Chapter Text
*
“I will give you this chance to admit that I drive like a pro, mate.” Max said.
“No kidding.” Daniel sounded amused. They took the last turn of the road before the golf cart eased to a stop by the practice court.
“See?” Max hopped out first, half-grinning back at Daniel, who followed, stretching his arms as he came around for their racket bags.
“You seem bratty today.”
“I’m in a good mood.”
And he was. Max could feel it—the calmness in his body, the clean energy in his lungs, that little spark of lightness flickering in his chest. Everything he needed to believe the season was opening just right. The morning in Melbourne was sharp but not unkind. They walked towards the court, shoulders and racket bags softly brushing.
They started hitting, rallying one-on-one until the practice partners arrived. Later, they worked doubles for an hour. The rhythm came easier now, the patterns sharper. Max could feel it—how the weeks of training and the rounds they’d survived together had bound them tighter. Daniel beside him was steady, almost reassuring.
His dad was not so appealed when Max first brought this up, with Ad.
“I’ve already set this up with Daniel. GP said it’s good for me, too.” He hated his hesitation when seeing his father's knotted brows.
“Max knows where the line is. After all, he got the title to defend.” Ad helped him out.
People seemed quite enthusiastic over their duo. Fans drifted by as practice wound down, some stopping for autographs, a few shouting encouragement. He and Daniel signed huge tennis balls for some fans and posed for more photos. Max could not help but smile as Daniel charmed a group into a selfie.
Max was going to drive them back to the hotel when GP showed up in another golf cart.
GP hugged Daniel before turning to Max: “We should pass by the gym before having lunch. I need to fix you up with some testing first.”
“To make sure no more chocolates for him. I see. He hid it from me, too. And I’m never the one to judge.” Daniel said. Max grimaced.
“I see how you greeted me without a hug, GP.” He said it just to nudge GP a bit. GP replied with a gentle smile and pointed over the cart.
“Put your bag on. I booked for us in 10 minutes.”
Daniel sent them off.
*
The lounge was half-empty when Max walked in, shoulders loose, the faint scent of detergent clinging to his shirt. He found Charles Leclerc leaning against the bar, phone in one hand, coffee in the other.
“Hi Max, busy morning?” Charles asked, a smile just warm and charming enough.
“Practice with Daniel.” Max dropped his bag on the sofa. “Doubles drills.”
Charles hummed, slow. “You’re really doing that seriously this time? Balancing singles and doubles—it’s not exactly simple.”
“It’s fine,” Max said. “Good training. Good rhythm.”
“You don’t think it takes something away from your main matches?”
Max shrugged. “If anything, it gives me more. Keeps me sharp.” The words came quick, as though he needed to hear himself say them.
Charles sipped his coffee. “He seems to make you relaxed.”
Max gave him a look, not catching the shift in tone, or maybe pretending not to. “We’re just working. You know how it is.”
“Mm,” Charles said. His gaze slid back to the phone, but the silence was thick.
“So who are you playing next?” Max asked, since there seemed to be nothing else to talk about.
Charles glanced up from his phone again. He is looking deeply into Max’s eyes now. “ I will play against Lewis for the fourth round.”
Max nodded. “Good luck with that, mate.” He stopped for a second and added, “I forgot you two are in the same half.”
“Thanks.” Charles gave him a tight smile, before letting the silence fill the space between the two of them again.
Max leaned back on the sofa, suddenly restless. He had told himself it was temporary, this doubles thing. This lightness. It never lasted. He knew that. Still, he couldn’t deny how much easier it felt when Daniel was around. And that, maybe, was the problem.
*
They sat across from each other in the canteen, trays between them, the scrape of cutlery sharp in the morning hum. Max picked through his plate, searching for blueberries.
“No worries, Max,” Daniel said, voice easy, breaking his muffin. “I know the drill. Go focus on the big stuff.”
Max kept his eyes on the fruit. He wanted to say something-- He wanted to say, it would be better if you were also advancing in singles, and we parted. Now you are already out, and I am all pulling you out of the doubles, too. Everything would be better if you were winning .
But they were winning.
“GP’s filing the medical withdrawal today,” he said instead.
Daniel raised his brows. “Really? And I didn’t notice a thing wrong with you?”
Max looked up, caught, and stopped.
Daniel grinned, mouth still full, that bright careless charm. “I’m kidding. It’s fine. Aussie fans will grumble, but they’ll live.”
“They adore you too much,” Max said.
“They love you more.” Daniel leaned forward, elbows on the table, brown eyes steady now. “They want to see you win three in a row. So do I. You’ve been smiling more. It was good to see.”
Something in his tone held stillness. Max dropped his gaze. “Thanks, Danny.”
“So it’s settled. Now eat. That chicken breast isn’t going anywhere.”
Max poked it once more, then looked at Daniel’s plate. “Can I have your blueberries?”
“No.” Daniel’s grin widened. “Didn’t see my blueberries in the photo you sent to your nutritionist.”
Max rolled his eyes. Their forks moved again, small metallic sounds filling the space. The talk turned light—videos for ATP media, jokes, a laugh too loud that made a waitress glance over.
Max smiled with him, hid in the rhythm of it, the ordinary ease.
*
Max looked down at Daniel, bare chest smeared with sweat and half-dried cum, who placed his hands tightly around Max’s waist, guiding him down, and down, panting, drilling the panting out of Max, too.
He felt the muscles of his thighs tightening, knowing that this was not what GP wanted for his post-match cool-down.
He won the semifinal 6–3, 6–2, 7–6. Told the press he was going to win the final, take the third AO title in a row. The cameras flashed, feeding his pride, feeding that certainty. Still, beneath it all, a strange stillness stayed lodged inside.
He knew he was ready.
Daniel wasn’t. His AO ended earlier, and he should’ve already been in the U.S., adapting early for Indian Wells. He stayed anyway, hanging around Melbourne to watch Max crush his opponent, reaching the final. Tomorrow morning, he’d finally leave. Max’s manager had already booked the club for the victory party—the same one as last year.
Daniel wouldn’t be there. But he stayed tonight and slipped into Max’s hotel room to have sex with him. They hadn’t done this in a while. As far as Max could remember, the last time was a sloppy, quick head in Austria or Basel, in a locker room. Daniel was desperate for points to qualify for the ATP Finals, and Max was bored. He let Daniel finish across his face and hair that time. Quick, messy, forgettable.
Now it was different. Daniel beneath him, hands tight at his waist, holding him down like he wanted to leave bruises. Max moved, thighs burning, and Daniel met him with more force than needed.
“What’s your fucking problem?” Max bit his shoulder, lazily.
Daniel kissed his temple instead. “Already tired?”
“Don’t be smug. I just played.”
“Three sets.”
“Shut up.” Max wriggled out of his hold, sat up again, only for Daniel to shift, sit against the headboard, and set a harder rhythm, pounding into him until Max gave a sharp whine.
“Pity I won’t be there to see the final.”
Max barked a laugh, “You mean, you are not invited to my party.”
“Now who’s smug?”
“You bet I am. Third AO, three in a row—it’s going to be a big one. Champagne, music, the fireworks. Your loss.” He felt his throat tighten.
Daniel pulled Max down, arm around him, voice low.
“Congratulations. My champion.”
It landed with weight. And a sting.
Max came shuddering, spilled across his stomach, breath ragged. He lay flat on the bed, watching as Daniel left the bed, showered, dressed, fingers tapping the doorframe as if already restless to be gone.
“I should go.”
“Yeah.”
“Good luck, Max.”
“Thanks, mate.”
The door clicked shut. Max stayed on the sheets, sweat cooling, staring at the ceiling. The stillness in him returned, sharper now, pressing against the pride he wore like armor.
*
Max walked into a room of Jos, Ad, and GP sitting at the round table.
“Here you go.” Ad said. “Sit down, Max. How was your sleep last night?”
“It’s fine.” Max pulled out his chair and sat down carefully.
“Good, good.” Ad said, seeming too delighted for such a simple answer. “ Have your breakfast while we walk this through. God, do they smell nice.”
Max did not see how his coach would find eggs and mixed vegetables so tempting, but he appreciated Ad's positive mindset anyway.
Jos didn’t eat. He sat with his arms folded, watching. GP was with his iPad. Ad leaned on his elbows, voice steady.
“Tomorrow you’ll need to open the court early. Don’t let him settle into rhythm. Work the angles, short cross first.”
