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Baku was enveloped in the dense shroud of night, where the wind from the Caspian carried the salty tang of the sea, mingled with the distant scent of oil lingering over the port. The city gradually fell silent: streets, recently bustling with the clamor of tourists and locals, now emptied, leaving only the occasional taxi gliding along the boulevard and the dim glow of streetlights casting long shadows on the promenade, where the waves shimmered in reflection. The circuit — a frenetic maze of the old city’s narrow walls and wide straights — lay quiet, illuminated by faint lamps flickering like forgotten beacons.
Max walked slowly, aimlessly, hands buried deep in the pockets of his lightweight team-branded jacket, his cap pulled low to shield his face from passing strangers. At twenty-seven, he already felt the weight of his years in Formula 1: his shoulders slightly hunched from accumulated tension, his sharp, focused blue eyes now wandering the shadows, and his short, fair hair, slightly tousled by gusts of wind. The stubble on his cheeks — a reminder of the rushed morning briefing that left no time for grooming — gave his face a weary, almost pensive look.
The hotel, with its sterile hum of air conditioners and the soft tread of staff in the corridors, felt distant, though it was just a couple of blocks away. Kelly was probably already asleep, her phone on silent, and Lilly — his little one, with her soft breathing — was clutching at the air in her sleep with tiny fingers. They were waiting back home in Monaco, in their cozy nest where everything was meticulously planned: from the pastel tones of the nursery to the scent of fresh flowers in the kitchen.
Sleep wouldn’t come, as it hadn’t for weeks — thoughts swirled in his mind, catching on the sharp edges of daily life. Lilly’s first conscious laugh over video that morning, reaching for the screen as if to touch her dad; Kelly’s calm, steady voice, always soothing his inner storms, reminding him that life wasn’t just the track. And the season… this 2025 season, which had begun with hope but turned into an unrelenting trial. McLaren dominated like no one had in years: Oscar led confidently, Lando hot on his heels, their car a perfect balance of speed and reliability on every track, from high-speed straights to twisting corners. Red Bull lagged behind, and it burned inside: the car was temperamental, lacking stability in slow sections, the engine faltering on long stints, and the engineers, despite their best efforts, couldn’t find a fix. Three wins — Japan, Imola, and Monza — felt like meager scraps compared to McLaren’s twelve. Third place in the championship, podiums clawed out through sheer grit, but the title slipped further away, leaving a bitter aftertaste. The pressure was mounting — not just for himself, as it had been when he was just a driver, but for Lilly, for Kelly, for the team that looked to him with hope, as if he were the last warrior in a battle where the odds dwindled with every Grand Prix.
His feet led him to the circuit — past the shuttered garages, where mechanics had buzzed earlier in the day, now silent except for the rustle of wind through the palm trees. The security at the gate recognized him — a nod, and he was inside, his footsteps echoing on the asphalt. The air was thick with the smell of rubber and metal, echoes of the morning’s practice.
He reached the first corner — that tight, right-hand turn where everything had gone wrong in 2018. Lap forty, he was leading the duel, Daniel behind him, both pushing the limit: Max defended aggressively, two moves — one too many — Daniel dove for the overtake, and then the crash, the screech of tires, debris scattered across the asphalt. Both out, the team furious, Horner yelling over the radio, demanding answers. Max had been seething inside — anger at himself, at Daniel, at the chaos where every mistake cost points. For two weeks, they didn’t speak, Max avoiding him in the paddock, rehearsing excuses in his head, building walls to hide his vulnerability.
But Daniel… he was always wiser, calmer. Before Barcelona, he knocked on Max’s hotel room door late at night, standing in the doorway in a plain t-shirt, hair mussed, eyes tired but with that spark that defused any tension.— Max, let’s talk, — he said quietly, without a hint of aggression, stepping inside.They talked until dawn: first about the crash, who was right, who was wrong, then deeper — about Max’s childhood, his father who punished every mistake, the fear of failure, the pressure that gripped his chest like a vice. Daniel didn’t judge, didn’t interrupt, just listened, occasionally nodding or resting a hand on Max’s shoulder — a warm, grounding touch.
