the pit wall, trying to catch his breath, his stomach roiling in discomfort. The final day was always a blur of activity. Drivers were wrapping up, team engineers were making last-minute adjustments, and the photographers were snapping their shots.
It was then that Max approached. George barely registered him at first, too focused on the tightness in his chest and the dull pain in his stomach. But then he felt it—Max’s hand on his back.
“You alright?” Max asked, his voice uncharacteristically soft, his fingers lingering on the fabric of George’s race suit.
“I’m fine,” George said quickly, turning away too fast. His heart was racing, his skin flushing with heat at the proximity, at the attention. Why the hell was Max always so damn perceptive?
Max stood there for a moment, clearly confused, his gaze lingering on George’s flushed face. But George couldn’t stand it. He couldn’t stand the concern, couldn’t stand the reminder that he wasn’t fine. So he rushed off without another word, his steps quick and sharp as he made his way to the nearest bathroom.
Later that night, Aleix had had enough.
“You’re going to see someone, George. You’re not walking out of here until you do,” Alex said firmly, his eyes sharp with determination. “We’re going to Monaco. I’ve already arranged it. A private clinic. NDA’s in place. You’ll be in and out before anyone even notices.”
George didn’t argue. Not this time.
As they made their way to the private clinic, George’s mind was still spinning. It was only when he walked through the doors that he realized just how much he had been avoiding. Something was wrong, and this time, he couldn’t keep pretending it wasn’t.
The sterile, white walls of the private clinic in Monaco felt almost suffocating as George sat in the examination room. He couldn’t believe he was here—he hadn’t planned for this. He hadn’t even wanted to acknowledge what was happening. But Aleix had insisted, and now here he was, sitting on the edge of an examination table, feeling more exposed than ever.
The doctor—a middle-aged woman with kind eyes—had already asked a dozen questions. The usual medical stuff.
“Mr. Russell, I need to ask you a few questions. These might seem personal, but I assure you, it’s necessary for us to understand what’s going on.”
George nodded, forcing a smile. “Go ahead.”
She didn’t waste time. “How long have you been feeling unwell? We’re talking about the cramps, the nausea, the fatigue, and any other symptoms you’ve been experiencing.”
George’s mind immediately jumped to the past few weeks—the stomach cramps that had become a constant companion, the bloating that made him feel like his body was betraying him, the nausea that hit without warning. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt truly right.
“A few weeks now,” he said, his voice hoarse, almost as if speaking the words out loud made it more real. “The cramps started off small, but they’ve gotten worse. And the nausea... it comes and goes, but it’s getting hard to ignore.”
She nodded, jotting down a few notes before continuing. “I see. And have you experienced any changes in your lifestyle? Diet, exercise, sleep patterns?”
“No,” George said too quickly, his eyes flickering to the floor. I’m fine. I’m fine. The lie felt like a weight on his chest. He hadn’t changed anything about his routine. He still trained the same. Ate the same. But his body wasn’t responding the way it used to. His workouts were draining, and he barely had the energy to get through a full session.
“Anything unusual in your eating habits? Any foods you’ve been avoiding or that have been making you feel worse?”
George shook his head. “No. Not really. I’ve been eating fine.”
The doctor studied him for a moment, as if trying to read more into his words. “Okay, and Mr. Russell, just to clarify... have you been sexually active in the past few months?”
His stomach twisted. Not this. He didn’t want to think about it. He didn’t want to think about that night. But he had no choice.
“Yeah,” George muttered, his face flushing. “I’ve had... a few encounters.” His voice trailed off, and he immediately regretted it. There was no way to hide it now. The memory of that night, of Max, rushed back like a tide.
“And,” the doctor continued, her voice still calm, “have you used protection during those encounters?”
George clenched his jaw. “I’ve been careful. Always.” He tried to sound convincing, but the tightness in his throat made it clear he wasn’t as confident as he sounded.
The doctor nodded again, writing something down on her clipboard. “Okay. And finally, Mr. Russell, I need to ask you something a little more personal, and I want you to be completely honest with me. I need to know if you’ve ever been told that you could be a carrier.”
George’s heart skipped a beat, and for a moment, the room seemed to close in on him. He hadn’t expected this. Not here. Not now.
“A carrier?” he echoed, forcing the words out, his mouth dry.
The doctor didn’t flinch. “Yes. Male carriers. Some men, particularly those who are omega, can carry children. It’s rare, but it happens. Have you ever been told that you might be one of those men?”
George froze. He could feel his body tense, his breath shallow. The secret he had buried for so long—the one he had never told anyone—was now hanging in the air, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. He didn’t want to answer. He didn’t want to acknowledge it, but she was looking at him with the same calm, professional gaze.
When George was sixteen, he’d first learned about the rare condition that allowed some men to carry children. The doctors had explained it in a sterile, academic way. Male carriers. It was a shock, but not a complete surprise. It explained a lot—why his body had always felt a little different, why certain things seemed to affect him in ways that others didn’t understand.
At first, George had thought it was a mistake. That it couldn’t possibly apply to him. But tests didn’t lie. He was one of the few men who could carry a child. His body could do that. And when he found out, he did what any teenager in his position would do: he ignored it. He buried it deep inside and pretended it wasn’t true. He only told Cara, his older sister, who, to her credit, had supported him without question. She told him to keep it to himself, and so he did. For years.
He’d never told his parents. Not a word. They would never understand. It would never be the right time to bring it up, not with their expectations, their busy lives. So, George lied. He kept it to himself and never looked back.
But now, sitting in front of this doctor, it felt unavoidable.
“No,” George said too quickly. His voice cracked, but he quickly recovered. “No one ever told me that.”
The doctor raised an eyebrow but didn’t press further. “Alright, Mr. Russell. If you’re sure, that’s fine. But I want to be thorough, and based on your symptoms, I think it’s best we take a pregnancy test. It’s the most straightforward way to rule this out.”
George’s stomach lurched at the word pregnancy, his mind reeling. He had spent years avoiding this exact possibility, trying to ignore the reality of his situation. A pregnancy test?
“No,” he said again, his voice shaking, but with more conviction this time. “I’m fine. It’s just stress. It’s... it’s probably just something I ate, or maybe E. coli. I’ve been traveling a lot.”
The doctor watched him with a steady, empathetic gaze. “I understand that this is difficult for you, Mr. Russell. But based on your symptoms, it’s important we rule out the possibility. The only way to be sure is to take the test. We can move forward from there, but I strongly suggest we confirm what’s going on.”
George could feel his hands trembling as he reached for the test kit she offered. He didn’t want to do this. He didn’t want to face it. But there was a part of him, deep down, that knew. He already knew.
He just wasn’t ready to admit it.
Taking a deep breath, he muttered, “I’ll do the test.”
The doctor gave him a small, understanding smile. “You’re doing the right thing, Mr. Russell. We’ll wait here. Just take your time.”
George stood up, his body moving on autopilot as he walked to the bathroom. His mind was a swirl of confusion, disbelief, and denial. He couldn’t breathe. It couldn’t be true. It wasn’t true.
But the truth was already starting to seep in. His body had been changing, betraying him in ways he couldn’t ignore. The cramps. The nausea. The bloating.
And now this.
The bathroom was small, almost suffocating. George stood in front of the mirror, his hands gripping the edge of the sink as he tried to steady his breath. The test kit was lying on the counter in front of him, mocking him with its presence. The instructions seemed to blur together in his vision. He barely registered the words as he followed them mechanically, trying to avoid looking at the empty space on the counter where the test would soon sit.
His heart was pounding, the sound in his ears deafening. His mind raced. This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. He wasn’t ready for any of this. He wasn’t even sure what this was.
His body had been changing for weeks now, and he had done everything he could to ignore it. Every time the cramps hit, every time the nausea swirled in his stomach, he had pushed it away, telling himself it was just stress, just travel, just the relentless grind of the season. But deep down, he knew. And as he looked at the test kit in his hands now, he couldn’t avoid it any longer.
The reality settled over him like a weight. The worst part? He didn’t even know what to do next.
What would happen if the test was positive? Would he lose his seat? Would the team fire him? He’d heard the rumors, the whispers—about how difficult it was for a male driver with the carrier condition to remain in the sport. How would they handle this? Would they be supportive, or would they see him as a liability?
The thought of having a child terrified him. He had never even considered it. Not now. Not when his career was everything. Sure, one day, when he retired, he’d thought he’d settle down, maybe find someone, maybe have kids. But not now. Not while he was still in the thick of it. Not while he had a career to build and a reputation to protect.
He thought of the father. Of him. Of Max Verstappen. The man who had made his life hell in the paddock and, somehow, still seemed to haunt him at every turn. The thought of him... involved in this... made his stomach turn even more. What was he supposed to do? Could he even go to Max? Would Max even care? Or would he just brush it off? After all, the fight they’d had, the one-night stand that led to all of this—it hadn’t meant anything to Max, had it?
And yet, as George stood there, staring at the test kit, he couldn’t help but feel like it meant something. It had meant something. It was something that had haunted him since that night. The anger, the frustration, the tension. All of it had led to something more. But what now?
What am I supposed to do?
He looked down at the test, his heart hammering in his chest. Every second stretched on, unbearably slow. What if it was negative? What if this was just a sick joke his body was playing on him? Could he really handle it if it was positive?
The moments seemed to drag on, each one heavier than the last. He could feel his breath coming faster now. His palms were sweating. His mind was a blur of worst-case scenarios.
What if I’m pregnant?
The thought alone made him feel dizzy.
I can’t be pregnant. I’m not ready for this.
But the idea was there, lingering at the edge of his mind, an undeniable truth he had been trying to bury for days.
Finally, the timer on the test went off, an irritatingly loud beep that shattered the silence in the room. George jumped, his stomach lurching with panic as he looked down at the test.
The moment felt like it was suspended in time.
He stared at the result.
Positive.
His heart stopped. He blinked, rubbed his eyes, and stared again, as if somehow the test could change. But it didn’t. The words on the small digital screen were clear. Unmistakable. Positive.
He was pregnant.
His knees nearly gave out from under him. His head swam as the reality of what had just happened slammed into him, a thousand thoughts racing through his mind.
No. This can’t be happening. It’s a mistake. I can’t be pregnant.
But the words didn’t change. The test didn’t change. Positive.
A wave of nausea washed over him again, stronger now, the heat rising in his face. He stumbled backwards, gripping the edge of the sink, trying to keep himself steady. The room felt smaller, the air too thick, and he couldn’t breathe.
Pregnant.
But that wasn’t the worst part.
The worst part was that the child wasn’t just anyone’s child.
It was Max Verstappen’s.