Max nodded. Pushed his fork through the egg. The scrape against porcelain came out louder than he meant.
“Don’t play his backhand straight. He reads it too easy,” Ad went on.
Jos cut in. “He won’t listen if you talk too long.”
“I am listening,” Max said. His voice was flat.
Jos tilted his head, “You get stubborn. You waste energy. Don’t do it tomorrow.”
GP scrolled through his iPad, screen light flickering across his thumb.
“Your numbers are strong, Max. Heart rate’s recovering quicker than last week. Legs look good. But—” he glanced up, almost as if checking in on him “—keep the rallies shorter if you can. Don’t get dragged out.”
Max shifted in the chair, legs sore from more than practice. He took a drink of water, cool against the dryness in his throat.
“Short points. Aggressive first ball,” Jos said. “You know this.”
“Yes, dad.”
“You’ll win if you don’t play stupid.”
Max glanced at his dad before shifting his gaze away without a word.
Ad gave him a small nod, as if to bridge the weight. “Trust yourself. You’ve done this before.”
GP closed the iPad and offered a smile. “You’re ready, Max. Just keep the body safe.”
“GP just mentioned you felt a bit strained after the last match,” Ad said. “It’s expected. So today—light warm-up only. One hour maximum.”
GP nodded. “Stretch after. Recovery bike, ten minutes. Then we’re done.”
Max agreed with a small tilt of his head.
The waiter came with trays of coffee. Cups were set down in front of Ad, Jos, and GP. Espresso for Max, too.
Ad tapped the table lightly, bringing Max’s focus back. “And this evening—no hitting. Visualization, notes, then rest.”
“Got it.”
GP smiled. “It’s working. You looked loose yesterday.” He paused, as if deciding whether to add it. “Did Daniel come for you last night?”
Max blinked. “What? No. I mean—yes? What are you on?” His fork clattered against the plate.
GP didn’t flinch. “I saw him. He asked about you.”
Max shifted in his chair. “We talked, yeah. About the match.”
Jos’s eyes lifted from his plate, sharp. “Not about doubles again, I hope.”
Max’s jaw tightened. “About tomorrow.”
Jos leaned back. “I don’t see how he contributes.” He said dryly.
Breakfast ended not long after, each of them rising in turn.
*
Max lingered just around the player’s tunnel, feeling the low hum of Rod Laver Arena vibrating through the floor. His chest rose and fell a bit slower.
Stillness pressed against him, heavier than the final point. His body throbbed from the match, and from the faint memory of Daniel, the way his hands had moved over Max, guiding him, claiming him, leaving warmth and a sting of frustration.
Max inhaled slowly, trying to push it down.
Winning. That was what mattered. That had always been what mattered.
He flexed his fingers around the microphone he’d used minutes ago, recalling the on-court interview with J.C., the AO legend who had stepped close with genuine admiration in his eyes.
"Congratulations, Max. Your third Australian Open singles title, three times in a row. How does it feel?"
Max had grinned, leaned forward slightly, eyes scanning the crowd without seeing any individual face. Pride swelled, fierce and electric, coursing through him with the release of every ounce of pressure he’d carried. He’d left the signature on the camera. And he’d flashed three fingers at it, too.
The doubles came fleetingly into his mind, but it was brief. He had made the right choice. He was here. The championship was his .
The ceremony began.
Max stepped onto the stage. Applause hit him like a physical force. The national anthems rose. He held his head high, shoulders squared.
The lights, the fireworks, the DJ’s beat—they all seemed to orbit him, centering him at the apex. The smell of champagne and polished courts wrapped around him.
When the bottles were uncorked, he sprayed champagne toward the cameras, droplets catching the arena lights like tiny stars. He smiled widely, almost too deliberately, because he knew.
Did you see this, Daniel? Too bad you can’t feel it.
He let the thought linger for a heartbeat, a sharp smile curling the corner of his lips. The thrill, the pride, the undeniable victory—all public, all visible, all his.
He raised the Norman Brookes Challenge Cup high. Camera flashes ignited across the arena again, and he felt the weight of every eye upon him. The cheers washed over him, the joy of the crowd tangible and addictive. His body tingled with victory. Every muscle, every heartbeat, aligned with the rhythm of triumph.
He should be happy. And in this stadium, at this moment, he was.
----
Max Verstappen Shuts Down "Danny&Maxie" Show, Prioritizes History-Making Singles Run
Melbourne, AU — The most fun story of the Australian Open is over. The surprise dream team of World No. 1 Max Verstappen and Australia’s own big-hitting phenom, Daniel Ricciardo, is calling it quits in the doubles draw after an electrifying run to the quarterfinals.
The pairing, dubbed “Danny&Maxie” by fans on social media, became an instant must-see attraction at Melbourne Park. The beloved homegrown talent with a cannon for a left arm, sharing a court with the global superstar currently sitting atop the sport. Their blend of Verstappen’s ice-cool precision and Ricciardo’s explosive, crowd-pleasing power provided a jolt of energy to the doubles circuit, drawing packed crowds rarely seen for early-round matches.
Their Cinderella run, however, has ended by decision. Tournament officials confirmed Verstappen’s withdrawal, prioritizing his grueling campaign to secure a third consecutive Australian Open singles title.
In a statement, the Dutch star called the partnership a "blast from the past," a nod to their one year as a mildly successful doubles duo in the Challenger ranks. "It was incredible to share the court with Daniel again and feel that energy from the Melbourne crowd," Verstappen said. "But my focus must now be 100% on the singles draw. It was a tough but necessary call."
The move is a stark reminder of the brutal physical demands of a major. With the singles draw tightening, Verstappen could no longer risk the extra miles on his body in pursuit of a nostalgic side quest.
The spotlight now shifts entirely to Verstappen's quest for a three-peat, leaving fans to wonder what might have been if the "Danny&Maxie" show had been allowed to go on.
----
Notes:
Speaking of Max's dominance on fast hard court...
Chapter 2: Miami - Hard Rock Stadium
Notes:
Yes, it's Miami! We need some spice right after that glorious beginning of the season.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
*
They were all standing, scattered in small groups, watching as the ATP crew busily adjusted the cameras, lighting, wires, for another round of interviews.
They had just finished a video shooting session. Charles was usually one of the more engaged, cooperative players for that type of thing, which happened very often at the U.S. tournaments. “The audience needs their internet feeds,” the organizers always said.
He took a sip from the water bottle he carried and half-turned away from his assistant, looking toward where Max Verstappen and Lando Norris were doubled over in laughter. Lando was holding his stomach.
“Hey, my interview partner,” Max spotted him and tapped him on the back. “I see you just fixed your hair. Looking better now.”
Charles knew Max had seen his assistant at work. He retorted quickly, “I always look good. Better in our interview, too.”
Max laughed, ran a careless hand through his mess of dark blonde hair, visibly longer and shaggier than it had been in Melbourne only a month before.
“I see you’ve switched partners again—one with better hair,” Lando chimed in, eyes sparkling. “Too bad Daniel wasn’t here to witness this.”
“Daniel…not so much luck on his side lately.” Max hummed.
Charles felt a small twist in his chest at the sound of the name, though he kept his face neutral. They all knew that Daniel exited Indian Wells in the first round after a severe cramp and a painful attempt to finish the match. Max won Indian Wells. And Charles knew Max must want to replicate the miracle of a back-to-back win with Miami, too. Just like what he did last year.
“I watched one of your doubles matches, you know?” Lando went on. “Felt like I was watching two Aussie superstars in their home slam. I mean, the audience was crazy!”
“It was pretty cool. How you two made the quarterfinals.” Charles added, almost by reflex, his tone a bit flat to convince himself.
“I think you’re forgetting the more important part. Need a hint? Champagne, confetti? Oh yes—me, winning the singles. Thank you.” Max deadpanned, but his eyes gave away the spark of mischief.
Charles let out a small laugh, raising his bottle as if toasting with the others.
“Saw that on your Instagram,” Lando said. “Even saw the decoration on your jet, you prick.”
“I didn’t do anything. H. put all that up. He probably posted those pictures from my party, too. I don’t really use Instagram anymore.”
Charles nodded at that. He hadn’t touched his account himself in months, leaving it to his assistant.
“Speaking of which,” Lando piped up again, “how about giving me a ride on that splendid jet when you head back to Monte Carlo? My team needs to stay a bit longer for logistics, but I want to be back in Europe right after. Please—”
“You’re going back to Monte Carlo, too?” Charles asked before realizing he had spoken.
