Hostile Laps

by CelesteZilverV

Summary:

George Russell prides himself on composure, professionalism, and keeping his fists to himself. Max Verstappen makes all three nearly impossible. Between petty insults, wheel-to-wheel duels, and an unfortunately well-timed fall into Max’s arms on live TV, George swears the Dutchman exists solely to drive him insane.

But late nights, stolen beers, and one impulsive kiss blur the lines between rivalry and something else entirely.

Enemies to Lovers, but with race cars, bruised egos, and more banter than either of them is ready for.

Notes:

Hi, see you again, yes, this fanfiction is for my best friend. I asked him, mhhh, what else could I write for a Formula 1 fanfiction and he said, write a fanfiction about Mäx Verstappen and Gorg Russell, so here it is. I don't like the ship that much, but I think it turned out well anyway.

Hostile Laps

If there was one thing George Russell hated more than anything, it was Max Verstappen.
The Dutchman managed to get under his skin with an ease that was almost athletic. George had to stop himself every time from just punching Max in the face – which, in Formula 1, wasn’t exactly career-friendly.

Max knew that. Oh, he knew it far too well. And that was exactly why he wore that damn grin George wanted to wipe off with his bare hands.

It all started again in the paddock. Mercedes had just wrapped up a meeting, George was heading toward hospitality when Max suddenly appeared – of course, completely relaxed, Red Bull cap crooked on his head, walking with that “I just won again” swagger.

“Russell!” Max called out, as if he hadn’t seen him in years. “So, did you finish fourth again?”

George stopped, turned slowly. “I finished fifth,” he said through gritted teeth. “Thanks for the reminder.”

“Ah, even better,” Max grinned. “Less pressure. You can’t always win, right?”

“Not everyone has a car that drives like it’s on rails,” George shot back. “Some of us actually have to work for our positions.”

Max laughed. “Oh, trust me, I work. Mostly on not falling asleep when you guys are so slow back there.”

George inhaled deeply. Professional driver. Media presence. No fistfights. He repeated it like a mantra.

But the universe had other plans.

The next day, right before interviews, the inevitable happened: George stumbled when a mechanic left a tire in his path – and fell straight into Max’s arms. Really into his arms. Chest to chest. Max’s hands on his hips to catch him.

Sky Sports’ camera was instantly there.

“Oh, wow,” George heard someone murmur behind him. “Russell and Verstappen – a new dream team?”

George tore himself away as if burned. “I don’t need your help.”

“Sure?” Max grinned wider. “I thought it was kind of nice.”

George turned wordlessly and marched off. His ears were burning.

The next time they met was on track. Practice session. Mercedes versus Red Bull. George had decided to drive aggressively this time. Just to show Max he didn’t have to back down every single time.

They fought wheel-to-wheel, in a duel commentators later called “dangerous but brilliant.” George just called it: “My attempt to overtake Verstappen without crashing into the wall.”

Of course, Max won.

Back in the pit lane, Max walked over. “You almost had me. Respect.”

George raised an eyebrow. “Almost isn’t good enough for you, is it?”

“No.” Max grinned. “But you looked good trying.”

George nearly choked on his water. “What?”

“Nothing.” Max winked and strolled away.

Later that evening, in the hotel, there was a knock on George’s door. Annoyed, he opened it – and of course it was Max. In jeans and a hoodie, completely unfazed by the fact George was standing there in sweatpants.

“What do you want?” George asked warily.

“You owe me a beer.”

George blinked. “Since when?”

“Since you nearly shoved me into the barrier today. Normally that’s a penalty. But I’m merciful.”

“Merciful.” George crossed his arms. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet here you are, still listening to me.” Max just walked in, as if it were his room. “So, where’s the minibar?”

George wanted to throw him out. Honestly. But somehow he stayed put, while Max settled onto the sofa with a casualness that drove George insane and… yeah, he didn’t want to admit it, but… fascinated him.

They drank together. First in silence, then trading sharp remarks, and eventually with genuine laughter. George caught himself realizing Max was actually funny – when he wasn’t busy winning everything on track.

“You know,” Max said suddenly, turning his beer bottle in his hand, “I like it when you fight like that. A lot of people just give up, but you don’t. You make it interesting.”

George looked at him. “Interesting. That’s what you call it?”

“Very interesting.” Max’s gaze was more intense than George was used to. No grin. Just… focus.

And before George could say anything, Max leaned in and kissed him.

George was so shocked he didn’t even resist. It was a short, tentative kiss – but enough to send his heart straight into the red zone.

“What the…,” he stammered when Max pulled back.

“You’ve always wanted to hit me, haven’t you?” Max asked quietly. “So just think of this as payback.”

George opened his mouth, closed it again. He should throw him out. He should yell at him. He should –

Instead, he kissed him back. Harder.

When they broke apart, Max grinned again. “Knew it.”

George groaned. “I hate you.”

“Mhm.” Max tilted his head. “Say that again while you’re kissing me.”

George did.

The next morning, as sunlight spilled through the hotel window, George lay in bed while Max grinned sleepily beside him.

“So,” Max said, “Works pretty well, don’t you think?”

George threw a pillow at his face. “Shut up.”

But he was smiling too.

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 3 of Formula 1 One-Shot