Chapter Text
It started with a stream.
A chill one, by Max’s standards. No crashes, no raging internet lag, no one calling Lando a slug in Dutch. Just a Redline guest night with a few junior drivers hopping in and out of the call, bantering about tire wear and worst karting memories.
Then someone, maybe James, maybe Barry, asked Max what he thought about the current F2 grid. And Max, without thinking too hard, said:
"Honestly? They’re incredible. But most of the best kids will never make it because they can’t afford to keep showing up."
It was quiet for a beat. Max didn’t notice.
"It’s all pay drivers now, and the FIA pretends they care, but they don’t fund shit. They smile for the press and act like a ten-second karting feature on race weekend is enough. Meanwhile, kids are getting priced out before they hit fifteen."
He said it simply. Flatly. No drama, just facts. It wasn’t even the worst thing he’d ever said on camera.
But of course, by morning, the quote had a million views on TikTok and was circulating under headlines like: “Verstappen Slams FIA on Accessibility Failures.”
Which, sure. Maybe a little dramatic — but not wrong.
Max wasn’t sorry.
But Red Bull’s Communications team was.
The next day, he got summoned to a "quick sync" with three PR reps and a brand manager who looked like he was one facial twitch away from a full breakdown. They used a lot of words like “partnership optics” and “reputational balance” and “softening the tone.” Max nodded through all of it, drank an energy drink out of spite, and said nothing.
Then, two days later, an email arrived.
SUBJECT: Monaco Youth Karting Day – Confirmed
BODY: Your attendance has been approved.
Details to follow. Please be on time.
Dress casual, but Red Bull-branded.
No one said it out loud, but he knew what this was.
Smile for a few photos. Shake some hands. Appear “invested in the future of motorsport.” Do the work they thought he didn’t understand.
Three days later, Max was standing under a sun-shredded tent in Monaco, wondering if it was possible to sweat through denim.
The karting track was small but chaotic, with plastic barricades, bright cones, and folding tables covered in juice boxes and papers. As if it were a summer camp with a motorsport theme, volunteers buzzed around in matching T-shirts, calling names and tracking down helmets.
A voice, dry and unimpressed, rang out behind Max as he was regretting everything.
"You're running late."
He turned. The man in front of him was sharp-featured, incredibly green eyed, soft curls plastered to the temples from the heat, clipboard in one hand and a walkie-talkie in the other.
Max recognized him instantly. Not by name, but by vibe. He was clearly in charge. And clearly not a fan.
“Yeah, sorry. Traffic,” Max said.
The man looked at him for a long, flat second.
“We’re in Monaco.”
Max nodded. “And yet, somehow, traffic.”
The man didn’t look amused. "You’re assigned to helmet distribution and basic kart safety. The children are...” He squints. “How can I say it tactfully… Feral. Try not to lose one.”
“Noted,” Max said, blinking. “You’re Charles?”
“Yes.” He looked over his clipboard. “And you’re Verstappen, I assume.”
“In the flesh.”
Charles didn’t respond. Just nodded and pointed him toward a table full of tangled straps, chipped helmets, and a faded instruction sheet that no one was reading.
Max was halfway through untangling two helmets when he noticed the small boy sitting on the curb, arms wrapped around his knees, watching him every few seconds and squirming when Max catched his eyes.
He looked six, maybe seven. Too skinny. Hair sticking out in soft caramel curls. Dirt and what possibly could be motor oil on his cheeks. A juice pouch half-drunk beside him.
Max raised an eyebrow. “I can’t tell if you want to help or are just judging me.”
The boy blinked, like he’s been caught. Then looked away, red cheeked.
Charles appeared beside him, crouching low. "Luca, mon cœur, you're alright?"
The boy, Luca, nodded almost imperceptibly. And leaned to whisper something to Charles.
Charles looked up at Max. "Don't mind him. He's a little shy and quiet when he meets people."
Max nodded. “That’s fine. I’m quiet around everyone.”
Charles snorted, surprised. “Could’ve fooled me.”
Max opened his mouth to argue, then stopped. Luca was still watching him, shy but curious.
Max reached for the helmet and dropped to a crouch. "You ever seen one up close?" Luca's eyes flashed, just barely. “They’re lighter than you think,” Max said, turning it in his hands. “But strong. You can drop it, and it won’t crack. Want to try?”
Luca hesitated. Then reached out slowly, like he was waiting to be told no.
Max handed it over.
Luca studied it slowly. "This is a Snell SA2020."
Max blinked. "It is, yes."
Charles's eyebrow raised. "He memorizes catalogues," he said, half-apologetically. "It's like a game to him."
Max sat cross-legged on the ground, picking up another helmet. "Alright, genius. What's wrong with this one?"
Luca inspected the padding, then with shaky fingers, pointed. “I think… cracked inside foam.”
“Nice, so smart.” Max said. “That’s why you always check the liner.”
Luca grinned, shy, beaming, as if the sun had at last reached his face right.
Charles stood behind them, hands on hips, watching.
Max tilted his head. "Do you want to sort through these with me?"
Luca glanced at Charles, biting his lip in thought, then nodded. "Okay."
They worked quietly, side by side. Max showed him how to spot worn straps, how to test visors for scratches. Luca corrected Max on a manufacturing date code (“That’s not a 3, that’s a 5.”) and Max just laughed.
“You’re hired,” Max said.
Luca looked at him funny. “I have school. I’m not allowed to work.”