“Yeah,” Max smiled. “I’ll stay at the club there as long as I can. Then it’s straight to Barcelona.”
“Mm.” Charles nodded. Even with houses in Monte Carlo, most players found it easier to stay at tennis clubs or training centers.
“Hey Charles, I’m fair! I didn’t ask to join your jet because I knew you flew first class this time, just like me,” Lando laughed, nudging him with a bony elbow. Charles ducked away, grinning faintly, and pretended to jab him back.
“I’d watch you two fight,” Max said, “but they’re coming for us. God, I hate media day.”
They walked side by side toward the shooting site. Charles knew the next session would be one-on-one short videos, unlike the interview he and Max had done together earlier. Behind him, he caught Max’s last answer to Lando’s request.
“Supposing we meet in the final, yeah, sure—but only if I win. Otherwise, I don’t want to see you on my jet.”
*
Charles was alone in the gym, pedaling steadily on a stationary bike. His arms were crossed against the handles, forehead pressed to the bar. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.
Charles hated the bike.
His legs already felt sore and heavy, but he pushed on, eyes closed, replaying the match in his head. Miami—just like Melbourne. And the same mistake, again. The hesitation on the backhand. He’d gone into the match reminding himself to follow his coach’s instructions: stay low, drive through, trust the shot. But when the moment came, the panic rushed in. His instinct pulled him the other way, and instead of committing, he floated a half-hearted backhand, feeding Lando an easy point.
He saw it over and over in his mind, like a cruel replay: the small hitch in his wrist, the weak return, the ball dying in the middle of the court. Charles, suddenly conscious of how it must have looked—hesitant, weak, unsure.
The shame clung to him. He had made the same mistake in Melbourne, too. Backhand into the net, fourth set against Lewis Hamilton, draining the last of his fight. The semifinal exit here is just the same.
He was so close.
“Fucking shit! Stupid!” He burst out, unable to stop himself.
His voice echoed in the empty room. He glanced up quickly, almost relieved no one else was there to see.
On the far wall, high near the ceiling, a screen streamed another match. Max was playing, navy-blue kit clinging to his frame, hair plastered and spiking in all directions. Charles kept his eyes there longer than he meant to, watching Max serve out the second set with an ace. Clean, decisive. He barely had to think.
Charles turned away, jaw clenched, but not before registering the scoreline. So it’s just as planned, Max would play Lando in the final, instead of Charles. Another hit of jealousy punched through him, sharp and bitter, layering itself onto the frustration already boiling inside.
He tried to refocus on the pedals, but his mind wandered back to Melbourne again. The four sets against Lewis Hamilton, 1-3. Max had asked who he was facing two days before that, when they encountered each other in the lounge. Had Max really not known Charles was lined up against Lewis? Or had he simply not cared?
Either way, the thought left Charles unsettled. Angry, even.
He looked back up at the screen as Max carried on his on-court interview, face pink from the heat, voice shaggy.
Charles dropped his head again, pedaling harder. He did not ask himself why the memory of Max and Daniel in doubles still stabbed at him when it surfaced. He did not want to have that serious conversation with himself yet.
*
Lando won Miami. Max finished runner-up.
Charles had already left the day before, back to Monte Carlo. The dull ache carried with him across the ocean. He wondered if Lando ended up on Max’s jet anyway.
----
Welcome to Double Blind Choice! Today, we have Charles Leclerc and Max Verstappen grilling each other. Guys, no mercy on the court!
Charles Leclerc: Okay Max, first one. You have to choose: winning a Grand Slam final but playing the worst match of your life, or losing the first round but playing absolutely perfect tennis?
Max Verstappen: Winning. Always winning. Doesn’t matter how ugly it looks if I hold the trophy at the end. That’s the whole point, right?
Charles: Okay, fair.
Charles: Next… Playing in 40-degree heat with no cloud, or playing in a thunderstorm with the match stopping every ten minutes?
Max: Well, I mean, I hate both of them.
Charles: But you have to choose one!
Max: Ugh, this is hard. Maybe the heat. I don’t like waiting for the rain to stop every ten minutes! It just kills the game.
Charles: Oh, this one’s easy: FIFA or EA Sports F1?
Max: F1. Obviously. Everyone already knows that.
Charles: Yeah, same. I love F1 too! But it’s hard to find time to play, with the season going on.
Max: Yeah…
Charles: Okay, last one from me. Winning Olympic gold for your country, or winning one Grand Slam for four years in a row?
Max: Four Slams. Every time. Olympic gold is one big event every four years. But four Slams means dominance. That’s history.
Max: My turn. You have to choose: getting a code violation for smashing a racket, or realizing you forgot your rackets and only showed up five minutes before the match?
Charles: Ugh…I’d take the code violation. At least I have my rackets. And… I’ve been there, so…
Max: So, you're used to it?
Charles: Not used to it! Just… I know how to reset after that.
Max: I won’t judge, mate. I’ve smashed plenty.
Charles: Yes you did!
Max: Okay, next: Your favorite racket string snaps during warm-up, or you accidentally book a flight to the wrong country the day before a tournament?
Charles: Uh… wrong country. I can fix the flight, but if my string is broken and I don’t have a spare, I’m in trouble. I’m very picky with my rackets.
Max: You can only keep one shot for the rest of your career: a perfect drop shot, or a 220 km/h serve?
Charles: The serve. I need the free points. But… I’d miss the drop shot.
Max: You hesitated.
Charles: Yeah, but—no, serve. Definitely serve.
Max: Last one. Would you rather go back and replay your most crucial junior finals… or skip straight to a Slam final now?
Charles: Hm… maybe replay a junior one. Those matches felt so big at the time, you know? Especially when it was against… certain people.
Max: You mean, against me?
Charles: Well, we did play each other a lot.
Max: That’s true. And you don’t forget losing at fourteen.
Charles: So… Replay a junior one. But yeah, the Slam final is what I’ve been dreaming of since I was a little boy.
Max: Maybe this is the year.
Charles: Thanks, Max. That’s nice to hear. Especially since you've had several already.
Max: Then maybe this is not the year, cause you will also beat me! No, I’m kidding. Really. Good luck to you, Charles!
Who grilled better? Tell us in the comment section！
#ATP #Miami #DoubleBlindChoice #Verstappen #Leclerc
----
Notes:
Max and Charles cannot escape from Grill the Grid, even in ATP. Or should it be called Grill the Court?
Comments and kudos make my day:)
Chapter 3: Madrid - Caja Mágica
Summary:
After a strong start on hard courts, Max entered the clay court season. The sun was shining in southern Europe, but clay... is always challenging.
Notes:
So, I’m happy to be back just as F1 resumed after summer break.
First, i was at ZANDVOORT today watching the qualifying session!! It's my first time going to Dutch GP and it has been such a fun experience. l totally loved the atmosphere and how fans LOVE Max so so much🧡🧡
Congrats to Oscar for the pole! and P3 for Max! Please Max podium on Sunday🙏And now comes the new chapter in tennis world. This chapter will see Max playing on the clay court. Tension is building up for Roland Garros, the second Grand Slam of the season.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
*
Max stepped onto the clay court and noticed first Mr. Carlos Sainz Sr., standing with arms folded, then Carlos himself on the bench.
“Hey, Max. How are you?”
“I’m good. How you doing, Mr. Sainz?”
“Perfect. Where’s your father?”
“At the hotel, sorting some things,” Max said, shifting his feet. “Ad and GP will be here in a minute.”
“Good. Carlos always enjoys practicing with you.”
Max turned—and there was Carlos, flashing a wide smile. Big brown eyes catching the sun, tank top showing arms thick with muscle and hair. He looked good.
Too good.
Max didn’t mind that kind of attraction anymore. That’s the thing: growing up—and still living—surrounded by athletes. Bodies everywhere. Sometimes it wasn’t easy to stay immune to attraction, especially when so many of the clay specialists happened to be handsome. His mind betrayed him with another image of Charles Leclerc sliding across red clay, that elegant balance, sweat glinting under the sun.
He’d love a taste.
Yeah, he definitely needs to push those thoughts down. Adrenaline, hormones, leftover from Barcelona’s win. That had to be it.
Carlos rose, and pulled him into a hug. Max patted his back quickly, then went to drop his bag on the opposite bench.