The thought hit George like a punch to the gut. He felt sick—physically sick—as the realization sunk in. He had never imagined this. He had never imagined being in this position with anyone, least of all Max.
Max, the man who had messed with his head in every possible way. Max, the man who had hurt him in that stupid, pointless fight. Max, who had been nothing but a source of frustration and confusion from the very beginning.
But now? Now Max was more than just an adversary on the track. Max was... the father.
George’s chest tightened as the thought settled over him, and suddenly, the walls of the small clinic felt like they were closing in. His mind raced with the impossible questions. What would happen now? What would Max do? What would he do? How was he supposed to handle this? How would his team react?
And, more terrifying than anything else: What would happen if everyone found out?
He dropped the test into the trash with shaking hands, his body trembling as he leaned against the sink, trying to keep himself from completely falling apart.
But no matter how hard he tried to hold himself together, the truth had already shattered him.
He was pregnant. With Max Verstappen’s child.
And he had no idea what to do next.
Chapter Text
George hadn’t told anyone. Not Aleix, not Toto, not even Cara—not again. He hadn’t spoken a word since the test. Since that sterile, echoing moment in the Monaco clinic when two pink lines had rewritten the course of his entire life. He kept the result buried deep, along with the panic and nausea and the creeping feeling that his body was no longer his own.
He’d boarded the plane to the first race of the season like nothing had happened, dressed in team kit, sunglasses on, greeting everyone with polite nods and the right amount of tired charm. It was almost impressive how easy it was to pretend—after all, he’d been trained for performance since he was a teenager. This was just another script. He knew his lines. Smile. Say the car feels great. Say you’re excited. Say the team has made great progress over the break. Say you’re fine.
And no one noticed. No one noticed the way his fingers trembled slightly when he clutched his water bottle. No one noticed how he turned away from the catered breakfast that morning, the smell of eggs making his throat tighten. No one commented on how he was suddenly always cold, always reaching for a jacket or standing a little closer to the sun. He was pale and tense and exhausted, but that could be written off as nerves, jetlag, the usual pre-season adrenaline haze.
Aleix gave him looks occasionally—the kind that meant he knew something was off—but he didn’t push. Kimi, new and still adjusting, asked once if George was feeling okay. George smiled too fast and said, “Just tired. Travel, y’know?” The kid nodded, unconvinced, but didn’t bring it up again.
It was manageable at first. Practice was rough, but nothing he couldn’t push through. The car felt better than expected—he had spent more time in the sim than sleeping the last few weeks—and he sank into it like muscle memory. The roar of the engine dulled the noise in his head. For those first few laps, everything else faded away. He wasn’t pregnant. He wasn’t terrified. He was just a driver again.
Then came the first wave of nausea mid-session. It hit him like a punch, but he held it down, blinked hard through the haze, and finished the stint. He told the crew he needed to tweak the ride height and disappeared into the motorhome bathroom to dry heave quietly into the sink. He washed his face, splashed water on his neck, and went back out.
Qualifying pushed him even harder. The heat in the cockpit was stifling, his suit tighter than it should’ve been, though his body hadn’t changed visibly yet. But he could feel it—this unfamiliar sensitivity under his skin, like his whole body was vibrating at a slightly wrong frequency. His hands felt stiff. His helmet felt heavy. And still, he kept his head down. P4 on the grid. He should’ve been satisfied. A decent launch point.
He barely slept that night. The cramps were getting worse—tight, sharp pulses low in his belly that came and went without pattern. He spent most of the early hours pacing, clutching a warm bottle of water, unsure if it helped but desperate for something to focus on besides the idea that something was wrong inside him. He kept whispering the same thing to himself like a prayer: Just get through tomorrow. Just one race. One podium. One more time being George Russell, before everything implodes.
Race day was hell. His stomach rebelled before lights out—he threw up quietly behind a stack of tires while Aleix ran interference. His visor fogged more than usual, sweat dripping down the back of his neck before he’d even pulled onto the formation lap. But once the lights went out, instinct took over. The world shrunk to corners and throttle and strategy.
The race was chaos. Early safety car, midfield battling like wolves. He gritted his teeth through every jolt, every rumble strip that jarred his spine. He braked later, turned in sharper, defended harder than he had in months. The G-forces made his stomach churn and he focused everything on breathing through the pressure, eyes always on the car ahead.
Somewhere around lap 39, he almost blacked out. Just a second—barely noticeable—but enough for him to snap back to himself, heart thundering, knuckles white on the wheel. He whispered under his breath, “Come on, Russell,” and pushed harder.
Then came the opportunity—a slow stop for one of the front runners, and George made the jump. Suddenly, he was in third. The podium was in reach. He could see it—feel it—and that was all it took. His entire body ached, stomach roiling, vision tunneling, but he held onto it like his life depended on it. He blocked the car behind him with surgical precision, managed his tires even as sweat stung his eyes and every breath felt a little too tight.
When he crossed the finish line, it wasn’t with celebration. It was with quiet, numbing relief. P3. Podium. He’d done it.
No one knew what it had cost him.
George could barely feel his legs as he walked down the corridor, past the cameras, past the clapping mechanics and PR staff. The cool-down room was just ahead—air-conditioned, clean, and quiet except for the muffled buzz of the race replay on a wall-mounted screen.
He stepped inside, half on autopilot, wiping sweat from the back of his neck with his fireproof sleeve.
And then he saw him.
Max was already there.
Standing near the drinks table, towel slung over his neck, P2 cap perched carelessly on his head, Max turned around just as George entered.
And smiled.
George froze. Heart hammering. Every muscle in his body tensed.
That smile.
It was the same fucking smile Max had given him that night in Qatar, just after they’d screamed themselves hoarse and just before they’d fallen into bed. The same smirk Max had worn when he'd said George was "a piece of work." The same grin he'd worn when George had woken up alone, when Max had looked right through him on the grid the next morning, like nothing had happened.
That smile—that man—was the reason George was standing here, fifteen weeks pregnant and pretending his life wasn’t quietly unraveling beneath him.
“Hey,” Max said casually, like he hadn’t threatened George’s life in parc fermé last season, like he hadn’t thrown their entire relationship—whatever that had been—under the bus for a grid penalty.
George blinked.
Max nodded toward the bench. “Good race. P3, right?”
George forced himself to keep walking, his boots echoing slightly on the floor as he crossed the room and sat stiffly on the far end of the bench, away from Max. His joints ached. His skin was clammy. His stomach was a warzone. But he couldn’t let any of that show.
“Yeah,” he muttered.
Max sat beside him. Close, but not quite touching. The space between them crackled like a live wire.
There was a long, awkward silence. The screen showed their final laps. George forced himself to look at it, to count backwards from ten, to breathe evenly through his nose.
“You didn’t even try to fight me for P2,” Max said lightly, cracking open a water bottle. “Unusual for you.”
George’s jaw clenched.
Max kept talking, undeterred. “I figured you’d at least lunge into Turn 3. You were gaining time in Sector 2. Tires going off?”
“Something like that,” George said flatly.
Max turned slightly, eyes narrowing. “You alright?”
George met his eyes, finally. He wasn’t sure what Max saw in his face, but whatever it was, the smile faltered.
“I’m fine,” George said, sharper than intended. “Just tired.”
Max blinked, then shrugged, like it didn’t matter either way.
“I was wondering if you were still pissed about… last year,” Max added, voice lower.
George scoffed. “Which part? The penalty? The insults? Or the part where you—”
He stopped himself, heart thudding.
Max tilted his head, almost amused. “You’re gonna have to be more specific.”
George bit the inside of his cheek. He wanted to hit him. Or throw up. Or both.
But he couldn’t afford either.
“Forget it,” George muttered. “You clearly already have.”
Max leaned back, stretching out his legs. “I didn’t forget. I just moved on. You should try it sometime.”
George’s stomach turned, but before he could respond, the door opened and Lando burst in, still in his suit, P1 cap crooked on his curls.
“Boys!” Lando grinned, already walking toward them. “Holy shit, what a race!”
George sat back as Max immediately stood up to fist-bump Lando. The two of them launched into animated conversation—sector times, tire deg, DRS zones. George was used to this. Normally, it irritated him, being cut out of the conversation like some side character in his own sport. But today, he was grateful.
He leaned back into the bench, eyes closed, letting the voices around him wash over. His head ached. His stomach churned. His fireproofs clung uncomfortably to his skin. Everything was too loud, too bright. He pressed the cold bottle of water to his temple and tuned out the rest.
Eventually, someone called for them. It was time for the press conference.
George followed Max and Lando into the media room, walking slightly behind them, taking careful breaths. They sat behind the branded table, cameras rolling, microphones turned on. His nameplate was placed neatly next to Max’s. He tried not to look at it.
The moderator opened with the usual questions—race strategies, key overtakes, post-season expectations. George answered on instinct, his voice cool and clipped, saying nothing too personal, too revealing.
Then came the inevitable.
“So, Max and George,” the moderator began, and George stiffened instantly, “there was a lot of tension between you two last season. Some public disagreements, but also some private… well, let’s say complicated dynamics. Can you clarify where you stand now? Have you put it behind you?”
George’s stomach flipped. He stared at the microphone, unsure what face to wear.
Max beat him to it.
“We’re good,” Max said smoothly. “Racing incidents happen. Heat of the moment. You move on. I’ve got a lot of respect for George.”
George blinked. Respect? Was that what this was?
The room waited.
He swallowed, then leaned slightly toward the mic.
“Yeah,” George said, voice too quiet, too flat. “We’re… good.”
Silence stretched a second too long.
Max glanced sideways, expression unreadable.
Lando shifted awkwardly in his seat.
The moderator, sensing the discomfort, moved on. But the damage was done. The moment lingered, stiff and awkward. George could feel a trickle of sweat slide down the back of his neck. His mouth was dry.
He didn’t hear the next few questions. His head throbbed with every pulse of his heartbeat.
He was still pretending. Still smiling. Still playing the part.
And sitting right next to him, just inches away, was the man who had no idea he’d already changed George’s life forever.
He’d done it again.
P3 in China. P5 in Japan.
George had managed to keep the mask on, the fire in his gut just barely balanced by the nausea rising in his throat every time he climbed out of the car. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep pushing the limit like this—not just as a driver, but as a person pretending everything was fine.
In Japan, when Max crossed the line first, George didn’t even pretend to care. He’d radioed a quick, “That’s all I had,” parked the car, and slipped into the garage before anyone could shove a camera in his face. He’d dodged the cooldown room. Dodged the podium. Dodged Max.
It was cowardly.
He didn’t care.