“Tell that to my mechanics.”
Max checked the row of helmets they’d sorted, then looked over at Luca, who had taken a stick and was now quietly sketching something else into the gravel; a loose, lopsided outline of a kart.
“Is that supposed to be a Red Bull?” Max asked, crouching beside him.
Luca shrugged. “Not really. Just one I’d like.”
Max tilted his head. The back wing was drawn low and wide, the nose curved. Messy, but surprisingly accurate.
“Have you ever sit in one?” Max asked.
Luca shook his head, now drawing what could be a dinosaur, if you put enough effort and imagination into it. “Papa says maybe next year.”
“How tall are you?”
Luca stood, then flattened his palm on top of his head like it would help measure. “Almost one-thirty.”
Max gave a mock squint. “Hmm. Technically, you’re tall enough for a beginner kart.”
Luca’s eyes lit up. “Really?”
“Want to try?” Max nodded toward the row of practice karts lined up in the shade. “Just to sit. No driving. I promised not to get fired.”
Luca hesitated. Then nodded, slowly, like he didn’t quite trust the idea but wanted to.
They walked over together. Max reached into his back pocket and pulled out a folded microfiber cloth, wiping down the steering wheel before gesturing for Luca to climb in.
“Left foot on the brake. Right on the throttle, just don’t press either too hard. Back’s straight. Hands here.” Max tapped the wheel. “Nine and three, just like a clock. Like this your arms won’t get tired as quickly, and keeps your arms in a safe position if you need to react quickly.”
Luca followed every instruction with careful precision, small hands wrapping around the worn grips. The helmet he’d chosen earlier rested beside him on the tire wall.
Max watched him quietly for a moment. “You’ve done this before?”
Luca shook his head, but then added, a little too fast, “I’ve seen it. On videos.”
Max smiled. “What kind of videos?”
Luca bit his lip. “Just… old races. Of... someone I really like.”
Luca didn’t explicitly say it, but Max didn’t need to hear it to understand. Luca’s ears went pink, and Max caught the tiny, embarrassed shuffle before the boy looked down again, pretending to study the pedals.
“Well,” Max said gently, “if you watched any race you must know you don’t bang on the pedals. Don’t do what I did when I was little and frustrated.”
Luca glanced up, startled into a laugh. “You messed up?”
“Everyone does. The trick is pretending it was part of the plan.”
Luca smiled, wide and real now, like the shyness had thinned just a bit.
“Now,” Max said, tapping the side of the kart. “Tell me what you’d change about this one if it were yours.”
Luca took a little time before he pointed at the tires. “Too worn.”
“Good eye.” Max nodded.
He pointed at the seat. “Too big.”
“Guess you need your own custom one.”
Then Luca paused, thoughtful. “And I’d want it red.”
Max raised an eyebrow. “Red, huh? Like Ferrari”
“Not Ferrari red. Just… red.” He looked up at Max, a little bashful. “Papa says colors don’t make the kart go faster.”
“They don’t,” Max agreed. “But they do make you feel cooler. Which counts.”
Luca ducked his head, but Max caught the smile tugging at his mouth.
He sat on the tire wall beside him. There was something still and quiet about the moment, like it didn’t belong in a world with press briefings or strategy meetings. Just soft sunlight, the scuff of shoes against gravel, and a kid who looked like he’d waited a long time to be here.
Charles returned ten minutes later with water bottles and found them mid-explanation. Max drawing tire treads in the dirt with a stick, Luca kneeling beside him, hanging on his words like they were holy writ.
"Softs don't last," Max said. "They're fast, but you have to be gentle with them. Push too hard and they're done in six laps."
Luca frowned. “Then why do you use them?”
Max looked at him, then smiled. “Because sometimes, six laps is all you need.”
Luca nodded, thoughtful.
Charles leaned on the post, sipping his water. “What’s next? Pit stop strategies?”
Max glared at him, expression amused. "He asked."
Charles shook his head, but his mouth was twitching.
By the end of the afternoon, Luca was trotting after Max like a silent shadow.
When Charles told him it was time to go home, Luca clung to Max’s hand for a second longer than necessary before letting go.
Max didn’t say anything. He just watched them walk away, Charles with one hand on his son’s shoulder, Luca looking back only once to give him a wave, quick and small.
It didn’t hit Max until later, back in the quiet of his apartment, the city muted outside his window and his shirt still faintly smelling like kart tires and sun-warmed gravel.
How strange it had felt.
How right it had felt, to have someone listen to him like that. Not just tolerate him. Not just nod and wait their turn to talk. But listen. Like what he knew wasn’t noise. Like it meant something.
And maybe it shouldn’t have stayed with him. Maybe it was just a nice moment. But as he lay back against the pillows, Max thought about the way Luca had looked at him, curious, wide-eyed, open, and something in his chest twisted.
He’d been Luca’s age once.
Too serious. Too fast.
He remembered learning how to take a turn at high speed before learning times tables.
He remembered how his father used to bark at him through the fencing, his voice sharper than the engine noise. He remembered the stomach aches before races. The silence afterward, even when he won.
And then today, a kid who just wanted to ask about tires. Who listened without fear or pressure. Who looked at him like maybe Max was someone worth learning from.
He’d never thought about having kids. He didn’t think he’d be good at it.
But something in him, quiet and buried, whispered that maybe, just maybe, he could do better than what he’d been given.
And for the first time in a long time, Max let the thought stay.