And it wasn’t like he hadn’t known Carlos when he was still a skinny boy with too-big eyes. They’d played the same junior circuits. They were all like that, little boys and girls travelling with their parents, fathers, who were their coaches at that time. Carlos was with Mr. Sainz, and Max was with Jos, who was famously loud courtside. Other parents whispered. Max remembered once, after Jos backhanded him in a locker room, a mother asked if he was all right. He never knew how she’d found out.
Maybe the boys had talked. It was a small world back then. Nobody ever confronted Jos. If anything, that boy and his mother had decided to just avoid facing Max and Jos at all. Jos was not a popular coach at that time.
But he was good for Max. And he got the results.
Carlos still has his father as his coach. His family still traveled everywhere with him. Max’s own mother used to travel more when he was younger, sometimes with Victoria, but much less ever since the divorce. These days they mostly only came to Grand Slams. He’d gotten used to it. Traveling too much blurred out the sense of home anyway.
Max finished his banana with one last bite, just as Ad and GP appeared, greeting Mr. Sainz with firm handshakes.
Max changed his coach to Ad in his second year after turning pro. Ad is better. He is professional, steady, assertive. He is the one who’d unlocked what Jos always swore was inside Max since age four.
Jos still traveled with him, but more for logistics now. He rarely watched practice sessions. Max preferred it that way.
He stood up, picked up his racket, and joined Carlos for warm-up.
*
“You played like a sissy! What are you scared of? Why didn’t you keep crushing his backhand?”
Jos’s voice bit Max the moment they stepped into the empty locker room.
Max dropped his bag hard, the thud echoing off the tiled walls. Sweat clung to his skin, shirt damp and sticky against his back. He grabbed a fresh towel from the bench, pressed the icy fabric to his neck, and shivered.
“Look at me when I’m fucking talking to you!”
He snapped. “I cannot play his backhand! He would fuck me with that!”
Ad leaned against the table, unimpressed. “Barcelona got into your head. That title was great, but Madrid’s a different thing. And we all know Roland Garros will be yet another level.”
“I know that,” Max said, “I did what I could to win. And I won.”
“A tough win. Risky, even.” Ad countered. “This guy is not a top thirty, that’s not the reason for your performance out there.”
Max tugged at the towel. His lungs burned. His legs felt like stone.
GP spoke up. “Your unforced errors in long rallies spiked. You’re right, his backhand defense was solid. You should’ve adjusted the spin sooner.”
“It didn’t help me kill the points,” Max said.
Jos scoffed, voice rising. “Where was your attack? You’re not a rookie—you’re a champion! Act like it!”
Max closed his eyes, heart hammering.
Ad continued, “We said it—you needed heavier topspin to open up the angles. Instead, you let him lead the long rallies. We’d wanted to see your attack….”
“Then just give me a strategy that lets me attack! ” Max snapped, eyes flying open, looking at Ad and GP. He hated himself right away for losing it, but everything pressed too close, too suffocating. Part of him still longed to just smash something, maybe another racket.
Ad didn’t blink. Jos’s mouth was a thin, hard line.
GP, methodical and calm as he is, tapped his tablet and spoke again. “Then we make one. We optimize your options. But patience is key, Max. Your body, your timing—don’t let childishness override that.”
Max resented the word childish. He glanced at Jos, almost reflexively. His father’s silence weighed heavily.
They wrapped the briefing in brittle silence. Max followed GP to find his physiotherapist, sweat already drying uncomfortably on his skin. The second round would be tomorrow.
*
Max lost the second round of Madrid with 4-6, 6-7. Jos gave him an absolutely stone face in the player’s box. Ad and GP looked disappointed. He did not take a second look at the box.
*
Max focused on the screen, spoon moving automatically from the mixed nuts yogurt bowl to mouth. The replay looped key points between Carlos and Charles — symmetry in motion. One gliding, one sliding, both painting patterns on clay. His chewing matched the rhythm of their strokes, soothing and hypnotic. These two would be waiting for him in Rome. And beyond that, Roland Garros.
He was alone this afternoon. The gym session had left his body loose, tired in a good way. The anger and shame of the loss still lingered, but he’d shoved them down deep in a locked drawer he wasn’t opening today.
His phone rang and Daniel was on the line, asking if he will be leaving today. Max told him that he will stay for two more days. Cause hotel rooms were booked till then, and also because they all thought he would stay at least another round.
“You practicing?”
“Not on these courts. Just gym, physio.”
There was a shuffle on the line, then Daniel’s voice came clearer. “I’m just leaving the gym.”
Something stirred in Max. “Stay. I’ll come by.”
“I’m not waiting for you,” Daniel said — but Max already knew he would.
The massage room was empty. Daniel was still in sweat-soaked shorts. Max pressed him down onto the sofa, hands urgent, rubbing through the fabric until the beat of arousal blurred into something else: frustration, leftover shame, a need to burn it away. Daniel guided him roughly, sliding Max’s hand into his waistband, and they fumbled, Max’s phone clattering to the floor.
“Shit—” He broke off, swiping the screen.
Daniel slapped his thigh. “Really, Max?”
“Thought Ad was after me…” Max muttered. “Oh.”
“What?”
“Charles wants to practice in Rome. Ad already set it up.” He tossed the phone aside. “Forget it. Where were we?”
Daniel caught his wrist, dragged it back inside his shorts. Max jerked him off while grinding against the hard muscle of his tattooed thigh. Their breath tangled, sweat sticking their shirts to their backs.
“You’ve got a beautiful boy waiting for you in Rome,” Daniel murmured.
Max’s stomach tightened. “He’s trouble. He is fucking unbelievable on clay.”
“You’d fuck him?” Daniel’s breath hot against his ear, hand now between his legs, moving hard and quick.
“Yeah… yes.”
“He’d pin you down.”
“Fuck—” Max’s head dropped onto Daniel’s shoulder, muffling the sound.
“You’d like that?” Daniel pressed, quickening his hand.
“Danny, I—”
“Maybe make you cry? You’d do that for him. You’d do it for me.”
The words broke him open. Max came hard, a mess across Daniel’s hand, Daniel spilling soon after. He looked satisfied.
Max grabbed his phone before leaving, thumb lighting the screen again. Daniel’s voice echoed in his head. Back in the hotel room, Max finished the replay analysis, eyes tracing Charles’s perfect rhythm across the clay.
On the flight to Rome, he could not help but have a restless feeling of Paris and Roland Garros, the very Grand Slam he has not yet claimed.
----
Today 18: 15
Charles Leclerc: Hi Max
Charles Leclerc: Tough match. Hope you’re alright!
Charles Leclerc: We’ll practice 2 May and 4 May in Rome. It’s already set up.
----
Notes:
What i'm aware is that, there are very few racing drivers that could match the intimidating heights of male tennis players...and this is purly due to the very different demands of body types in these two sports. In f1 we talk about cockpit fit and weight distribution etc. But in tennis extra height has a strong leverage on performance, especially for serving and court coverage.
I was overthinking this at a certain point of my writing, then i realized that actually in this story, we will only have these guys from the grid as tennis players, and they have their own "benchmark" and "medium", and relative differences matter rather than absolute value :D So problem solved!
Anyway, this is not even a problem, just some random thoughts. And i enjoyed how cute it looks when Max is surrounded by a bunch of intimidatingly tall Dutch poeple;)
Chapter 4: Rome - Foro Italico
Summary:
Charles had two practice sessions with Max before the Rome Masters.
Notes:
It's a hastily written chapter as I want to post it before Monza. To avoid more quantum entanglement with my fanfic brain and the actual thrilling racing this weekend, I have decided to finish it before forgetting what plots I wanted here.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
*
When Max walked onto the court, Charles’s grip on his racket tightened automatically, a breath catching in his throat.
They began easily — forehand to forehand, establishing rhythm on the red clay, the ball skimmed across the baseline. Charles felt the rhythm settle in his body like muscle memory, but with an added warmth, as if something in Max’s timing was pulling him closer. Max looked loose, almost content, the kind of mood that spread out slowly, like butter softening under the sun.
It had been months since they had trained together, let alone on clay. Charles knew Max often practiced with Carlos during the clay season. Carlos can be quite the opposite of Max, with his elastic, smooth movement, his endless patience. Max was different. Sharp, precise, hungry. Charles had always thought he understood that instinct better than anyone, that they even shared a similar aggression on court. On clay, he told himself, he was better – surer and more consistent. Yet a bitter voice still reminded him that Max had won a clay Masters trophy first. That sting never fully went away.