He’d thrown up in the motorhome thirty minutes later.
Now, Bahrain loomed. A track he normally liked—tight corners, high speeds, the kind of challenge he could sink his teeth into. But this time, as the race week started, George’s head wasn’t in the rhythm of the curbs or the tire strategies.
His mind was stuck somewhere else entirely.
Nineteen weeks. Four and a half months.
He didn’t need a calendar to know. His body told him every day now. The way his fireproofs clung a little tighter over his lower abdomen. The way his center of gravity had subtly shifted. The way his heartbeat fluttered just slightly faster when he pushed the car into high-speed corners. The way everything felt heavier.
He still wasn’t showing much. Just a faint swell. Easy enough to hide under oversized shirts and careful posture. Male carrier pregnancies—especially cryptic ones like his—were often low-visibility for most of the term. But the symptoms? The fatigue, the joint pain, the morning sickness (that never stayed confined to just the morning)? They were getting worse.
And the guilt?
That was starting to eat him alive.
He couldn’t keep doing this.
He couldn’t keep racing while carrying. It was dangerous—not just for him, but for the baby. And even if physically he could manage another month or two… emotionally, mentally, he was unraveling.
The lies were stacking up.
To the team. To Toto.
And most of all, to himself.
Because George had always thought he’d be a father—one day. After Formula 1. When he retired on his own terms. When he had the house in the countryside. A partner. A dog. He’d imagined it in slow, hazy daydreams, never concrete, never urgent. Just… someday.
But someday had arrived like a storm, with no warning. No preparation.
And the worst part?
The father of the child was Max fucking Verstappen.
That fact alone made George feel like he was living in some absurd fever dream. He couldn’t even wrap his head around it. Every time he saw Max—on the grid, in the paddock, at press conferences—it was like something hot and sour curled in his gut. Max, who smiled like nothing ever happened. Max, who looked through him. Max, who had never once asked if George was okay, even after that day in testing when George could barely stand.
Max didn’t know. Of course he didn’t. How could he?
And George had tried to be fine with that. He’d tried to shove the truth into a box and slam the lid shut. This wasn’t Max’s problem, right?
Except…
Except it was.
Because it wasn’t just some forgotten hookup anymore. It wasn’t just a night in Qatar that George had been pretending to forget for months.
It was a life. It was something growing inside him. Something that wasn’t his alone, no matter how badly he wanted to believe he could handle it solo.
But what the hell was he supposed to do?
Tell Toto?
What—just walk into the garage and admit, “Hey, I’ve been lying to you for years. I am a carrier. I am pregnant. And yes, I know it’s the middle of the fucking season.”
He’d be dropped.
No question.
Toto would be furious. Hurt. Not just because George had gotten pregnant—mid-season, no less—but because he’d lied. All this time, George had sworn up and down he wasn’t a carrier. Had signed papers, done PR runs, accepted contracts. And now?
He could picture the exact look on Toto’s face. Cold. Quiet. Final.
Even if Toto didn’t fire him on the spot, he’d pull George out of the car. For safety. For liability. For optics.
And George? George didn’t even have a contract for 2026 yet. There were whispers, of course, vague assurances. But nothing in writing. Nothing that protected him.
If he left the seat now—voluntarily or not—he’d never get back in.
His F1 career would be over.
And for what?
A child he wasn’t ready for? A future that was falling apart by the second?
He’d been thinking about termination.
He hated himself for it, but it lingered in the back of his mind every day now. Like a loaded gun on the nightstand.
It would be easy. Discreet. The clinic in Monaco had already offered him the option. One more appointment. One more signature. And it would all be… over.
He could keep driving. Keep lying. Keep racing.
But he couldn’t stop thinking about that future version of himself. The one who’d always wanted kids. The one who’d talked to Cara about maybe adopting one day if he didn’t settle down. The one who saw the world beyond podiums and paddocks.
And the one, deep down, who had already started to feel something for the tiny, uninvited presence growing inside him.
George didn’t know what to do.
He was twenty-seven years old. At the peak of his career. Trapped between the sport that made him who he was and the life that might destroy it.
And yet… some part of him knew.
He had to tell Max.
It was the one thing he kept circling back to. Like gravity. Like inevitability.
Max deserved to know. Maybe he didn’t deserve anything, but this wasn’t about fairness anymore. It was about responsibility. About clarity. About doing something—anything—that didn’t make George feel like he was drowning.
He didn’t know when. Or how.
But Bahrain was here. The season was already moving. His body wouldn’t hide this forever.
He couldn’t do this alone.
He couldn’t keep pretending this wasn’t happening.
And Max?
Max had to hear it from him.
Before someone else figured it out first.
Chapter Text
George’s eyes slid open to a blur of white. He was warm and heavy, like he was lying in a dream. The hum of medical equipment hummed softly. He tried to move, but his body felt leaden. Panic flickered at the edges of his mind.
Toto was there—standing by the window, back turned. George’s throat felt thick as he swallowed. He hadn’t expected to see Toto here. Not like this.
Toto turned slowly. His face was unreadable. Quiet. Controlled.
“Who is the father, George?” he asked, voice measured but not kind.
George’s chest tightened. His vision flickered back to the ceiling for a moment. Then he sat up a fraction, flinching at the dull ache across his belly.
“You know,” he croaked out. “Because… you’re not going to let me keep my seat anyway.”
Toto’s expression hardened. “I never said that.”
George shook his head weakly. “That’s what I assumed. I mean… does it even matter? You’re just going to kick me out.”
Toto sent him a long, sharp look. “No. That’s not what this is about.”
George hesitated. Tears stung behind his eyes even though he hadn’t cried yet. “I’m going to get an abortion,” he said quietly. “I can’t… I’ve already lost this seat in my head.”
Toto’s face went red. “You’re crazy,” he snapped. His voice echoed. “Do you know how mad I am right now? At you. At myself. At anyone. You’ve been putting yourself in danger—knowingly—racing while pregnant for nineteen fucking weeks and no one knew!” His voice cracked. “You could have died, George!”
George flinched under the intensity—like he’d been shoved in the chest. The room felt too small.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I just… I didn’t want to lose it.”
Toto softened slightly, but the anger didn’t fade. “That’s not it,” he said, slower. “This isn’t about losing your seat because you’re pregnant. It’s about losing your health. And God forbid, losing the baby if something goes terribly wrong.”
George’s eyes watered. He lowered them, closing them for a moment. His voice came out raw. “Let me keep the seat.”
Toto took a breath. For a heartbeat, everything went quiet except George’s shallow breathing.
“You will not drive again until you give birth—and only then will we talk about 2026. Assuming you want to come back.”
George’s heart nearly stopped. He opened his eyes. “But I don’t even have a contract for 2026.”
Toto’s face softened. Like a dam breaking under the weight of everything unsaid. “That’s my fault. I was planning to give you a multi‑year contract anyway. If you want it.”
George trembled. He looked down at his hands. “Thank you.” His voice cracked. “Thank you…”
Notes:
this srsly isn't my proudest work-
:(
Chapter Text
The air in the Mercedes motorhome, already thick with tension, suddenly turned suffocating. George’s mouth hung open just slightly, like even he couldn’t believe the words had escaped. His chest was heaving, eyes wide in horror.
Max’s mind scrambled to process what he had just heard. The unfinished sentence echoed in his head, looping with growing clarity.
I didn’t mean to end up...
Pregnant. That’s what George was about to say.
Max blinked, opening his mouth to speak—but George moved first.
“No,” George breathed out. “No, no—no no no—fuck.”
His voice cracked. He took a shaky step backward, his hand flying up to grip the edge of the counter like it was the only thing keeping him upright.
Max stepped forward instinctively. “George—”
“Don’t,” George snapped.
Max stopped mid-step. George’s face had flushed red, his breathing ragged, as if the dam inside him had cracked and all of it—the weight, the pressure, the secret—was threatening to drown him.
Max tried again, gentler this time. “You can talk to me—”
“No, I can’t,” George growled. His voice was trembling now, furious and broken. “You—fuck, you don’t get to just show up, pretend like you care, and then—” He shook his head, violently. “I can’t do this with you.”
Max was quiet, heart pounding.
George’s voice rose in pitch, panic bleeding into every syllable. “You weren’t supposed to know. You weren’t ever supposed to know!”
“I didn’t mean—”
“GET OUT!”
The scream burst out of George’s throat like a gunshot. Max jerked back, stunned. George’s eyes were glassy now, but he wasn’t crying. Not yet. Just shaking. Unstable. Rattled by the truth spilling out of him.
“George…”
“GET THE FUCK OUT, MAX!”
That one hurt. Max had heard George yell before—on the radio, in a press conference, even at him—but never like this. Not from pain. Not from panic.
Max hesitated a second longer. George pointed to the door, jaw clenched so tight it trembled. He was unraveling in real time, the surge of hormones and stress taking full control.
Max had no choice. He stepped back, toward the door.
“I didn’t mean to upset you,” he said quietly.
George didn’t respond. Just stood there, fists clenched, chest heaving, staring hard at the wall behind Max like if he made eye contact, he’d break.
So Max left.
The door clicked shut behind him, and for the first time in weeks, Max Verstappen wasn’t thinking about lap times, or Red Bull, or the championship.
He was thinking about George.
And whatever the hell just happened inside that motorhome.
The door clicked shut.
George didn’t move. Couldn’t.
His hand was still hovering mid-air from when he’d pointed Max out. It was shaking now. Everything was shaking. His legs, his breath, his fingers. He felt like his bones were vibrating under his skin.
He slowly let his hand drop. It hovered at his stomach for a second too long—right over the bump.
That damn bump.
Small, almost invisible beneath the oversized team hoodie, but there. A constant reminder. A betrayal of everything he’d worked so hard to conceal.
He swallowed hard. His throat burned.
What had he just done?
The confrontation was a blur, like watching a car crash in slow motion and being helpless to stop it. He hadn’t meant to say anything. He hadn’t meant for Max to know.
Hell, he didn’t even know what he’d meant. He was spiraling and desperate and exhausted—and six months pregnant with Max Verstappen’s child. How had he ended up here?
George took a step back, then another, until his legs hit the small bench by the kitchenette and buckled.
He sank down slowly, eyes staring into nothing. And then his body broke before his brain could stop it.
The first sob burst from his chest like a punch. Loud. Choked. Painful.
He clamped a hand over his mouth, trying to silence himself, but the second one came faster, and the third after that, until he couldn’t stop the shaking, couldn’t stop the noise, couldn’t stop the grief pouring out of him like blood from a wound.