That night, they grew closer: their bodies intertwined in sweat and silence, not out of lust, but out of need — to feel a connection, a warmth that reminded them they weren’t alone in this mad world of racing. It wasn’t love in the conventional sense — no drama, no promises, no jealousy. They were simply teammates who sometimes became each other’s anchor: Daniel saw past the “wild talent” to the guy shaped by a harsh upbringing where weakness was unforgivable. With him, Max could breathe, laugh at his fears, feel normal, stripped of the champion’s mask.
They thought they had all the time in the world: young, ambitious, with the world at their feet. But that crash had broken something in Daniel. Max learned later, through snippets of talk in the garages: the team clearly favored him, Max, with his speed and potential, and Daniel felt relegated to a supporting role. His move to Renault at the end of 2018 hit like a punch below the belt — their paths diverged, but the thread between them didn’t snap: chance meetings in the paddock, texts, rare evenings when the old ease returned, though more cautiously, mindful of the separate lives they were building.
Max found stability with Kelly — a warm home that smelled of coffee and fresh pastries, now with Lilly, her tiny hands gripping his finger with such force it melted his heart. But the emptiness didn’t fully fade: when Daniel left F1 for good after Singapore 2024, Max felt a pang under his ribs — a physical ache, like an old injury. Without him, the paddock grew duller: no jokes to cut through the tension, no look that said, “It’s all good, mate”. Longing hit in waves, especially on nights like this, when thoughts of the season tangled with memories.
Max sank onto the curb, his back against the cold metal barrier, legs stretched out on the asphalt — smooth, freshly laid, but in his mind, he saw the old, tire-worn surface. The wind picked up, tugging at his cap, carrying the scent of salt and distant rain. He pulled his phone from his pocket, the screen casting a glow on his face — pale, with faint shadows under his eyes from sleeplessness. He snapped a photo: the empty track, the curb, the city lights blurred in the haze, like memories. His fingers hovered over the keyboard. Why? Kelly was waiting at home, the team needed his focus for qualifying tomorrow. But he typed. The words formed a message on their own.
M: “Remember our Baku?”
Sent. His heart thudded once, heavily. Daniel was probably in Perth — Instagram posts: beach, beer, work with Ford, mentoring juniors, the “slow life,” as he called it. But his eyes in those photos held a shadow of something unspoken.
A reply came almost instantly:
D: “No way I’d forget that”
D: “Why aren’t you sleeping?”
Max let out a soft huff, the corner of his mouth twitching into a half-smile.
M: “Thoughts won’t let me. Went out for air, and my feet brought me here”
A pause. Three dots flickered, then vanished.
D: “Got it. Season weighing on you? Sick of all that orange up front?”
Not quite direct, but close enough. Max leaned back, the chill of the barrier seeping through his jacket. Like all their talks — rare, but honest to the core.
M: “Yeah, they’re in a league of their own. Oscar’s leading, Lando right behind. Our car’s like a fussy kid — won’t go, keeps acting up. I’m squeezing out what I can, but… it’s not enough”
Max didn’t spill details or pour out emotions in texts; that wasn’t him. Nor them. Daniel didn’t need subtitles — he always read between the lines.
D: “Yeah, Oscar’s a proper beast this season”
Three dots blinked, hinting at another message, then vanished.
Max stared at the screen, the wind growing colder. Daniel was thinking, as always, weighing his words. Max pictured him: in an apartment by the ocean, in a loose hoodie, shoulders relaxed, hair tousled, brown eyes warm but with faint creases from deep thought. Daniel was always tougher inside: injuries, slumps, leaving F1 — he took it all without breaking, with that smile that hid the pain.
The phone buzzed — a video call.