They shifted to backhands and cross-court drills. Charles couldn’t help noticing the refinement in Max’s slides – smoother now, more balanced. His cap shaded his face, but his mouth was set in a small, determined pout.
He reached far to chase a wide ball, stumbled and went down on his hands. As he pushed himself upright, he heard Max chuckle under his breath. Charles brushed the clay from his skin and glanced up. Max’s cheeks were flushed, eyes sparking under the brim.
“You good, mate?” Max called.
“Fine,” Charles said. He forced himself back into rhythm, catching technical details — the angle of Max’s wrist on his backhand, the heavier spin on his forehand. But his gaze snagged on other things: the way Max’s shirt clung to his chest, damp patches spreading darker with sweat, his lips rosy from exertion. He told himself it was all observation.
When they switched into a practice match, something inside Max sharpened at once, an aura of focus emanating from him. Charles felt it, met it, his pulse syncing with the steady thud of racket against ball. Dust flew, shoes squeaked, and for a moment, Charles thought he could hear his own heartbeat inside the sound of Max’s shots.
“Your forehand’s heavier today,” Max said after the practice, stepping closer, his voice raspy but light.
Charles shrugged, not controlling the smile tugging at his mouth. “Maybe you’re just playing it safe.”
Max hummed, extending his arm to give him a half-hug. It lasted no more than a second, but Charles’s stomach flipped.
He sat down on the bench and wiped his sweat with a towel. His eyes strayed back to Max. Across the clay, Max was casually standing, hugging his racket to his chest. His coach, Ad, was murmuring into his ear. Max tugged off his cap and ran his hands through the sweat-soaked hair, then pulled the brim low again. His eyes flicked to Charles, and it took everything in Charles not to look away.
*
Charles set Leo back on the ground. The little dachshund bounced in circles around his shoes, short legs pumping furiously, begging for more attention.
“He missed you so much,” Lorenzo said.
Charles missed him too — the tickle of that wet nose against his cheek, the messy kisses on his lips and eyelids, the small sneezes of excitement. He had thought about those moments too many nights away on tour.
They walked down the garden path toward the maison where his mother and brothers were staying for the tournament. The house sat quiet among the trees, a place with light and air, with a garden where Leo could run. He found it perfect, his family close to Rome, but not trapped in the tense orbit of hotels and courts.
Rome itself carried a weight for him. It was where he had first lifted a Masters trophy, the Italian Open. In memory, the sunlight was blinding, his chest heaving, tears sharp in his throat, the roar of applause swelling like a symphony. But that memory has a gentle yet cruel touch. It is impossible to recall more subtle details, to modify and add facts to those fragments. For years, he had dreaded the silence of not winning. Rome had broken it, had told him he was still chosen. That he was a champion.
His mother kissed both his cheeks, fussing over his meals, his rest, the traffic. He let her. Arthur was at the table with his phone, smiling as Charles leaned in for another kiss. His brother had set aside his own singles career to follow him, sparring when needed, sacrificing without complaint.
Then, as if to puncture the calm, Arthur grinned. “Better hope the doping control doesn’t show up tonight. They’ll ruin maman’s dinner, make you pee in a cup before dessert.”
Their mother clicked her tongue. “Arthur! Not at the table.”
Charles smirked, lowering himself into a chair. “I updated my whereabouts already. They’ll find me during practice, not dinner. Don’t worry.”
Arthur tilted his head. “Oh, so you made sure they’d interrupt practice instead. I thought you wouldn’t want them crashing your date with Max.”
Heat rushed Charles’s neck, “My rival, not my date,” he said flatly.
Arthur just laughed, exchanging a look with Lorenzo, who raised his eyebrows but said nothing.
The conversation then settled back into daily fuzz, and Charles felt at peace, folded back into the safety of family.
Naturally, his mind slipped back to Monte Carlo. Even in Rome, he still thought about Monte Carlo.
He had lifted the Monte Carlo trophy this spring, for the first time. Different from Rome — it was home. That tiny country embracing his childhood, where at five, he had first stood on red clay, holding a tiny racket. Those memories from the final were still fresh, sizzling: the air smelling of sea and dust, the sky almost too blue. The trophy heavy in his hands, the cool metal burning his cheek. His jumping across the stand and climbing into the box to crush his family in a group hug, his mother’s kisses wet on his face, his brothers pounding his back.
“Enjoy the moment, be grateful for how far you’ve come,” his coach had congratulated him.
But deep down, Charles knew that a constant lack was not yet satisfied. A hotter desire licked through him like a dark flame. He could name it now, name where it led to, who it belonged to.
His phone buzzed. A calendar reminder slid across the screen: Tomorrow: second practice with Max, court 4.
He flicked it away too quickly. But already, the calm of the family felt distant. He had told himself not to think about it. He had been thinking of nothing else.
*
Max's return bounced high on the clay. Charles, steadying himself, slammed his racket back, the ball landing just midcourt. Max immediately moved forward to intercept. The ball flew wide. He swore under his breath, yanking his cap lower as if it could shield him from the mistake.
"Again." Max's coach, Ad, called from the courtside.
Charles bounced the ball, studying Max from across the net. They were practicing their second serve return, and Charles always has a certain confidence in his second serve on clay. His rival’s energy was different today — sharp, jagged, almost restless. In their first practice, Max had been loose, focused. Now, every swing seemed to tighten the knot further.
One thing about top tennis players is that it's hard to recreate that kind of rapid, transformational improvement anymore. You need to be patient and polish your technique, slowly stabilizing and improving it in delicate, and sometimes painful ways.
Charles tossed the ball and served. The crack of contact felt clean, satisfying. Max lunged, scraped up a backhand, but the return missed the placement he wanted again. His racket twitched in frustration.
“Come on! I know you can do better than that. ” Charles shook his head, smiling.
Max shot him a grimaced look, his voice dry. “Maybe your second serve’s just not shit today.” Charles let out a short laugh.
“Reset,” Ad tossed a fresh ball toward Charles. “Focus on placement, Max.”
The sun was bright and dry, and their shadows with clear edges.
Max seemed to be caught in a self-destructive practice mode. Charles sliently traced the taut line of his shoulders, the ragged rise of his breath, the faint tremor in his grip before the next return. Today there was something different. Max looked breakable. He almost liked it better this way, watching Max fight himself.
He served again, heavy topspin. Max tried to rip the return crosscourt, but the ball clipped the net and died. Max let out a growl, flipping his racket in his hand.
“Careful,” Charles said, half-teasing, “you’ll smash it before the match even starts.”
Max’s eyes were glittering. “Yeah, and then I’d get myself punished.”
The words hit Charles’s bloodstream like a drug. He swallowed, grip tightening, forcing himself not to dig into any kind of punishment coming up in his mind.
Max’s mouth curled in a sharp smile. “Bet you’d love to see that.”
Charles’s pulse jumped, heat crawling up his throat. Was it just sarcasm? He couldn’t tell.
“Relax your wrist, Max.” Ad said. “You’re forcing it.”
Max didn’t answer. He bent for another ball, muttering just loud enough: “Maybe I should practice with Carlos instead. At least he doesn’t serve like a wall.”
“Guess you’re stuck with me,” Charles said evenly.
Max flicked him a glance, unreadable, then turned away.
Charles watched him crouch again, ready for the next return.
He tossed the ball, and as he did, he realized his heartbeat was hammering not from exertion, but from the thought of pinning Max down, of Max being unraveling right here in front of him. Fragile, furious, perfect.
And Charles wanted all of it.
*
Cheers pounded Charles's eardrums like a tidal wave, then quickly receded into a distant hum. Standing in the center of the court, he felt the red clay beneath his feet sending endless energy into him. He had won. He had won Rome once again. Charles finally felt a complete, hopeless elation, a surge of ecstasy rising within him like a storm.
He could almost imagine Max warming up at Roland Garros, tense, beautiful, not invincible . Confidence washed over him, clear and fierce. He could do anything. He longed to hear Max's suppressed gasp after a loss, to see him finally surrender all resistance, completely enveloped by his will, his power, and become his.
Charles clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms with a sharp, satisfying sensation. He felt invincible.
----
Press conference room, following the Rome Masters final.