He curled forward instinctively, hands wrapped around his midsection, as if trying to hold himself together. He could feel the slight swell beneath his hoodie, the hard little curve he had tried to pretend wasn’t there.
“Fuck,” he whispered into the silence. His voice cracked on the word.
He slid from the bench to the floor, limbs trembling and clumsy. His legs tucked in awkwardly, head bowed, tears soaking the sleeves of his hoodie as he buried his face in his arms.
The world narrowed to the sound of his own breathing and the hollow thud of his heartbeat. There was no paddock noise. No cameras. No expectations. Just four walls and the sound of George Russell falling apart.
He hadn’t cried like this since he was a teenager. Maybe not even then.
It wasn’t just the hormones. It wasn’t just the pressure.
It was everything.
The guilt. The fear. The lies. The pregnancy he never planned for. The man who was the father—the same man who had called him two-faced in a press conference and smirked at him the next day like it hadn’t happened. The same man who now knew something, even if he didn’t know it all.
And what now?
How long could he keep hiding?
Would Toto forgive him?
Would the press find out?
Would Max come back? Would he want to?
Would he even care?
George pressed his forehead to the cold tile floor, fists clenched beneath him.
He didn’t know. He didn’t know anything.
He was alone. In a sport that prided itself on being brutal. In a body that was no longer entirely his. Carrying a child that changed everything.
And for the first time in a long time… George Russell didn’t feel like a driver.
He just felt like a scared, exhausted, overwhelmed twenty-seven-year-old—sitting on the floor of a motorhome, trying not to drown in a truth he couldn’t keep buried much longer.
Max closed his eyes and let the exhaustion wash over him, but the restlessness stayed. Since the morning in the motorhome, he hadn’t stopped pacing. He’d revisited every word he’d spoken with George, every expression on his face, over and over.
The confrontation had ended abruptly when George screamed and kicked him out, leaving Max standing in the paddock with nothing but guilt and a terrifying suspicion.
Now, days later, he was still chasing shadows.
He tapped open his phone again. Ten unread messages. Three missed calls from Toto. Ten texts from Alex. Not one from George himself.
He scrolled through his own drafts—messages he’d typed, erased, typed again:
“I’m here when you’re ready.”
“You didn’t deserve that.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Let me help.”
He deleted each one. Too needy. Too late. Probably unwanted. Instead, he sent:
"Thinking of you. Checking in."
Read—twice. No reply.
He sent another:
"I don’t expect an answer. Just want you to be okay."
Seconds later: swiped away—no reply.
Each unanswered message felt like a punch.
That afternoon, he hired a courier to bring a box to the Mercedes motorhome. Inside: bottled water, organic snacks, ginger candies, and a handwritten note:
No pressure. I’m not going anywhere. For whatever that means. —M
It was well-intentioned, but as soon as it left his hands, his heart seized. How would George react to that? Would it feel like intrusion? Compassion? Manipulation?
He had no idea.
No one did.
Media radar had picked up rumors amid the silence. Paddock whispers turned into speculation: was George hiding something? Was he afraid? Everyone understood something had gone wrong—but no one got close enough to ask.
Max tried—pushing into Lewis, Lando, even Alex—always getting the same response: he’s not ready—not every wound wants attention. For now, give him space. But the longer the silence held, the more claustrophobic Max felt.
Evening came and he found himself outside George’s temporary Monaco apartment—conveniently “in town for a conference,” he told security. He didn’t expect George to open. He just had to see the place, after empty words and closed doors.
The doorman saw him approach and wouldn’t let him in without an appointment. No big surprise. But Max caught a glimpse through tinted window of a room bathed in harsh lights. Silent. Blank. He sank back, shoulders slumping. He’d lost again.
He returned to his hotel room feeling hollow. Scrolled Twitter—grid chat exploding with theories: pregnancy rumors, medical leave speculation, contract clauses. No hint anywhere that the truth was bigger and scarier than anyone knew.
He texted Alex.
“Please tell me he’s not okay.”
“Don’t assume. He just needs time. Maybe he’ll come out when he’s ready.”
Max exhaled slowly. If Teddy Roosevelt had been right about being in the arena—that vulnerability counted for more than judgment—then George was sitting in the arena right now. And he’d been watching from the outside.
Later, he arranged another courier delivery—fruit basket, herbal teas, calming things. Another note:
If you need a distraction, I’m still here. M.
That one stayed unanswered too.
Max’s calls to George became ritual. Each ring a spike. He heard voicemail after voicemail, where he started, voice thick, trying to sound calm:
“Hey…it’s Max. Just calling to check you’re okay. That’s all. Whenever you want to talk.”
One voicemail:
“George, I’m sorry. Really. I meant what I said. I’m sorry.”
None got returned.
That night, he dreamed again about Qatar. The fight. The flames. And then the follow-through—the way George looked at him when everything burned out, bruised lips and broken defiance and then… something quieter. Something real.
But he woke up in a hotel bed alone. His chest pressed with ache, like he’d forgotten how to breathe.
Max opened his laptop and found a new message from Horner:
“Need you in the strategy room. RACE SIM TOMORROW.”
Work felt good as distraction. He buried himself in tyre data, race simulations, aerodynamic balance. He hit every number he trusted himself to hit. The car gave him a purpose. The track would always obey physics—even when George didn’t.
That night, he found a small, hastily typed note slipped under his hotel door:
I’m sorry. I can’t. Right now.
—George
That was the closest he’d gotten in days. The only message from George. No blame. No recrimination. Just an apology.
Max pressed the note to his chest and pressed his lips together.
Back in the paddock, the rumour mill spun faster. Bottas had walked his first practice in George’s car. Toto showed face at the barrier during technical meetings, all business. Mercedes was moving forward.
Max saw Valtteri and felt something shift inside. A renewal for Mercedes—but a void too.
One evening, late, he found himself alone outside the motorhome again. It was dark. Pressure lights flickered. There was no music, no announcement, just late-night hush around a stadium prepping for the next day.
He tapped the door frame. No answer. The door stayed shut.
He whispered George’s name.
Silence answered.
That night, he wrote another message:
You don’t have to do this alone.
He hesitated. After reading and deleting it ten times, he slid the phone face-down and stared out at Jeddah lights glowing in the distance.
He hadn’t raced yet. He hadn’t spoken to George yet. And he still didn’t know if he ever would.
The day of the race came. He climbed into the car and felt the familiar grind—feet, brain, focus. The overtakes and DRS and strategy wiped the slate clean. But in the darkness of sunset, when the engines cooled and the crowd dispersed, Max sat in the car longer than usual. He didn’t open the doors until the team came and tapped his helmet, reminding him to go.
He stepped out, body buzzing with heat and echo. His phone buzzed with messages congratulating him—media, sponsors, even Lewis and Alex. None from George.
Still.
He wrapped his arm around the fuel rig and let his head drop, one deep breath after another. The silence wasn’t empty anymore—it was full of everything he’d not said, everything George hadn’t returned.
And day eleven stretched into day twelve, into day thirteen.
Still no answer.
Still no closure.
Still just silence and secondhand rumors.
Max swallowed the knot in his chest and steeled himself. Because if George came back in 2026—as Mercedes planned—that silence wouldn’t be an escape anymore.
It would be a bridge they both had to cross.
And sooner or later… he’d find out what was on the other side.
George was already regretting the walk before he even made it to the elevator.
It wasn’t that far — just a few blocks along the Monaco waterfront — but the weight of his body lately, the tugging low in his belly, the way even air seemed heavier these days… it was too much. He should’ve stayed inside. He needed the air, sure, but everything just made him tired now.
Six months.
Six months of secrets and silence and trying to hold himself together. Trying to convince the world — and himself — that he was fine. That he could handle this. That he was handling this.
When the elevator dinged and he stepped into the quiet hallway of his flat, he felt the usual relief wash over him. His apartment. His space. His calm.
Until he opened the door.
Max was sitting on the couch.
George froze. For a split second, he thought maybe he was hallucinating from exhaustion. But no — Max turned, startled, holding something in his lap. He stood quickly, like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” George snapped, panic immediately setting in.
Max held up his hands. “Aleix gave me a key.”
George’s jaw clenched. “Remind me to fire him.”
Max stepped forward. “Wait—just, don’t freak out.”
George was already turning around, muttering, “You broke into my home.”
“I didn’t break in. I let myself in.” Max’s voice was calm, but there was something urgent underneath it. “I just… I needed to see you. You won’t answer my texts. Or calls. Or anything.”
George turned back around, arms crossed, ready to chew him out—but then he saw it.
On the coffee table behind Max was a small box. No, not a box—a memory book.
The kind meant for parents. With hand-painted pages. Empty photo slots. Little prompts like first heartbeat and first scan and what I felt when I found out about you.
George blinked.
There were baby clothes too. Not just anything—tiny overalls in soft beige. A miniature onesie with a hand-stitched lightning bolt. And… a wooden rattle?
“W-what is all this?” George asked, his voice suddenly small.
Max looked nervous now, stepping aside like he didn’t want to crowd him.
“I didn’t know what to do,” he said. “I didn’t know how to say everything I needed to say. So I got you—got them—something. Something that means I’m serious.”
George was still staring. His heart thudded in his ears. “You… bought baby clothes?”
Max ran a hand through his hair. “I panicked at first. After you kicked me out. I was angry, sure, but mostly—I was scared. And not for me. For you. And for… them. Our baby.”
George squeezed his eyes shut. Those words still hit like thunder.
Max continued, voice softening. “I didn’t stop thinking about it. About you. Since Qatar, really. But especially after Miami. I couldn’t eat. Couldn’t sleep. I just kept thinking—what if you were going through all this alone? What if you thought I wouldn’t care?”
“I did,” George said flatly. “I do.”
“Well, I do care. A lot more than I expected to. A lot more than maybe I should, considering how we got here.” Max stepped toward the table and picked up the memory book, flipping it open. “Look. I don’t know what I’m doing. My own father was… a piece of work. He taught me how to win, not how to love. Not how to be there. But I want to learn. I want to try. For you. For them.”
George swallowed hard, his arms tightening around himself.
“I get it,” Max said. “You think I don’t want this. Or that I’ll leave again. Or that I’m only here because I feel obligated.”
George didn’t speak. He was afraid if he opened his mouth, he’d break.
“But it’s not obligation,” Max said. “It’s… something else. When I found out you were pregnant — even before you said the word, I knew. I saw it in your face. And my first thought wasn’t panic. It was please let me be part of this.”
George’s throat tightened. His eyes burned.
“I want to go to appointments. I want to hear the heartbeat. I want to know if it’s a boy or a girl or whatever they are. I want to be there when you need someone. I want to earn back your trust, even if it takes time. Even if I don’t deserve it.”