“Dan”
Max answered, holding the phone up. The camera caught the curb, the dark asphalt, his face — open but tense.
Daniel on the screen: a living room, soft lamplight, a gray dawn over waves outside the window. He was in a gray hoodie, stubble neat, eyes puffy from sleep but alive.
— Mate, are you camping out on that curb? You look like a ghost. Go to bed.
The voice — low, with that Australian drawl, raspy but soft, like a familiar, well-worn melody. Max snorted, adjusting the phone.
— Can’t, not my fault — the air’s too fresh, — Max shot back reflexively, masking the tension behind a joke.
— And you… is it morning already? Did you get up because of me?
Daniel rubbed his neck — a habit when he was nervous or thinking. He smiled, a faint crinkle at the eyes.
— Five a.m., yeah. Your ping woke me. Alright, spill it. You didn’t just decide in the middle of the night to snap a pic of the track for me to show how the asphalt’s changed, did you?
Max exhaled, his gaze sliding over the track — dark, spotted with pools of light from the streetlamps. Say it or not? Kelly — she understood, held things together, but Daniel… with him, it all came out naturally, without effort.
— Yeah… The season’s tough. McLaren’s flying, Oscar, Lando — like us in our prime, only smarter, no drama. They don’t even let slip anything extra, already trained, polished. The car’s letting me down, stability’s shot, engine like a temperamental girl. — Max lifted his eyes to the screen, catching the familiar squint of those coffee-brown eyes. Daniel knew that wasn’t all. Too bad Ricciardo wouldn’t be gracious enough to read the rest from Max’s mind. So he had to add:
— But… I’m sitting here remembering us. That day. How you came after, spoke first. You always did that. Drove me nuts with your… wisdom.
Daniel graced him with a indulgent smile, laced with a note of satisfaction — that he’d made him say it all straight out — and something almost nostalgic. He nodded slowly, leaning back on the couch, which creaked softly. His face drew closer: tan from the Perth sun, light wrinkles when he squinted at the light.
— I came because I hated when we weren’t talking. You were like fire back then — young, angry at the world, at me, at the team. But… real in it. I appreciated that.
Max swallowed, his throat tightening — not from the cold, but from the memories. The wind brought the scent of salt and the distant hum of cars.
— And you… did you know back then? Even in Baku? That you’d leave. — The question came out quick, almost on an exhale, though it wasn’t easy at all.
Daniel fell silent, his gaze drifting aside — to the window, where waves gleamed silver in the dawn. Then he turned back, honest and open.
— Not exactly, but… I felt it. The crash was just a detail. Christian yelled at both of us, but… it was clear the team was betting on you. Not your fault, just… how it went. I kept quiet, didn’t want to mess with your head. You were on the rise, even if not without the crap that season. You had enough to blame yourself for, even when you weren’t at fault.
Max shook his head, fingers gripping the phone tighter. Deep down, he knew the answer, so his next words were bitter not so much about the past as about the chain of events that followed.
— You should’ve said something. Maybe I would’ve… I don’t know, changed something. Done something with the team or… hell, anything. Christian wrecked it all back then — his favoritism. Carlos left first, then you. And after, that second seat in the team… Alex, Pierre, worn out and tossed aside. They squeezed Checo dry — I saw the fire leave his eyes, him starting to believe his own worthlessness. Liam started the year with me, thought things might go right with him at least, but they sent him back to the Bulls. Yuki’s under pressure now, Helmut’s waiting for a chance to get rid of him for good. The team’s in chaos, Christian bailed, leaving this mess behind. And with the new leadership, nothing’s changing at all. Still the same mess. Sometimes it feels like I’m cursed. Seriously. All this crap seems to follow me everywhere. Scorched earth wherever I touch. Look around, how many drivers I see every day in the paddock carry that shadow in their eyes, accusing me of ruining their careers.