Reporter 1: Carlos, tough loss today, but a strong tournament overall. Looking ahead to Roland Garros, how do you assess the challenge posed by Charles Leclerc?
Carlos Sainz Jr.: Thank you. Yes, Charles was the better player today, without a doubt. His courage on the big points was impressive. And also, the way he moved after the slide, and the aggression he showed when he took the ball early. I think at a certain point, I felt rushed.
At Roland Garros, that intensity will be a real threat to everyone. But five-set matches also demand sustained focus, and I think that’s where I might find more opportunities.
Reporter 2: And what about the World No. 1, Max Verstappen? His results on clay can be unpredictable, but this season we saw he won in Barcelona, then went out early in Madrid. Here in Rome, he reached the quarterfinals. He’s proven he’s adapting.
Carlos Sainz Jr.: Max won’t be easy to deal with. I know people like to say he “can’t play properly on clay,” but that’s not true. He’s already won Masters titles on clay. He won Rome last year. His ball-striking, his ability to cover the court… You can never underestimate Max.
In Paris, his first serve is always a big weapon, and his resilience from the baseline can cause a lot of problems. He’s clearly made an effort to improve, and you can see the results. But so have I. So we’ll see.
Reporter 3: You’ve played Charles multiple times this season, so you have that familiarity. With Max, you haven’t faced him officially so far, though fans have enjoyed seeing you practice together. Does that difference change your preparation?
Carlos Sainz Jr.: Yeah, with Charles, we know each other’s patterns by now. He knows how I’ll use the backhand, and I know the angles he looks for on his forehand. We’ve built a familiarity, as you put it.
With Max, it’s different. On the practice court, you don’t always show everything — you keep something for the matches. And he likes running experiments. He’ll suddenly hit ten drop shots in a row, or only play backhands down the line for half an hour. If you ask him why, he’ll just say he’s “collecting data.”
But… that’s what makes him dangerous. I’ve seen him use his slice backhand this year to neutralize heavy topspin, and you can tell it’s a deliberate adjustment. So even if we haven’t played an official match on clay yet this season, I have information. But I also know the version I get in Paris will be different again.
Reporter 4: So, who presents the greater threat in Paris?
Carlos Sainz Jr.: They’re two very different challenges, especially from a technique perspective. But then again, they both have that aggression and the constant menace during the game. For me, the most important thing is always my own game. Roland Garros is a long two weeks. If I meet either of them, hopefully it’ll be in the second week, and that’s when we’ll really get the real answers.
Reporter 5: And any message for the fans who enjoy those practice sessions with Max?
Carlos Sainz Jr.: Practice sessions have always been intense with Max. I can see why fans would enjoy them. I hope they keep watching the videos and liking the Instagram posts. But hopefully, our next proper match will be on Philippe-Chatrier, not just a practice court.
----
Notes:
Why did I see Charles and Carlos as good tennis players on clay? Might be the Ferrari red speaking to my subconscious. Or just because I'd really love to see a Spanish and a francophone playing beautiful tennis on clay. And it just resonated with Monte Carlo and Monza.
Chapter 5: Paris - Roland-Garros
Summary:
They always said that before a Slam final, winning was just an idea, a projection. A possibility. But as the match wore on, possibilities suddenly began to collapse into realities, and everything pressed closer with each point. He had won Grand Slams before. But here, at Roland Garros, Max was feeling it again. The desire was burning hurtingly inside him.
Notes:
This is a particularly challenging chapter to write...
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
*
It was a break point. Set point.
Max breathed evenly, rotating the racket once before steadying his grip. He crouched, hyper-focused on Charles across the net.
The ball came at full speed, straight into his strike zone. The contact was clean, sweet, the force running through the strings into his arm. He ripped it back with a vicious cross shot.
“Deuxième set, Verstappen, six jeux à trois.” the umpire called.
Max knew he had the set. The scoreboard jumped: 7–6, 6–3.
He walked to the bench, sat, and pulled a towel over his face. For a few seconds he stayed buried there, quieting his breath, muting the electric buzz in his skull. The soft fabric against his eyes felt comforting.
When he finally looked up, his gaze caught the player’s box. Ad sat still, composed. As if sensing Max’s look, he removed his sunglasses and gave a steady nod. GP’s arms were crossed, unreadable. Jos’s eyes were on him too. Heavy. Grounding.
Max turned away, uncapped his bottle, drank slowly. Then he peeled a banana, ate half, and waited for the ninety seconds to pass.
He adjusted his cap, rose to his feet, and strode back onto the court.
*
The iPad was resting on the small coffee table between Jos and Ad, paused on a practice video of Max, his forehand frozen mid-swing. Neither of them paid it any attention now. Their eyes were fixed on the television, bodies turned slightly toward the screen. The atmosphere in the room was stiff, everyone waiting for names to appear on the board, as if the draw itself were a trial they all had to endure.
Max sat back on the sofa, his gaze flicking up at the screen, then away again. H., his manager, leaned against the bookshelf, scrolling on his phone, probably refreshing the live updates that came seconds ahead of the broadcast. GP wasn’t visible, but Max could feel him behind the sofa, close enough to cast a shadow.
His name appeared at the very top of the 128-seat bracket. Seed number one. The highest spot, the expected spot. A small wave of confidence passed through him, but it dissolved as quickly as it came. Charles Leclerc’s name landed at the bottom. Seed two. Theoretically, they would only meet in the final. The thought made his throat tighten.
Roland Garros was the only Slam missing. It’s a gap he tried not to acknowledge, but it still gnawed at him. It left a hunger not satisfied. The pressure was also there, sharp and unrelenting. He had made progress on clay. The semifinal last year had been his best result so far. But progress was not a title. This year had to be different.
“Oh, not too bad. Sainz is in the bottom half,” Ad said suddenly, pulling Max out of his thoughts. “And Norris in your half. That’s fine. It keeps both Sainz and Leclerc away until late.”
Max stared at the screen and gave a small nod.
The draw went on, more names filling the empty lines.
“Hamilton’s in the other half, same quarter as Leclerc,” H. said, eyes still on his phone. “We might not see him at all. That’s good.”
“Ah, Alonso.” Ad leaned forward, studying the bracket with the intensity of a surgeon. “I’m glad we’ve put in the hours on physical training. Against Alonso you’ll need it. That will be a long match, I can already feel it.”
“Could drain me out from the baseline,” Max muttered, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand.
GP’s hand came to rest briefly on his shoulder. “We’ve built you strong, Max. You’ll be fine.”
For a second, Max almost leaned into that hand.
Jos spoke up at last, his voice cutting through the room. “Tough fight, that one.” He glanced at Max.
Max straightened, set his elbows on his knees, and leaned forward, forcing himself to focus on the screen again.
“Do we know anything about this qualifier?” GP asked.
“He’s French,” H. answered quickly. “The media is already milking him. Rising star, that sort of talk.”
“He's a bit short, and unstable,” Ad added with a dismissive flick of his hand. “He won’t hold up. First week should be manageable, Max.”
“Not a bad draw, really,” H. continued. “I’ll talk to media ops, get your interviews out of the way early. Then you can practice in peace. Good luck, Max. You can do it.”
Max stretched, sighed. “Thanks.” His voice was lower than he meant, hoarse.
“Not bad at all,” Ad said, reaching for the iPad. “We’ll make a few adjustments to training tomorrow. I’ve got a good feeling.” He waved absently with one hand, already half-distracted by the screen. “What do you think?”
Max hesitated. “It’s okay. We’ll see.”
Jos leaned closer. His tone was more absolute. “Go and win it, son. This is the year. You know how long you’ve been waiting. How long we’ve been waiting.”
“Thanks, Dad,” Max said quietly, swallowing against the lump in his throat. He turned to GP. “I need a myofascial release tonight. Right shoulder feels tight.”
*
The studio was brightly lit, the air sharp with the smell of fabric fresh from its packaging. Max stood before a seamless white backdrop, framed by lights and reflectors. Silence held, broken only by the click of the camera and the crisp instructions from behind the lens.
“Okay, Max. Good. Shoulder your racket and look here.”
He did as he was told without thinking. His movements were smooth, practiced. His face was a neutral, blank focus learned through years of media training. The Nike team was efficient, speaking in quick fragments, French mixing with English. A man in a black turtleneck—creative director, Max assumed—leaned in occasionally to murmur with the photographer. Assistants darted about, adjusting angles, flattening creases, making notes. His manager stood in the corner, composed in a dark suit, watching.