He placed the book down gently, like it was sacred.
“George, I want to be in my child’s life. But more than that—” he paused, looking straight at him, “—I want to be in your life too. If you’ll let me.”
Silence stretched between them.
George felt like he was standing on a ledge, one step away from falling.
He didn’t know what to say. No one had ever said those things to him before. No one had looked at him like that — not as a driver, not as a rival, but as a person. A person carrying something fragile and terrifying and beautiful inside him.
His voice cracked when he finally spoke. “You came into my house… and brought baby clothes?”
Max's mouth quirked into a lopsided grin. “Yeah. It was either that or a Ferrari onesie. I thought this was safer.”
George stared at him for a long moment… and then let out a laugh. A real, broken, exhausted laugh.
He collapsed onto the couch, head in his hands. Jack sat a little ways away, not touching him, just waiting.
“I’m so tired,” George said finally. “I’ve been carrying this alone for so long.”
“You don’t have to anymore.”
George looked up.
“I can’t promise I’ll do everything right,” Max said. “But I can promise I won’t run. Not from you. Not from our kid.”
George exhaled shakily. He looked at the memory book. The tiny overalls. The rattle.
And for the first time since that night in Qatar… he didn’t feel alone.
The clinic smelled like antiseptic and cheap lavender air freshener. George was already seated in the waiting room when Max arrived, eyes fixed on a glossy pamphlet titled “Pregnancy Nutrition for Male Carriers.” He didn’t look up.
Max stood awkwardly for a beat before finally lowering himself into the empty chair beside George. The vinyl creaked under his weight. He was wearing a baseball cap and a hoodie like some disguise might help, but it didn’t. They were both too well-known for that.
Neither of them said anything.
The last time they had been alone together was in a hotel room in Lusail, all fury and heat and recklessness. And now here they were, in a private clinic in Brackley, about to hear their baby’s heartbeat for the first time.
George shifted, cleared his throat. “You didn’t have to come, you know.”
Max leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Yeah, well. I wanted to.”
George finally looked at him. “You wanted to? After calling me two-faced in a press conference?”
Max’s jaw tensed. “That was before I knew.”
“Right. So if I wasn’t pregnant, I’d still be a liar.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“It’s exactly what you said, Max.”
The nurse popped her head through the door. “Mr. Russell?”
George stood, stiffly. Max followed him without a word.
The exam room was private, warmly lit, a stark contrast to the sterile lobby. A small ultrasound machine sat in the corner. A tray of instruments was neatly lined up on a counter. A soft blue gown was folded on the bed, which George didn’t need—he’d been through this once before, with Aleix, just last week.
The doctor entered a moment later. She was in her mid-forties, with sharp eyes and a calming voice. Her name tag read “Dr. Harwood.” She offered both of them a warm but professional smile.
“George, lovely to see you again. And you must be Max.”
Max nodded, clearly uncomfortable. “Yeah. Hi.”
Dr. Harwood opened a slim digital file on her tablet. “So, twenty weeks and five days today,” she said, glancing at George. “Feeling any better than last week?”
George nodded. “The nausea’s easing off. Still tired all the time, though.”
“That’s normal. You’re at the tail end of the second trimester, so the fatigue will probably hang around a bit longer.” She tapped something into her tablet. “And you brought a support partner today. Excellent.”
George shot Max a look, unsure whether that term applied.
Dr. Harwood looked between them. “I do have to ask—are you two a couple? Just for the record, and for any care plans going forward.”
George opened his mouth, then closed it again.
Max scratched at the corner of his cap. “It’s complicated.”
George gave a dry laugh. “That’s one word for it.”
“Noted,” said Dr. Harwood, with an amused quirk of the lips. “Complicated it is.”
Max glanced sideways. “You could’ve told me earlier, you know.”
George’s hand was clenched in his lap. “I was trying to figure out what I wanted. And honestly? You weren't exactly... approachable.”
Max’s eyes flashed. “I’ve been checking up on you for months.”
“And I avoided you for a reason.”
Dr. Harwood cleared her throat lightly. “Before we get to the ultrasound, I’d like to ask a few questions—routine ones.”
They both nodded.
“Any family history of pregnancy complications or genetic conditions?”
George shook his head. “No, nothing on my side.”
Max added, “Same here.”
“Any stressors I should know about? Relationship tension, work concerns?”
Both of them laughed, the sound dry and mutual.
“I think that’s a yes,” Dr. Harwood said wryly, and moved on.
“Are you planning to co-parent?”
Silence.
“I don’t know,” George said finally. “We haven’t... talked about it.”
Max looked at him. “I want to be involved.”
George blinked, surprised. “You do?”
Max shrugged. “It’s not the baby’s fault we were idiots.”
The doctor didn’t comment—just typed that in too.
“Okay,” she said after a beat. “Why don’t we get you on the table and take a look?”
George lay back, lifting his hoodie to reveal a small, but undeniable swell. Max looked away, not because it made him uncomfortable, but because he didn’t know if he had permission to see him like that.
Dr. Harwood applied the gel and moved the probe across George’s abdomen. The screen flickered. And then there it was—a fluttering grey image of a tiny form, curled and moving faintly inside him.
George’s breath caught.
Max stepped closer without realizing.
“That’s the baby?” he asked quietly.
George nodded, eyes fixed on the monitor.
“Heartbeat looks strong,” Dr. Harwood said with a smile. She turned up the volume, and the sound filled the room—fast and rhythmic and steady.
George swallowed.
Max just stared, something unreadable passing through his expression.
“I can print a picture for you both,” Dr. Harwood offered.
“No,” George said quickly. “Just for me.”
Max’s jaw twitched, but he said nothing.
“And one more thing,” the doctor added. “Would you like to know the gender?”
They looked at each other.
George shook his head. “No.”
Max echoed, “No.”
Dr. Harwood nodded. “We’ll keep it a surprise then.”
After the exam, they sat outside the clinic on a quiet bench, not quite ready to leave.
Max held a takeaway coffee he hadn’t touched. George sipped at a protein shake the team nutritionist had insisted on. Neither of them said anything for a while.
“I meant what I said in there,” Max said finally. “I want to be part of this. Of them.”
George studied him for a long time. “Why?”
Max turned toward him. “Because I don’t want to be the guy who only shows up when things are easy. And because…” He hesitated, then said, “Because you’re carrying my kid, George.”
George didn’t reply right away. The wind moved softly through the nearby trees. Somewhere inside the clinic, another heartbeat monitor started up again.
“This doesn’t fix anything,” he said eventually. “Not what you said to the media. Not what I said either. Not Qatar. None of it.”
“I know.”
“But I don’t want to do this alone.”
Max looked at him, quiet. “Then don’t.”
George nodded, slowly.
Maybe this wasn’t forgiveness. Maybe it wasn’t healing, or reunion, or closure.
But it was a beginning.
And for now, that would have to be enough.
George had never liked pickles before. Now, he couldn’t seem to go a day without them.
Pickles in the middle of the night. Pickles with peanut butter. Pickles and mango chutney, once, though he couldn’t tell if that had been a stroke of genius or an act of hormonal desperation.
And Max—unbelievably, annoyingly—had made it his mission to keep George’s fridge stocked with every brand he could get his hands on. There were jars from Dutch delis, Korean corner shops, even a Polish variety George had never seen before but now couldn’t stop eating.
“You know,” George muttered one evening, holding a dripping pickle over the sink, “if you’re trying to win me over by being insufferably thoughtful, it’s working.”
Max looked up from the couch, where he was typing something into his phone. “You said the Tesco ones were too soft.”
“I did not.”
“You threw them at the wall, George.”
George blinked. “Oh. Right.”
Max didn’t laugh. He didn’t mock. He just stood, crossed the room, and took the jar from George’s hand. “Sit down before you drop that one too.”
George opened his mouth to argue—but then the wave hit.
Nausea. Fast, hot, and overwhelming. His whole body lurched forward.
Max was already moving.
He didn’t speak, didn’t ask questions—he just walked George into the bathroom like he’d done it a dozen times. Kneeled behind him as George fell to his knees at the toilet. One hand gripped George’s hair gently, pulling it back; the other rested between his shoulder blades, rubbing slow, grounding circles into his back.
George hated this part. The vulnerability. The mess. The way his body betrayed him with zero warning, and how he could never quite control the shaking after.
But Max didn’t flinch.
Not when George retched once. Not when it happened again. Not even when George, exhausted and pale, slumped to the floor like a dishrag, half-collapsed against the cold tile.
“I look disgusting,” George mumbled, wiping at his mouth.
Max handed him a cold cloth from the sink. “You look like you’re growing a human being. Stop apologizing for that.”
George looked at him. “Since when are you so good at this?”
Max shrugged. “Since you stopped pushing me away long enough to let me try.”
The silence stretched between them, thick with things unsaid.
George’s eyes fluttered closed for a moment. “I didn’t ask for this, you know.”
“I know.”
“I didn’t want to—” His voice caught. “I didn’t want to do this alone.”
“You’re not.”
That wasn’t a promise. It was a quiet fact, like gravity.
Later that night, George sat on the kitchen counter in an oversized hoodie, legs swinging, while Max chopped up some pineapple and cucumber—two more of George’s inexplicable cravings.
“You don’t have to do all this,” George said, though he was already reaching for the plate.
“I know,” Max said again.
George paused with a piece halfway to his mouth. “Then why?”
Max glanced over at him, eyes steady. “Because I want to.”
George chewed in silence for a long while. “Are you trying to prove something?”
“Maybe.” Max set the knife down. “Maybe I’m trying to prove that I care. That I’m not just the guy who got you pregnant and called you two-faced.”
George’s expression twisted—partway between annoyance and reluctant softness. “That’d be nice.”
“I’m not good with this stuff,” Max admitted. “The... people stuff. But I’m trying.”
George let that settle for a moment. “Okay.”
Then, softer: “I’m trying too.”
At 3 a.m., George woke up with a craving so specific he nearly cried: vanilla ice cream with balsamic vinegar and crushed Doritos.
Max didn’t even blink when George woke him up to ask for it. Just grabbed his keys and muttered, “I’ll be back in ten.”
George watched him leave, heart full of things he still didn’t have words for.
This wasn’t love. Not yet.
But it was something.
Something growing quietly in the dark, just like the baby between them.
Max hadn’t meant to buy anything.
He’d gone into the baby boutique on a whim — one of those ridiculous, pastel-painted little shops nestled into a high street corner near his apartment in Monaco. The kind where everything smelled like chamomile and talcum powder, and the shelves were filled with soft wool blankets and bamboo swaddles and hand-knitted booties that cost more than an espresso machine.