Daniel chuckled softly, the sound cutting through the air — light but genuine, though it left Max frozen in confusion. He’d unleashed that tirade, and Ricciardo found something funny in it?
— Cursed? Maxy, you serious? The only thing you can be blamed for is your exceptional ability to beat yourself up over every disaster on the planet. — Daniel leaned forward, his eyes, still warm, turning a bit more serious as he continued:
— The truth is, Max, you were just bigger than anyone expected when they brought you into the system. Bigger than they could grasp to build the team in a smarter way. They wanted to hold onto the diamond that fell into their hands, no matter the cost. But the others… Maxy, when you play with fire, you have to be ready to get burned. Coming in for the second seat, they know who you are, but they never truly gauge the difference. And then… they feel like the dream house turned out to be made of glass. You’re the cause, yeah, but not the culprit. Never were. You can’t blame the moon in the sky for always shining brighter than the stars.
Max smiled — genuinely, for the first time that night, warmth spreading inside. The wind died down, the track felt closer, more familiar. Gusts of air no longer chilled but tugged at his jacket in places where Daniel’s hands might phantomly rest — soft, a bit rough, but always promising peace.
— Damn, Danny, you were always… different. You’re the only one who fought for the seat, not against me. — The words spilled out too honestly, too openly, making him resemble that kid from 2016 for a second, the one asking Daniel why he’d called him out as another “veteran.”
Daniel said nothing, just exhaled louder than usual. He looked at Max, as if suppressing the urge to pull him into a hug through the screen. His heart tightened at how Max’s words carried that… almost grateful tone. As if there was something to be grateful for. As if fairness should reduce a four-time world champion to a boy.
But he didn’t have to speak. Max continued on his own:
— You know… I see Oscar on the podium, the flag behind him, that smirk — and for a moment, it’s you. I can’t help it. I look at him, I want to see him. But I see you. Your face on the top step, sun in your hair, and that flag at your back. I don’t hear the Australian anthem because I hear the anthem of your wins. I close my eyes, and it’s all like before: your dive in Monaco, your smile in Shanghai, shoes to your lips, the whole paddock drenched in champagne.
Daniel fell silent, his eyes warming — a glint from the lamp light. Or… emotions? He swallowed, seemingly casual, but the sharp bob of his Adam’s apple gave it away.
— You bastard, that was poetic, — Daniel smirked, shaking his head slightly, as if chasing away that prickly note of nostalgia from their talk. — I’m happy for Oscar. For someone carrying that flag high, even if I can’t anymore. — The pause wasn’t from uncertainty but added weight to the next words. — But… you’re my champion, Maxy. Always will be.
Max felt a spark ignite under his ribs. Not pain, but a flicker of hope. As if someone had just lifted his head, refusing to let it drop.
— Thanks for that and… for everything else.
The reply came softly, but with such weight that Max could almost feel its warmth physically:
— Always.
Silence settled comfortably, like an old blanket. Max felt the lump in his throat finally dissolve.
They chatted more — about Lilly, how she tugged at his nose and laughed; about Daniel teaching the kids on track not to break under pressure; about Baku, wider and faster now, but the spirit the same. The conversation flowed smoothly, like a river — from the pain of the past to the warmth of the present, no sharp turns, just two people separated by an ocean but bound by memories.
Max felt the tension release, as if someone had untied a knot in his chest. He rose from the curb, his legs buzzing from the cold asphalt, but inside, a gentle warmth spread, like after a smooth pit stop when everything clicks again. The phone screen went dark, and the night softly embraced the track, its silence now not empty but soothing. He walked back to the hotel, his steps firmer, thoughts of tomorrow’s qualifying scattering like mist over Dutch hills. The longing didn’t vanish entirely but became a part — like an old scar, reminding him of strength. Life flowed onward, vibrant, alive, with its wins, losses, and new turns. And Daniel was in it — not beside him, but somewhere in the corner of his heart, like a beacon that always shone, even across distances. That warmed him, and it was enough to keep going.