During a break, the director invited Max to the monitor. Hundreds of images flashed across the screen: his body frozen mid-motion, lit from every angle, stripped of sweat and dust. Strength packaged as beauty, the game distilled into marketable lines.
Max stared at himself, uncomfortable. He never cared much for fashion. A polo shirt, shorts, shoes that fit—that was enough. But Nike cared a lot. His number one ranking, the titles, the image of dominance brought him lucrative sponsorship deals. Hamilton could walk through an airport and look like a magazine cover. Charles had the face that camera lenses loved. Max had wins. And wins were valuable.
The director showed him. "This is the darker color scheme for the quarterfinals. This is for the semifinals, and of course... the one you're wearing now, on the final day." His finger hovered on the image a bit longer as if savoring it.
The jerseys looked nearly identical to Max, only shades and seams shifting. Still, he understood the logic. Everything depended on progression. Success dictated style.
He raised his arm in a full serve motion, felt the fabric stretch across his shoulders. "A little resistance on the seams here when moving sideways," he said. "Just a little."
“Note that,” the director ordered. “We need one hundred percent freedom.”
Outside the window, the Paris sky was gray, and raindrops began to patter against the glass. Max’s mind drifted. The rain was just like yesterday. Fucking weather in Paris. Training was interrupted for twenty minutes. He stood under the eaves, watching the clay court soak up the water, its color darkening, as staff hurried to get it covered. Not that it was a good practice anyway. His touch was terrible. The ball felt wet and heavy, as if it would never warm up. Fans still waited in the stands after, eager for autographs. He signed anyway, but walking past another court he’d seen Charles practicing, his rhythm maddeningly steady.
“Max?”
“This is the last set.” The photographer’s voice pulled him back. The lens waited, patient. "We want to capture more...relax."
He tried to let go, but tension stayed in his muscles. He was not paying attention to the lights and reflectors, but thinking about the damp red clay, his next opponent, and for a brief moment, the subtle details of the kit they’d prepared for the final.
An assistant touched his back lightly, adjusting his posture. The brief contact made him almost flinch. Another crouched down, pinning fabric, sculpting the jersey tighter against his frame. He let them do it.
The shoot was finally over. He shook hands with the team, their well wishes sounding sincere and professional. He changed into his old sweatshirt and jeans and walked out of the studio. The cold air, tinged with the smell of rain, washed over him. He slid into the car beside H. He longed to get back to the court, back to the real preparation. For Winning. There isn’t any alternative.
*
He was in the zone. His serves came heavy, violent, the fastest he’d struck all tournament. Another ace cut through the silence. 220km/h. His body thrummed with energy, nerves coiled tight, each point a spark.
They always said that before a Slam final, winning was just an idea, a projection. A possibility. But as the match wore on, possibilities suddenly began to collapse into realities, and everything pressed closer with each point. He had won Grand Slams before. But here, at Roland Garros, Max was feeling it again. The desire was burning hurtingly inside him.
Silence, low murmurs, sudden eruptions of cheers—the rhythm swung back and forth, tied to each point between him and Charles. Max could no longer tell who held more of the crowd. The noise felt equal, a metronome of approval and anticipation.
Sweat clung to his new jersey, the fabric damp and close to his skin. He licked the salt from his upper lip, wiped his hand against his wristband, twisted the racket in his grip until it sat right.
The umpire called. Charles to serve. The scoreboard read 3–3. The third set balanced on a knife.
*
Max lay sprawled on the treatment couch, his face buried in the cutout of the headrest. The cushion smelled of ointment and old sweat, a heavy mix that filled his lungs with every breath. The physio’s hands moved across his back, searching, pressing, prying open the knots one by one. Pain flared sharp, but it was familiar pain, almost welcome.
Paris slept outside the walls of Roland Garros, but here the world narrowed to the burn of muscle and the scrape of thumbs along his spine.
The pain reminded him of Alonso’s forehand—heavy, solid, relentless. Today he had beaten him in straight sets, yet it felt like a five-set war. Every rally had demanded his best, no rally free, no breath without weight.
GP leaned against the wall, staring at his monitor. “You need rest,” he said, “ You’ve not had enough sleep lately. The data were showing. Your body needs fuel.”
Max didn’t answer. He was thinking about things the data couldn't measure. Numbers couldn’t show that guy from round two, a left-hander whose jerky movements had kept him from finding any rhythm the entire match. He won, but it didn't feel right. Or that French kid Isack in the third round, who went crazy to the roar of the home crowd, forcing two tie-breaks that had scraped Max’s nerves raw. Or Alonso today, who had made straight sets feel like drowning slowly in clay.
“Fernando’s ball is so heavy,” the physio muttered, fingers digging into a stubborn knot.
Max let out a controlled breath. “Tell me about it. There is no fucking space to breathe.”
He shifted, turning his head slightly against the pillow. A white shoelace lay twisted on the floor, dropped by someone earlier. He stared at it a moment, meaningless and yet oddly precise, as if it belonged to the scene. He thought about tomorrow's quarterfinals against Piastri. He seemed to be becoming more and more threatening. It would take patience.
“You won,” GP reminded him. “Straight sets. Against Fernando, that’s not easy.”
“Yes, I won,” Max said. His voice was flat. Winning was the only currency that mattered. He could win.
The physio pressed an ice pack against his lower back. The shock made his muscles seize, then slowly release. GP handed him a water bottle. Max opened the cup and took a sip. The lukewarm liquid was sweet with electrolytes, faintly metallic, the taste of repair.
He needed repair. He needed sleep. He needed to forget the qualifier, forget Isack, forget Alonso. Forget everything except the next point, the next opponent, the next day.
The physio’s touch changed, no longer digging, now broader, smoother, almost tender. The sudden gentleness startled Max more than the earlier pain. Something sour stung behind his nose, and he sucked in a sharp breath, pressing his face deeper into the pillow’s darkness to hide it.
“It’s almost there,” the physio murmured, low as if speaking only to himself. “Tomorrow will be another tough day.”
GP stepped closer. “Listen, Max.” His tone was softer, too. “We’re walking on a knife’s edge. These numbers—” he gestured at the dark screen “—aren’t suggestions. They’re warnings. Your body is delicate. It won’t endure forever. We have to take care of it.”
Take care. The words stirred memories. Not a picture, but a sensation. Max was eleven years old again, outside a small regional tournament, face still hot from losing. His father's hand, not a soothing one, but a rough push on his back, so hard that he stumbled. “Don’t make that sad face! You don’t give up if you wanna be a champion.”
Later, in the car, the silence between them was endless. Jos was driving, one hand gripping the wheel, the other waving impatiently for Max to reach into the backseat for water. Max froze, too ashamed, too tired. Jos fetched the bottle himself and shoved it into his hand without a word. Cold condensation pressed against his palm. A rough gesture, stiff and clumsy. Almost care, but not quite. That coldness lingered now, as if seeping back into his skin.
Max jerked upright on the table. The physio startled, hands lifting. The ice pack slid from his waist and hit the padded floor with a dull thud.
“I’m tired,” Max said. His voice came sharp, defiant. “I need sleep.”
He bent, snatched up the ice pack, dropped it into the recycling bin. He pulled on a clean T-shirt and grabbed his bag. His movements were fast, almost furious.
“Max—” GP started, but Max was already moving. The door swung open.
The hallway stretched long and empty, lit by the dim hum of half-powered lamps. His footsteps barely made a sound on the carpet. Silence pressed in from all sides. Goosebumps prickled along his arms. He quickened his pace, trying to outrun the silence itself.
*
Lando was leaning casually against the locker room door, arms crossed, when Max appeared after the mixed-zone interview.
“Hey, Max,” Lando said, voice light. “Good game, mate.”
“Thanks,” Max replied, closing the distance. Lando didn’t sound disappointed at all, he oddly noticed.
They slapped hands in a firm high-five, then shook again with a tighter grip. Max set his bag down to give Lando a proper hug, like they’d just done at the net.
“I played an absolute shit show today,” Lando muttered, shaking his head, hair brushing Max’s chin. “Can’t believe I let you off the hook so easily.”
Max grinned. “It wasn’t that bad. Well…okay, you almost got egged in the second set, though.”
“Fuck you, Max.” Lando laughed, rolling his eyes. “Thanks for saving me some energy, I guess.”
Max shrugged. “All part of the plan, mate. I was being selfless, really.”