He’d stood there, overwhelmed, hands in his pockets, looking very out of place and very unsure.
But then he saw it.
A little white onesie. Simple. Clean. The words "Fastest Pit Crew Member (Coming Soon)" stitched across the chest in tiny, black embroidery.
Max didn't even think. He bought it, had them wrap it up in tissue and a soft brown bag, and carried it home like it was made of glass.
George was in the kitchen when Max got back — hair unbrushed, hoodie halfway unzipped over his bump, slicing strawberries with surgical precision and humming some half-broken tune. The flat smelled like tea and lemon.
“You’re back early,” George said without turning around.
Max held up the bag, suddenly unsure of himself. “Got something.”
George glanced over. “For me?”
“No,” Max said. “For… them.”
George’s brows drew in slightly. He wiped his hands on a towel and took the bag.
He pulled the onesie out carefully, then stared down at it in silence. His eyes ran over the tiny sleeves, the lettering, the little tag with a racing flag on it.
And then—
Then it hit him.
Hard.
A lump in his throat, hot and thick. Like grief, but not. Like joy, but wrong. Like panic, like loss, like everything.
He didn’t mean to cry. Didn’t want to. But the tears were already welling, unprompted and fast. His hands shook. He tried to blink it away.
Max stepped forward. “George?”
George shook his head, holding the onesie like it was burning him.
“I can’t—” His voice cracked. “I don’t know what I’m doing, Max.”
Max froze. “It’s okay. We’ll figure it out—”
“No, you don’t get it.” George’s voice broke entirely now. “You get to leave if it gets too much. I don’t. I’m the one whose body is changing. I’m the one who’s exhausted all the time, who can’t keep food down, who cries over stupid little racing onesies like a bloody idiot—”
“Hey, hey,” Max said quickly, stepping closer.
George wiped furiously at his face. “I used to be in control. Of everything. My fitness. My emotions. My career. And now I’m crying over baby clothes in the middle of the kitchen and I don't even know who I am anymore."
Max didn’t speak.
Instead, he gently pulled George into his arms. Hesitant, careful, like approaching a wild animal. But when George didn’t push him away, Max wrapped both arms tightly around him.
George sagged into the embrace, fists curling in Max’s hoodie, face buried in his chest as the sobs came harder now. Not delicate ones — these were the gut-deep, body-shaking kind, the ones that stole your breath and made you feel like your chest might cave in.
Max just held him.
Held him through it all.
One hand cradled the back of George’s head, the other rubbed steady lines up and down his spine.
“You’re not weak,” Max whispered. “You’re not losing yourself.”
George didn’t answer.
“You’re becoming something else. That’s scary. But it’s not bad.”
Still no reply.
“You’re going to be a good parent,” Max said, softer now. “Even if you cry over dumb onesies. Especially if you cry over dumb onesies.”
George gave a watery, half-hiccuped laugh against his chest.
They stood there for a long time.
Eventually, George pulled back, sniffling and red-eyed, but a little calmer. “You really think I’ll be good at it?”
“I know you will,” Max said without hesitation.
George stared at him, searching his face. For doubt, for mockery, for any sign that this was just guilt, or pity, or pressure. He found none.
And for the first time in days — maybe weeks — he breathed a little easier.
“I’m keeping the onesie,” George muttered.
Max smiled. “Yeah, I figured.”
The sunlight in Monaco had always felt a bit too golden, too perfect—like it knew it had something to prove. George had spent his entire adult life thinking of it as Max’s place. Not his. Never his.
So when Max brought it up over breakfast—just casually, like he was asking George to pass the salt—it didn’t go down well.
“You want me to what?” George asked, blinking across the table, a half-sliced peach still in his hand.
“Move in,” Max said again, evenly. “Just until the baby comes.”
George laughed. Sharp. Hollow. “You’ve lost your mind.”
“It’s not a big deal.”
“It’s a huge deal, Max.” He pushed his plate away, already too nauseous to finish it anyway. “You want me to uproot my life, my space, my schedule—just so I can live in your territory?”
Max frowned. “It’s not a power play, George.”
“You sure about that?”
Max stood slowly, palms on the table. “I’m sure. You’re tired all the time. You're stressed. You're getting swollen ankles after walking three blocks. You nearly fainted in the simulator last week. Your trainer said you’re pushing too hard. Your apartment isn’t baby-proof. And—”
“Oh, so now I can’t take care of myself?”
Max’s voice didn’t rise. “You don’t have to do everything yourself. That’s the point.”
George looked away. Jaw tight. Emotion caught somewhere between anger and shame.
Max exhaled, stepped back. Softer now. “Look, I’m not asking you to marry me. I’m asking you to let me help. To let me be close. You don’t owe me that, but I want to offer it. For you. For them.”
George said nothing.
“I’ve got the space,” Max added, gentler now. “And the security. The quiet. You won’t have to worry about cameras. You can scream at me in peace.”
George almost smiled at that. Almost.
The silence stretched until it thinned.
“I’ll think about it,” George said eventually, voice thick.
And two days later, after a brutal night of heartburn, a broken elevator in his building, and a sudden panic attack in the shower—he said yes.
George moved into the Monaco penthouse on a grey Thursday afternoon, halfway through his second trimester. He arrived with three suitcases, a laptop bag, and a chip the size of Belgium on his shoulder.
Max didn’t push. He simply carried the heaviest suitcase upstairs and left the guest room untouched—until George quietly moved his things into the master bedroom one night, without a word.
He didn't leave.
And Max didn’t make him feel like he had to ask to stay.
The third trimester hit harder than either of them expected.
George’s body was no longer just changing—it was revolting. His back ached constantly. His ankles swelled like overfilled balloons. The nausea, which had eased in the second trimester, made a cruel comeback in week 30 and decided to stay for an encore.
Max adjusted without blinking.
He timed George’s meals around nausea waves. Brought ginger tea before George could even ask. Kept electrolyte packets on hand like he was prepping for a championship. He took to massaging George’s lower back every evening, even when his own wrists ached after training.
He learned the signs: the way George’s hands curled when the baby kicked too hard. The way his jaw clenched before a mood swing hit. The way he tried to hide his tears with a turn of the head, as if Max hadn’t already memorised every contour of his face.
One evening, at 1:43 a.m., George woke up in cold sweats, eyes wide, breathing fast.
Max sat up instantly. “You okay?”
George stared at the ceiling. “I had a dream I gave birth in the paddock and Ted Kravitz tried to interview the baby.”
Max blinked. “Was the baby cooperative?”
George burst out laughing. Then cried. Then laughed while crying.
Max didn’t say a word. Just wrapped an arm around him and let him unravel.
Max built the crib with George’s head resting on his thigh, softly snoring.
He made spreadsheets of pediatrician recommendations and swaddling techniques, bookmarked articles about baby sleep patterns, and secretly watched a dozen YouTube tutorials on installing a car seat (he failed half of them, but George never knew).
He attended every appointment. Quiet. Supportive. Ready to hold George’s hand or his hair—whichever the moment required.
And when George’s hormones reached volcanic levels and he yelled at Max for folding a onesie “too aggressively,” Max just said, “Sorry,” and did it again, gentler.
Because it wasn’t about the onesie.
It never was.
There were good days, too.
Days where George glowed instead of grimaced. Where they walked slowly along the marina, George’s hand occasionally brushing Max’s. Where George let himself laugh fully and didn’t flinch at the future.
One afternoon, they sat on the balcony, the sun low and soft. George rested his feet in Max’s lap, sipping orange juice. His bump was massive now, like the curve of the world itself.
“Sometimes I think they can hear us,” George murmured, rubbing a slow circle over his belly.
Max looked up. “They probably can.”
George smiled, faint. “Think they know how messed up this all is?”
Max placed a palm gently over George’s hand. “They’ll know they were wanted. That’s what matters.”
George didn’t reply.
But he didn’t pull his hand away either.
Week 36.
The final stretch.
George was miserable. Beautiful, glowing, and utterly done with being pregnant.
He hated how hard it was to breathe. How swollen his face had become. How his shirts no longer fit, and his emotions had all the subtlety of a hydraulic press.
He cried because he dropped a fork.
He cried because Max accidentally left the toilet seat up.
He cried because the baby kicked when David Croft was speaking on TV and now he was terrified their child would grow up liking him.
Max held him through all of it.
Cooked soup at 2 a.m. Rubbed his calves. Took verbal beatings from a man he adored and admired, and never once raised his voice back.
Because it was hard. All of it.
But Max had done hard things before. He’d won championships, endured failures, been told he wasn’t enough. But this? This was the first time he’d ever really shown up.
And he wasn’t about to stop.
One night, George curled up in bed, his bump resting on a pillow, and whispered into the dark.
“You don’t have to love me,” he said.
Max blinked awake. “What?”
“You don’t have to pretend this is something it’s not.”
Max turned to face him fully, his voice low. “George.”
“I just don’t want you to feel trapped.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re just... so good to me,” George said, tears in his eyes. “And I don’t know how to trust that.”
Max reached out. Wiped the tears gently with his thumb.
“I’m not doing this out of guilt. Or pity. Or obligation.”
“Then why?”
Max paused.
Then, with quiet finality: “Because I care about you. Because you’re strong. And stubborn. And you’re carrying our child like it’s both a burden and a miracle. And because... I want to be here.”
George didn’t say anything.
But in the morning, when Max woke up, George’s fingers were laced with his.
It was raining in Monaco — a rare, slow drizzle that turned the windows into watercolor paintings. George was curled sideways on the couch, legs tucked under a thick knitted blanket, one hand balancing a tablet while the other idly rested on his bump.
Max sat at the far end, one leg slung over the armrest, absentmindedly flipping through a car magazine he’d already read twice.
“I’m going to scream if I have to keep calling them ‘the baby,’” George muttered, scrolling. “We need to at least pretend we’re narrowing names down.”
Max grunted noncommittally, still reading.
George scrolled down a list titled ‘Strong Baby Names for the Future of Tomorrow’ with growing horror. “Ugh. No. No. God, no.”
Max didn’t look up. “You’ve said ‘no’ twenty-two times.”
“Well maybe if people stopped naming their kids after Instagram filters, I wouldn’t have to.”
“Don’t knock it until you meet a kid named Valencia who’s Prime Minister someday.”
George rolled his eyes, then tapped the next name. “What about Jasper?”
Max finally looked up. “Jasper?”
“Yeah. It's classic, a bit posh, but not pretentious—”
“God, no.”
George blinked. “Excuse me?”
