Chapter Text
The race weekend always felt like a world of its own, almost like a temporary city built around noise and adrenaline.
But race mornings?
They had a strange stillness before everything exploded into action. The paddock was already buzzing by 8 a.m., but not frantically more like the murmuring background sound before something big happens. Mechanics moved with the kind of practiced speed that made everything look choreographed. Tire blankets warm. Tool cabinets rolled across the garage floors. Engineers leaned over screens, tapping keys, whispering instructions, pointing at graphs only they understood.
The whole place smelled like coffee, brake dust, and the sweet, unmistakable scent of that burning petrol. In the shared Red Bull & Mercedes motorhome something every other team still found bizarre but had long given up questioning Max Verstappen was pacing. It wasn’t unusual, but today he paced with an extra stiffness in his shoulders, as if some invisible weight was pushing down on him. His footsteps made soft thuds on the carpet, back and forth, back and forth. George Russell sat cross legged on the couch, pretending to scroll through race notes on his tablet, though his eyes hardly moved across the screen. He kept glancing toward Max, then toward the small dining nook where Kimi sat eating breakfast.
19yr old Kimi Wolff-Verstappen-Russell yes, the hyphens were a joke that became official, looked far calmer than either of his dads. He was chewing on a piece of toast, his dark curls still messy from sleep, his Italian features relaxed and focused at the same time. He was usually expressive, hands waving when he talked, eyebrows raised, always ready with a sarcastic comment. But before races he went quiet. It was like watching someone dim their personality for a few hours to make room for pure concentration. He took another bite of toast and glanced at Max.
“You’re wearing a hole in the carpet, its magnolia soon it will be burnt from friction,” Kimi said.
Max didn’t answer he only walked faster.
George sighed. “Mate, please sit. You’re making me dizzy.”
Before Max could respond, the motorhome door swung open. No knocking because well Toto Wolff never knocked on his own family’s door. The man filled the doorway like a wardrobe large silhouette. Tall, sharply dressed, silver streaks in his hair that made him look both intimidating and comforting at once.
“Good morning, meine Lieben,” Toto said in his deep Austrian rumble.
Max exhaled in relief, as if Toto’s presence alone dropped the tension in the room. George sat up straighter on the couch. And Kimi’s face lit up just a little at the sight of his grandfather. Toto walked over to Kimi first and planted a soft kiss on the top of his curls then proceeding to lovingly ruffle the hair on his head.
“There you are, ragazzo,” Toto said warmly. “Ready to conquer the world today?”
Kimi shrugged with Italian dramatic flair. “Depends if my dads calm down before lights out.”
Toto chuckled and turned to Max, squeezing his shoulder.
“Deep breaths, Max. You are going to give yourself a headache.”
Max muttered, “Tell that to him,” and pointed at Kimi.
“Hey!” Kimi protested with toast still in his mouth.
George slipped his tablet aside. “Kiddo, you remember the data from yesterday? Turn nine? No heroics today.”
Kimi rolled his eyes. “I know how to drive, papà. I’m literally in F1.”
Max stopped pacing and crossed his arms. “Yes, well, I’m not losing years off my life because you think you’re invincible.”
Toto clapped once, loud enough to make George jump. “Everyone relax,” he commanded.
“Breakfast first, panic later.”
He grabbed a croissant from the counter, sat next to Kimi, and began going over small race strategy notes in the gentle but authoritative way only Toto could manage half coach, half guardian angel, half terrifying team principal and the tension eased. Just a little.
The walk from the motorhome to the garages was short, but it somehow always felt monumental on race day. Kimi walked ahead, helmet in hand, race suit half-zipped. Max stayed close behind him while George kept pace on the other side. Toto followed, phone in one hand, coffee in the other, like a busy, overworked shepherd gathering his flock.
Fans screamed from behind the barriers. Some called for Max. Some for George. Many for Kimi, Italy adored him, partly because he was fast, partly because he was dramatic, and mostly because the Italian media had decided he was 'the future of passion in motorsport.'
The team garages were alive with noise. Mechanics yelling numbers, air guns hissing, monitors beeping. Kimi’s car sat in the middle of it like a shining monster waiting to wake up. Toto leaned down to eye level with Kimi.
“Focus,” he said softly. “No distractions. One lap at a time.” Kimi nodded.
Max stepped forward and laid a hand on Kimi’s shoulder rough hands on the boys race suit.
“Just be smart. Please.” The dutchman muttered quietly
George smoothed a wrinkle near Kimi’s collarbone more out of nervous habit than necessity.
“And remember: if you feel the tires start to drop off, don’t force the defence... Live to fight another lap.” The brit said fearfully looking at his child
Kimi looked at both of them with a half smile. “You two worry too much.”
“That’s our job,” Max muttered.
Kimi laughed and climbed into the car. Mechanics lowered the halo, helped strap him in, and performed the usual pre-race checks. His radio crackled.
“Car feels good,” Kimi said. “Let’s have a good one!”
“Copy,” his engineer replied.
Toto, Max, and George all exchanged looks, three different shades of concern, while the cars began rolling onto the grid. Engines roared as twenty cars lined up into their places. The air vibrated with anticipation. Max sat in P2. George in P6. Kimi in P8.
The lights blinked on.
One
Two
Three
Four
Five.....
Kimi’s heartbeat synced with them. Max gripped his wheel tighter. George inhaled deeply.
Lights out.
The cars launched forward with a burst of fury. Tires screeched against the asphalt. Crowds erupted into noise that seemed to hit from all directions. Kimi got an excellent start. He held P8 through the first corner and then dove down the inside of Oscars McLaren to take P7. His radio crackled with approval.
Max kept the lead pack tight. George fought aggressively through midfield. Kimi defended his p7 spot bravely.
Everything seemed almost… normal.
For a while.