Lando shook his head, smiling wider. “So, how’re you feeling? Honestly?”
“I almost ran out of steam in the third set,” Max admitted, letting out a long breath. “Roland Garros is so fucking damn long. I swear, I just want it done already.”
“Yeah, tell me about it,” Lando chuckled. “It’s brutal. So, in the final—Charles or Carlos? Who do you wanna play?”
Max froze for a moment, trying to figure out if there was a strategic answer or just the right one. He had no answer. Lando shook his head again, smiling like he knew it already.
They lingered in the quiet for a second. “Anyway,” Lando said finally, clapping Max on the shoulder. “Get a shower, grab some food, and try not to break anything tomorrow, yeah?”
“Yeah, sure,” Max nodded. “I’ll try to behave.”
“Good luck,” Lando added, still smirking. “And don’t fuck it up.”
With that, they parted. Max headed to his locker room, ready for a quick shower before the post-match interviews. Later, he’d learn Lando had flown back to London right after his own interviews.
Max considered watching the semifinal between Carlos and Charles, but decided against it. He grabbed his phone and texted GP: Need some time alone. Hotel. Waiting for results.
*
Final. Third set. Tie-break. Deuce. 40–40.
The air was stretched so tight it felt like even one breath could snap it.
Max stood on the baseline, one advantage away from holding championship point, and in that instant the stadium, the people, even the lines of the clay seemed to dissolve until only the ball remained—the spinning yellow sphere arcing toward him, all his focus tunneling down to that single blur, his heartbeat hammering so hard it filled his ears like drums in a sealed room.
He planted his foot, twisted his torso, swung with perfect timing, and the sound of the strike was beautiful. The ball leapt from his strings with heavy topspin and screamed into Charles’s backhand corner, exactly where it was meant to go.
For a breathless second, Max saw victory.
And then time fractured.
Charles lunged, ungainly, far from balanced, the movement desperate rather than elegant. His racket reached, extended beyond hope, and still somehow brushed the ball. Not a hit, not even a true deflection, but the faintest touch, like a fingertip dragging over glass.
The ball, already sailing out, kissed the tape.
A delicate, treacherous kiss, so soft Max almost doubted it had happened at all.
And then it toppled, slow as a coin falling in water, dribbling forward with no strength, no speed, no justice—once, twice—dying on the red clay, just over the net, at Max’s side.
A net cord.
The world stopped. No sound, no light, no color. Only that ball, resting uselessly in the space between.
Then, like a dam bursting, noise crashed in—gasps, shouts, the crowd’s roar breaking unevenly into disbelief and shock. Charles raised his hand, the ritual apology of tennis, but Max could not see him. He stood there, the force that had been threatening to break free frozen in his veins. He felt like he couldn't breathe. He couldn’t breathe.
“Avantage, Monsieur Leclerc,” the umpire announced, the words slicing through the haze.
Somehow Max was back at the baseline, though he didn’t remember walking there. His body moved on its own, like a machine. His mind was blank, still trying to process the enormity of the previous moment's absurdity. His body rose to its feet instinctively. Then Charles's serve came, not fast. He should have been able to receive it. But his arm was stiff, his wrist locked. He wasn’t even thinking “don’t miss,” because thought itself had gone.
The racket struck the ball. The sound was wrong, hollow, muffled. The ball went forward, weak, sagging. Straight into the net.
An ugly mistake, as ugly as any mistake he had ever made.
Dead silence. Then the gasps and cheers came again.
Max slowly realised this set was over and he lost. He lowered his head, staring at the red clay beneath his feet, its red grains almost luminous through the blur of his vision. Then he walked straight to the courtside seats.
He didn't sit down. He did not take a look at his player’s box. He raised his racket, without hesitation, and slammed it down twice. The carbon fiber frame hit the hard surface with a sharp crack. The third time, he didn't slam it down. He twisted his raised racket and brought it down against his own knee with every ounce of strength in his body.
There was a dull, teeth-grinding crash. The carbon fiber twisted and snapped, the white stringing snapping. A small stain of blood rapidly spread across the knee just below his white shorts, bright, fresh red shocking against the clean design of the final-day kit.
He thought he heard the entire stadium gasp, followed by a horrifying silence. He thought he heard someone, Jos, or GP, maybe both, shouting his name.
But none of it mattered.
He looked down at the broken racket in his hand, at the blood running warm and certain down his shin. A sharp pain shot from his knee straight to his brain, clear, unmistakable, and undeniable.
Finally something undeniable.
*
He knew it so clearly, as if a cold truth had been injected straight into his veins: It’s over.
The certainty was sharp, as sharp as the pain screaming from his knee. Every step, every instinctive save built from years of muscle memory, each one dragged the pain higher. And yet the pain almost felt like comfort.
The umpire's voice was sometimes distant, sometimes abruptly approaching, like a radio with poor reception. Max struggled to grasp the words, to piece them together.
"...Code Violation. Abuse of Equipment. Warning, Mr. Verstappen."
Then, much later, or perhaps only a moment later, another voice pierced the thick silence that enveloped him. This time, the words were clear, calm, and undeniable.
"Jeu, set et match, Leclerc."
So this was the end.
The Philippe Chatrier Stadium erupted in a frenzy of roaring.
Max stood in the center of the field, on the red clay where he had sweated and bled, surrounded by a whirlwind of color and noise.
He saw Charles fall to his knees, his hands covering his face, sobbing.
Max did not move.
----
Roland Garros, Post-final, Mixed-zone Interview
Reporter 1: Charles, Charles! Huge congratulations! You are a Grand Slam champion! How does that sound?
Charles Leclerc: Thank you… Thank you so much. I… I don’t have the words, honestly. This is… this is a dream I’ve had since I was a little boy. To do it here, in Paris, at Roland-Garros… It’s unbelievable.
Reporter 2: An incredible battle out there. You were two sets down against the best player in the world. Where did you find the mental strength to turn it around?
Charles Leclerc: It was incredibly tough. Max was playing unbelievably. I was just trying to fight for every point, to stay in the present. I knew if I could just stay with him, maybe something could happen. The crowd… the energy they gave me… it was something special. I owe them so much.
Reporter 3: Speaking of something happening… that moment in the third set, the net cord on break point… Can you describe what was going through your mind?
Charles Leclerc: Yeah, that one… I have to be honest, that was pure luck. I was just trying to put the ball back in play. I saw him coming in and I knew I was in trouble. When I saw it touch the tape… I put my hand up to apologize immediately. You never want to win a point like that. But tennis is like this — sometimes the smallest bounce can change everything. You still have to play on after, but… yeah. I know how much it meant.
Reporter 4: You saved the set right after. How did you reset after such a crazy moment?
Charles Leclerc: I mean, that was the key. The point was lucky, but I still had to win the game. I could see he was very frustrated, and I knew I had to try to stay calm, to focus only on the next ball. To break there, to win that set… It gave me a second life. And after such a long and tough two weeks, I felt like I was playing with new energy in the fourth and fifth set.
Reporter 5: You’ve done it, Charles. You’ve beaten the World No. 1 and won your first Grand Slam. What’s next?
Charles Leclerc: Now? I think I will enjoy this moment with my team and my family. And after that… I don’t know. Maybe I just keep showing that I belong here. Merci à tous. Thank you, everyone.
----
Notes:
Twist of fate with that gentle kiss of tape. Would Max return to Paris to reclaim his glory? It's a long season after all.
Next chapter will deal with the aftermath of Roland Garros, and see the beginning of the grass season:)
A_better_cactus on Chapter 1 Sat 23 Aug 2025 12:34AM UTC
Comment Actions
AAshendenMei on Chapter 1 Sat 23 Aug 2025 03:57PM UTC
Comment Actions
AdalieG3 on Chapter 1 Sat 23 Aug 2025 07:10AM UTC
Comment Actions
AAshendenMei on Chapter 1 Sat 23 Aug 2025 04:13PM UTC
Comment Actions
A_better_cactus on Chapter 2 Sun 24 Aug 2025 01:00AM UTC
Comment Actions
A_better_cactus on Chapter 4 Thu 04 Sep 2025 12:52AM UTC
Comment Actions
AAshendenMei on Chapter 4 Thu 04 Sep 2025 01:12PM UTC
Comment Actions
A_better_cactus on Chapter 5 Tue 09 Sep 2025 11:34PM UTC
Comment Actions