Max set the magazine aside, deadpan. “Sounds like the name of a guy who wears linen trousers and corrects your French on holiday.”
George stared at him, deadpan. “You’re Dutch. You are that guy.”
Max lifted a brow. “Exactly. I know how annoying it is.”
George opened his mouth to retort—then gasped, sharp and loud.
Max was upright in an instant. “What? What is it—are you—?”
“No—no,” George said quickly, one hand clapping over his bump. “It’s fine. She—they—just kicked.”
Max exhaled in relief. “Jesus. Say something next time instead of making a noise like you’ve just been stabbed.”
George let his head fall back against the cushion, laughing breathlessly. “I wasn’t expecting to be punched in the kidney by my own child.”
Max leaned closer, gaze flicking to George’s stomach, eyes a little wide. “They really kicked?”
George nodded, still catching his breath. “Full-on jab. Probably protesting your taste in names.”
“Probably aiming for your spleen.”
“Feels like it,” George muttered, rubbing gentle circles over the spot. After a beat, he glanced sideways. His voice lowered. “Do you… want to feel?”
Max froze.
George watched him, quiet, not pushing.
“I mean,” George added, almost shyly, “you don’t have to. It’s just—it’s happening more often. And if you want to—”
“I do,” Max said quickly.
He shifted closer on the couch, suddenly a little stiff. He looked weirdly serious, like George had asked him to deactivate a bomb.
George guided Max’s hand, placing it gently over the top of his bump. “Just... there. Wait.”
Silence fell. Max’s palm was warm. His fingers stayed still, hesitant, like he was afraid of pressing too hard. The rain tapped gently on the glass, the room soft with the hum of quiet.
Then—
A little thump.
Max’s mouth parted slightly. He looked down at his hand, eyes wide.
“Did you feel that?” George asked, a small smile blooming.
Max’s expression didn’t change, but something in his eyes softened. He nodded. “Yeah.”
Another kick. Stronger this time.
His hand flexed instinctively, like he could catch it.
George grinned. “Yeah?”
Max let out a breath of disbelief, mouth forming a quiet “o.”
“I thought it would feel like... I don’t know. A flutter. That was like getting nudged by a very small, very determined athlete.”
“She is half Verstappen,” George said, amused. “Explains the aggressive footwork.”
Max didn’t move his hand.
He just stayed there, eyes trained on George’s stomach like it held the entire universe.
George watched him, softer now. “You’re allowed to smile, you know.”
Max blinked, then gave him a lopsided one. Small. Real.
“That’s our kid,” he murmured.
George felt something in his chest twist a little. Good, and dangerous. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “They are.”
They stayed like that for a while. Just rain, quiet breath, and a heartbeat under the skin.
For the first time, their baby didn’t feel like an accident, or a burden, or something to survive.
It felt like a beginning.
Chapter Text
The roar of engines filled the living room, even through the closed balcony doors.
George sat back on the couch, one hand absently resting on his bump, the other gripping a mug of lukewarm peppermint tea. The Italian Grand Prix was halfway through, the commentators talking a mile a minute about tire degradation and Max’s strategic lead. He was out in front — of course he was. He always was.
George tried to focus on the race. He really did.
But the tight ache that had been building low in his back all morning was getting harder to ignore. He’d brushed it off as bad sleep, then Braxton Hicks, then just one of the dozens of annoying late-pregnancy symptoms he’d come to accept as normal.
Except now it wasn’t just his back. There was a tugging sensation in his abdomen — not painful, exactly, but sharp enough to make him sit up.
His mug tilted in his hand. Tea sloshed onto the throw blanket draped across his legs. “Shit,” he muttered, pushing the cup away.
A slow panic began to rise in his chest.
He stood, intending to go to the kitchen for water, maybe pace, maybe breathe—but the moment his feet touched the floor, a strange pressure pulled downward in his pelvis. Then—
A pop.
Warmth. Spreading quickly.
He froze.
“No. No, no—shit.”
He looked down.
His joggers were soaked through. It wasn’t sweat. It wasn’t spilled tea.
His waters had broken.
“Okay,” George whispered, backing against the couch, breath hitching.
Another wave came. This one hurt. A low, rolling pain that wrapped around his body like a belt being pulled tight from the inside.
His hands gripped the edge of the couch. “Okay. Okay, breathe.”
He reached for his phone, nearly dropped it, then pulled up his contacts. Max was racing. Unreachable. The GP was still live on the screen in front of him—Max leading, the commentators shouting about DRS trains and yellow flags and nothing that mattered anymore.
George scrolled. Hands shaking. Hit Aleix’s name and pressed the call button.
Please pick up. Please. Please—
“George?” Aleix answered, voice bright. “Hey, are you watching? Max is—”
“My water broke.”
Silence.
Then: “...You’re sure?”
“I’m standing in a puddle, Aleix. Yeah, I’m sure.”
“Okay,” Aleix said, instantly serious. “Okay, sit down. Try to breathe through it. Are you alone?”
“Yes.”
“Where are you?”
“At the penthouse.”
“I’m on my way. Twenty minutes. Can you start timing the contractions?”
Another one hit—sharper this time. George let out a soft, strangled sound and doubled over, the phone nearly slipping from his hand.
“George?”
“I’m okay,” he said through gritted teeth. “That was a strong one. Less than ten minutes since the last.”
“Alright. Keep breathing. I’ll call ahead to the hospital too. You’ve got your go-bag packed, right?”
“Yeah. By the door.”
“You’re doing great, okay? I’m getting in the car now. Just hang on.”
George nodded, even though Aleix couldn’t see it. “Drive safe.”
“You stay still. Sit down if you can. I’ll be there soon.”
The call ended.
The living room was suddenly too quiet.
The commentators on TV were still screaming about Red Bull strategy. Max was still leading. Of course he was.
George let out a shaky breath, eyes burning.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.
Max was supposed to be here.
He leaned heavily against the kitchen counter, gripping the marble like a lifeline, riding out the next contraction with shallow breaths and clenched teeth. Sweat broke out along his brow. His knees trembled.
Another wave of pain. Stronger. Lower. It pulled deep through his hips, like something ancient and raw and unstoppable.
“Okay,” George whispered to himself. “Okay. You’ve done harder things. You’ve driven with a broken wrist. You’ve crashed at 300 kph. You’ve survived media days with Max Verstappen.”
Another contraction tore through him, stealing the breath right out of his lungs.
“This is nothing,” he whispered, and then, quieter, “This is everything.”
He made it to the hallway and sat on the floor, back against the wall, one hand on his stomach.
The baby kicked softly beneath his palm. Not violently. Just there. Present. Real.
“You’re really doing this, huh?” George murmured, voice cracking.
He looked down at himself — soaked joggers, flushed cheeks, trembling thighs — and couldn’t tell if the tears forming in his eyes were from pain, fear, or wonder.
Maybe all three.
The door buzzer rang fifteen minutes later. Aleix’s voice crackled through the intercom. George buzzed him in and braced himself.
Lap 47 of 53.
Monza.
Max was leading by six seconds. The car was perfect. The tires were managing. Victory was almost inevitable.
And then:
“Box, box. Max, come in, please."
The voice in his ears was GP’s — unusually tight, unusually clipped. Max blinked, confused.
“Why?” he asked, keeping his line steady through Ascari. “Everything’s fine.”
“Max... it’s George.”
A beat.
A thousand thoughts slammed to a halt.
“What?”
“He’s in labour. Aleix called the team. Water broke. Contractions started less than an hour ago.”
Max’s blood went ice-cold. His hands tightened on the wheel. The cockpit was suddenly too small.
George. Alone in Monaco. Going through this without him.
Max didn’t speak for three seconds. Then:
“I’m boxing.”
“Max—wait, we’re checking options, we can still—”
“I said I’m boxing. Retire the car.”
“Max, you’re leading the f—”
“I don’t care.” His voice cracked over the radio. “Tell Rupert to prep the jet. I’m going home.”
The pit crew was scrambling. Not for tires. Not for wing changes. Just trying to understand.
Max drove straight into the pit lane with none of his usual precision. The car stopped. The engine shut off.
Confusion erupted in the garage. The pit wall stood stunned.
The commentators were in chaos.
“Max Verstappen—has boxed! But that’s not a scheduled stop!”
“Is there an issue with the car? That’s an abrupt call. Red Bull are moving—wait. That’s it. He’s out?”
“We’re hearing Verstappen may have RETIRED the car voluntarily — he was leading!”
Cameras caught Max leaping over the pit wall, helmet still on. People shouting after him. He didn’t stop. He didn’t slow down.
Rupert — his assistant — was already at the paddock exit with Max’s jacket in hand, phone pressed to his ear.
Max pulled off his helmet and balaclava as he ran. “Jet ready?”
“Wheels up in forty. I’ve got a car waiting at Gate B.”
“Tell the pilot to go full throttle. And call the hospital.”
Rupert jogged to keep up. “Which one?”
Max paused. Swallowed.
“Whichever one George is at.”
They were in the private car within five minutes. Max stared out the tinted window, helmet still cradled in his lap like a lifeline.
His phone buzzed.
Lando: You alright?
Just saw you pull out. Thought you were dominating.
Max didn’t answer. He couldn’t.
His mind was 900 kilometers away — in a hospital room where George might be alone, scared, and hurting.
This wasn’t about strategy anymore. Or reputation. Or points.
This was about his family.
As the private jet roared down the runway, lifting into the sky, Max clenched his jaw and closed his eyes.
“Hold on, George,” he whispered into the silence.
“I’m coming.”
The sterile scent of antiseptic hit Max the moment he stepped into the maternity ward.
He walked fast, almost too fast, guided by a nurse who'd only had to glance at his face to know who he was. His hair was a mess, his Red Bull team gear half-zipped over a rumpled shirt, and his eyes — wild with worry, exhaustion, and something deeper — never stopped scanning every door they passed.
Room 403.
The nurse knocked once and pushed it open gently. “He just delivered. They’re both okay.”
Max exhaled a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.
He stepped inside, quiet, reverent, like the room itself was sacred.
George was propped up against a nest of pillows, pale but glowing with the kind of light that only comes from going through something unthinkably hard and coming out the other side still breathing. His hair was damp with sweat, his eyes rimmed in red. But in his arms—
A baby.
Tiny. Wrapped in a soft cream blanket. A little pink cap on her head. One hand curled like a question mark near George’s collarbone.
Max stopped a few feet away, unable to speak.
George looked up.
And smiled. Tired. Wrecked. Beautiful.
“It’s a girl,” he whispered.
Max blinked. A sharp sound caught in his throat. Something like laughter. Something like a sob.
