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George stares across the way. Sitting at a table eating lunch with a few other people on the team surrounding him and chatting is his new teammate this year: Max Verstappen. He cocks his head slightly to the side as he sits perfectly postured at his own lunch bench with fingers tapping absently against the metal surface.
Here’s the thing, he always wanted to go head to head with Max, never felt threatened even once at the possibility of him being here, but now that he is here Max seemingly wants Mercedes to have a clear number one and number two driver. George doesn’t like that because it implies something… that the dutchman doesn’t like the idea of being challenged. It’s typical in Formula One for these things to happen or be discussed. Unfortunately for him, George would never shut up and keep his head down long enough to be pushed into the backseat.
They’re too old for petty games. Almost thirty… well, Max IS thirty.
At that moment in time his teammate manages to look up and catch his eye. George being George, gives him a pleasant but polite smile before standing up from his table. Max stares him down with blue eyes looking sharper than the butter knife he’s holding to cut his food. The Brit’s smile becomes even sharper. Sure, they’re too old for petty games but if Max wants to play them, well, George is a master at winning them.
Toto taught him well.
Later on in meetings, Max keeps his eyes flicking to him, but George doesn’t so much as spare him a glance. Internally George wonders if that bothers his teammate. In a way, he thinks it does because he notices gradually Max can’t sit still in that plush seat. He almost appears uncomfortable from the corner of his eye.
Good, let him wonder.
It’s intriguing how much this puts the ball in George’s court instead of Max’s now. Max is new. He’s never been in this team before now so he has a lot to catch up on while George practically grew up around everything that is Mercedes. It gives him an advantage over the Dutchman that he thinks Max never once considered before. Why would he? He’s a four time world champion and he’s never been the type to look at all angles.
It just means currently George is winning.
Mind games become an everyday occurrence for them after that with George making sure Max knows he won’t win. There is no such thing as team orders on the track either, he made it very clear to Toto that he won’t listen even if he is asked. At the end of the day, George Russell will not be made into any fool. He knows there’s a risk versus reward he normally measures in his head and this time it’s telling him he can’t afford to roll over.
It ends up causing arguments. Things get icier. From what he’s heard from others, Max’s dad is having disagreements with Toto on keeping George on a leash. Alas, Toto cannot. He’s played every game with George that he has with other drivers in the past to a point where George is easily able to flip the script on him. It puts Toto in a difficult position with Verstappen’s camp, but George just smiles to himself every time he sees Jos speaking to the team boss. Meanwhile Max pretends to be nonchalant, pretends to be unbothered, but everyone knows he moves his own chess pieces in the shadows. He always has.
It all comes to a head when they both end up colliding into one another. Max argues that he has better pace. George disagrees. They send each other off track in the corners for several laps. He knows by now Max is irritated as George is refusing to let him pass. This has been a constant for several races no matter the argument in Max’s favor. George is just as frustrated hearing his radio come to life every few seconds telling him to keep it clean.
Then when they’re rounding turn one again, due to adrenaline rushing in their veins they manage to smash into the sides of one another sending both of the silver and black cars careening off track. It’s almost another vision of Nico Rosberg and Lewis Hamilton back in the day. The moment they’re out of the cars in the gravel, Max is ripping off his helmet barrelling toward him. George’s hands are just on the latch of his own.
“Do you get sick enjoyment out of being a dickhead?”
It almost makes him laugh.
Instead, George busies himself by undoing his helmet strap and pulling it off before tugging the balaclava with it. His hair, held at bay by his headband, sticks up and back for a few seconds longer after that comes away as well.
“We’ll review the footage.” Is all he states, but Max steps forward once more to get into his space as George tosses his balaclava and headband into the cockpit of his Mercedes. George still barely even gives him a look.
“That’s all you ever say. You’re such a loser. I’ve never raced with someone who acts the way that you do and you can’t even apologiz-”
George doesn’t even wait for Max to finish that sentence before he’s walking off with gravel crunching under his race boots toward the car coming to pick them up. His helmet is tucked away under his arm. Arguing with Max is pointless anyway and it whatever punishment for the event will be dealt later.
The drive back to the pitlanes is a quiet one and the post race debriefs after that feel like a blizzard had fallen over Mercedes. They both end up reprimanded for it. In the end, George thinks he won again.
Later that day when he’s packing all of his stuff, bent to adjust everything in his backpack in his driver’s room, the door behind him creaks open. George lifts his head up and whips it around to see Max standing in the doorway dressed in his usual skinny jeans and Mercedes team shirt with an unreadable expression that signals he might be bringing trouble. The Brit narrows his eyes on him before straightening up from his task.
“If you’re coming in here to argue with me again, save it mate. It already happened so let’s just focus on the next race.” George says it with a sigh before he goes to turn away from Max again, wanting to finish collecting his stuff to leave.
No response. It’s weird.
He blinks as he stares at the wall before glancing over his shoulder once again only to catch the sight of hands grasping his face. Max’s thumb presses sharply under his cheekbone causing the younger man’s lips to part in almost a squawk of surprise.
Then lips.
George stills. His eyes widened. For several seconds he remains frozen there as the wall clock in the room ticks by and Max Verstappen’s lips touch his in a way that’s demanding them to part for him. He doesn’t even fight it. One flick of his tongue against his and suddenly his entire senses are filled with the taste of his teammate, but just as quickly as it’s there… it’s gone.
Max pulls away leaving George looking like a deer in headlights staring into hardened blue eyes that suddenly crinkle at the edges as if amused. “You look stupid, George. Better fix your face.” He says it in a snort of air before he turns his back on him looking every bit like a man who has finally won something in this fucked up game they’ve been playing since preseason testing.
Before George could get enough brain power to respond, Max is already out the door with it clicking shut behind him in a way that sounds louder than anything else.
Max won this round.