George gestured with his head. “You want to meet her?”
Max nodded wordlessly. He stepped closer, hands trembling slightly, like he wasn’t sure if he deserved to be this close to something so small. So human.
He leaned down slowly, peering into the bundle of warmth in George’s arms. She had a squashed little nose, the faintest trace of golden lashes, and her mouth was slightly open like she was already dreaming.
Max stared.
George watched him.
“She’s… perfect,” Max whispered.
“She screamed like hell when she came out,” George said, lips curving upward. “Had opinions immediately. Must’ve gotten that from you.”
Max huffed a breath, barely a laugh.
“What’s her name?” he asked, still gazing at her.
George looked down at their daughter for a long moment. “I wanted to name her… Amelia.”
Max’s head tilted slightly. “Amelia?”
George smiled faintly. “Your middle name is Emilian. Thought it was a nice nod.”
Max blinked, visibly caught off guard. “You… remembered that?”
“Of course I did.”
Max was quiet. He looked at her again. “Amelia.”
He tested it under his breath. It fit. It was gentle but strong. A name with history. A name you could grow into.
Then Max added, lightly, “She should have a British middle name. You all love those long aristocratic ones.”
George smirked. “You got a suggestion?”
Max nodded. “Elizabeth.”
George’s breath caught. “That was my grandmother’s name.”
Max raised a brow. “There you go. Perfect.”
They shared a look then — not playful, not tense, just full — with something deeper sitting under the surface. Something they weren’t quite naming yet. But it was there, alive, in the quiet of the room.
George nodded. “Amelia Elizabeth.”
Max smiled — soft and real. “Amelia Elizabeth Verstappen.”
George looked down at her, then back at Max. “Sounds right, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah,” Max whispered. “She does.”
The room was still.
Outside, the sun was rising over Monaco, gold streaks brushing the hospital windows. The world hadn’t stopped — but for just a moment, it felt like everything had narrowed down to this: two men, one baby, and a name.
Max sat beside the bed, close but not too close. George leaned his head back, eyes fluttering closed, still cradling Amelia to his chest.
And Max — with one hand resting lightly on the edge of the blanket — just watched them.
Father.
Father.
Daughter.
Together, at last.
The Monaco sun had dipped behind the hills, casting a warm golden glow over the sleek edges of Max’s penthouse. The living room was scattered with toys — plushies in one corner, a little helmet-shaped pillow on the couch, and a well-loved Red Bull cap clinging to the edge of the coffee table, courtesy of a certain almost three-year-old.
George pushed open the front door, suitcase in hand and still smelling faintly of podium champagne. He barely had time to call out before—
“PAPA!”
Tiny feet pounded across the hardwood floor.
Amelia — barefoot, curly-haired, and wearing a pastel onesie with tiny cars printed all over it — launched herself at him like she was gunning for pole.
George dropped to his knees just in time, arms open wide as she crashed into his chest with the force of a thousand cuddles.
“Oh!” George laughed, lifting her up. “Hello, darling girl.”
She beamed at him, wrapping her arms around his neck. “You won!” she said proudly, her little voice all breathless joy.
“I did,” George said, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “Did Daddy let you watch?”
“Yes,” she said, then squinted. “But Daddy was being annoying.”
From the kitchen, Max’s voice floated in dryly: “Excuse me?”
George turned his head toward the sound, eyebrows raised, amusement sparkling in his eyes. “Annoying, huh?”
Max strolled in, barefoot, holding a baby bottle in one hand and a piece of half-eaten banana bread in the other. His hair was slightly messy, like Amelia had run her fingers through it repeatedly — which she probably had.
“She said I was annoying because I told her she couldn’t have a cookie before dinner,” Max clarified, giving Amelia a mock-glare.
Amelia blinked at him innocently. “You were still annoying.”
George laughed so hard he had to sit down with her in his arms.
“Outnumbered in your own house,” he teased.
Max rolled his eyes, but his lips twitched upward.
George looked up at him. “I thought you’d be at the factory today.”
“I was. Came home early. I figured you’d want a proper welcome home after winning another race.”
He walked over and dropped a kiss on George’s temple, then ruffled Amelia’s curls gently. “Seventh win of the season. Toto’s going to start charging me rent on the pit wall if you keep this up.”
George smirked. “Jealous?”
Max gave him a deadpan look. “I literally have five titles. You have one.”
George raised a brow, "I'll get another one."
Amelia poked Max in the arm. “Papa’s gonna win a big shiny again.”
George grinned at her. “That’s right, love. And maybe, just maybe, we’ll make Daddy carry the trophy through airport security next time.”
Max made a face. “You do one interview calling me your ‘championship assistant’ and suddenly I’m a glorified luggage cart.”
“You’re a very supportive luggage cart,” George said sweetly.
“Annoying luggage cart,” Amelia added, clearly very proud of herself.
Max let out a long-suffering sigh and flopped next to them on the couch.
“You’ve turned her against me.”
George beamed. “Parenting goals.”
They sat like that for a moment, tangled together — Amelia in George’s lap, Max beside them, arms stretched across the back of the couch. The TV played quietly in the background, still looping George’s podium celebration from earlier.
Max tilted his head and looked at him with something softer. “I mean it, you know. I’m proud of you.”
George glanced sideways. “Because I beat your qualifying time from ’23?”
“No,” Max said, smiling now. “Because I’ve seen how hard you’ve worked. And you’re still here. Still fighting. Still winning. You’re… amazing, George.”
George’s throat tightened a little. He leaned into Max’s shoulder and bumped it gently.
“You’re not too bad yourself.”
Max wrapped his arm around them both and pulled them in, kissing Amelia’s forehead, then resting his chin on George’s hair.
Amelia yawned.
George whispered, “Still annoying?”
She mumbled, “A little.”
They both laughed.
The house had fallen into the softest kind of silence.
The kind that only exists when a toddler is asleep — deep, peaceful, hard-won silence, thick with night and comfort.
George stood at the doorway of Amelia’s room, his arms folded loosely, one hand resting against the doorframe as he looked in on her. The nightlight cast a gentle golden glow over the room. Her little body was curled beneath the blankets, one leg kicked out dramatically, the koala and the lion both tucked under her arms as if peace had been negotiated between them.
Max came up behind him and didn’t speak at first. He just leaned in, his presence easy and familiar. One arm slid around George’s waist, and his chin found a home on George’s shoulder.
For a long minute, they just stood there.
“She really is the best thing we’ve done,” George said quietly, his voice reverent, his heart full in a way that still caught him off guard sometimes.
Max kissed his shoulder. “She’s you and me… in one wild little package.”
George smiled, soft and private. “Do you think she’ll be fast one day?”
Max huffed a tiny laugh. “George. She runs down the hallway like she’s chasing DRS.”
“She’s already overtaking my patience at every corner.”
“She negotiates like Toto on deadline.”
They both laughed, quiet and warm.
Then George sighed, resting back into Max’s body. “Whatever she becomes, I just want her to be happy.”
“She will be,” Max said. “Because she’s loved.”
George turned then — just enough to look at him. Not moving far, just shifting the angle so that their faces were close, breath mingling in the space between.
“Come to bed?” Max asked.
George nodded. “Yeah.”
The bedroom was dim, lit only by the Monaco skyline through the tall windows. The sound of the city far below was muted, like a heartbeat under layers of comfort and routine.
George sat on the edge of the bed, slowly unbuttoning his shirt. Max walked in behind him, shirtless, tossing his phone onto the nightstand and stretching his arms with a groan.
“You’ve got glitter on your neck,” Max muttered.
George blinked. “Glitter?”
“From the podium. Champagne spray. You’re sparkling.”
George snorted. “I always sparkle.”
Max rolled his eyes and threw a pillow at him, then climbed into bed with a satisfied grunt, pulling the duvet up.
George slipped in beside him.
For a while, they just lay there. Side by side. Quiet. The air between them full of all the things they didn’t say often — not because they didn’t feel them, but because they weren’t the type of men who’d ever been taught how.
George stared at the ceiling, fingers laced over his chest. Max lay on his side, eyes on him.
“You okay?” Max asked eventually, voice low.
George nodded. “Yeah. Just… thinking.”
“About what?”
“About this,” George said, gesturing vaguely. “Life. Us. Her.”
Max waited. Patient, rare.
George rolled onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow. He looked down at Max for a moment, face unreadable, then spoke.
“I didn’t think we’d get here,” he said honestly. “Not two years ago. Not when I was throwing up in the paddock toilets and you were pretending not to care.”
Max gave a soft, amused hum. “I cared.”
“I know,” George murmured. “You always did. You were just… weird about it.”
“I’m Dutch,” Max said flatly.
George smiled, but then his expression softened.
“You were there. Every time. Even when I told you not to be.”
Max looked at him, silent.
“You held my hair when I puked. You bought me pickles at 3am. You built a crib with instructions only in Swedish. You slept on the hospital floor because I was in labor and screaming at you.”
“I was never going to let you do it alone,” Max said, simply.
George’s throat tightened.
He reached out, brushing his fingers lightly over Max’s chest, drawing little thoughtless circles there.
“Today,” he said, voice almost too quiet, “on the podium… when I looked into the crowd, I didn’t care about the trophy. I just wanted to get home. To you. To her.”
Max’s breath caught.
George met his eyes.
“I love you, Max.”
It landed in the silence like a dropped helmet. Heavy. Real. Unmistakable.
Max stared at him.
For once, no sarcasm. No shield. Just Max — wide-eyed, stunned, and maybe just a little afraid of what that meant.
George waited. Let him sit in it. Didn’t flinch.
Then Max exhaled — long and slow — and a small, crooked smile curved across his lips.
“I’ve loved you since Qatar,” he said softly.
George blinked. “When you were yelling at me in the stewards’ office?”
“When you kicked me out of your driver room and I still bought you fruit anyway,” Max replied. “I didn’t know what to do with it. But it never stopped.”
George let out a breath that cracked at the edges.
Max leaned up, closed the space between them, and kissed him — slow, sure, not full of fireworks, but something quieter. Something lasting.
When they broke apart, George laughed under his breath.
“Finally said it, huh?”
Max grinned. “You did.”
“You’re still annoying, by the way.”
Max smirked. “She gets it from you.”
George sighed dramatically and pulled the duvet up.
But before he turned out the light, he glanced toward the hallway — toward Amelia’s room, the soft glow of the nightlight still peeking through the door.
“She’s going to grow up in a home where love’s never a question,” he whispered.
Max took his hand under the covers. “She already is.”
And together, in the quiet dark, they drifted off — two champions, one little girl, and a home built on something neither of them expected to find.
Love.
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