Chapter Text
George found out about the pregnancy in a room that smelled faintly of disinfectant and oranges, and years later, after the championships and contracts and hospital corridors and thirteen birthdays he had organised mostly on his own, that peculiar combination of smells would remain one of the clearest memories of the day. He hated the smell of oranges for years after. He made sure to limit it to the max.
The disinfectant came from the examination room itself, sharp and sterile enough to catch unpleasantly at the back of his throat whenever he breathed too deeply. The oranges came from the little mesh bag Max had demanded they stop for on the drive there because apparently coffee smelled disgusting, crisps made his stomach turn, the sandwich George had bought him was offensive merely by existing, and the only thing in the entire petrol station that did not make him want to be sick was a bag of slightly bruised oranges sitting beside the till.
George had bought them without commenting on the fact that Max ate only half of one before announcing he did not want those either. He also did not comment on how his own scent had notes of citrus.
The bag now sat abandoned on the plastic chair nearest the door, bright against the pale walls, while George occupied the chair beside the examination bed with both hands locked between his knees so tightly that his fingertips had begun to ache.
Max had not looked at him properly for almost twenty minutes. He glared at him during the bus ride, arms crossed. Then at the reception he just pushed the clipboard with the papers at him and told him to sign, because apparently it was necessary when an underage and unmated Omega came for a visit. They needed an Alpha.
He lay on his back beneath the harsh fluorescent lights, one ankle crossed over the other despite the restless movement of his foot, his mouth drawn into the hard line George had come to recognise over the previous months. Max had been angry almost constantly since the nausea began, although neither of them had known what it meant at first. He had blamed food poisoning, exhaustion, stress, the smell of George’s products, something he had eaten at a karting event three weeks earlier and, eventually, George himself for asking too many questions about it.
George had let most of it pass without much thought. Max was old enough to take care of himself. And his father was also keeping him in good health so he could race.
The possibility of pregnancy had existed somewhere at the edge of George's thoughts, but he had been too frightened to drag it into the centre until the doctor had done it for him. And Max wasn't exactly happy to discuss that particular idea with George. The news coming from the doctor had more power though.
She was kind in the particular way adults sometimes became kind when they were frightened on behalf of children and did not want those children to realise it. Her voice remained carefully even, her questions practical and unhurried, and she never once looked at either of them as though they were stupid, although George caught the almost imperceptible pause when she confirmed their ages.
Fifteen. Both of them.
There had been questions first.
How long had Max been feeling sick? Nearly six weeks.
Was he eating normally? No, although Max insisted he would be if everyone stopped putting disgusting things in front of him.
Any dizziness? Sometimes.
Exhaustion? Constantly.
Changes to his cycle? Max stared at the opposite wall before muttering that there had been. Then the question neither of them wanted.
“Is there any possibility that you could be pregnant? Because I assume that's why you are here as well.” She questioned, looking at George.
Max’s head snapped toward the doctor so sharply that George almost winced for him.
“I know what you’re asking. If we were stupid enough to-”
The doctor remained calm. “It is a standard question.”
“Max,” George murmured, more because the tension in the room had become unbearable than because he had anything useful to add.
Max turned on him immediately. “What?”
George’s face heated. He wanted to ask not to offend the woman because she was just doing her job, but it was Max... “Nothing.”
“Then don’t.”
George closed his mouth.
There had been a urine test first and blood taken afterwards, followed by another wait during which Max sat beside him in a rigid silence, staring so intently at the tiled floor that George wondered whether he was counting the grout lines or trying to see the bacteria or specs of dust on them. George watched the second hand of the clock move around and around its white face because looking at Max felt intrusive and looking anywhere else felt impossible.
When the doctor returned, George knew before she said anything. Positive.
Max did not react immediately. His face simply emptied. George remembered looking at his profile and thinking, absurdly, that Max looked younger than he had that morning. Not the confident, furious boy who had already spent most of his life convinced that racing was something he was entitled to conquer, but a fifteen-year-old sitting in a room that suddenly felt far too small.
The scan came afterwards. For George, it changed everything. He still had it, years later. First thing in the family album.
George did not understand what he was looking at when the image appeared on the monitor.
He knew, somehow, that he was supposed to understand because adults always seemed to look at ultrasound pictures and immediately identify noses, hands and entire personalities in grainy grey shapes George could barely separate from one another. The doctor pointed toward one area of the screen, and George nodded solemnly because admitting that he could not see anything beyond shadows felt inappropriate.
Max lay completely rigid.
His shirt had been pushed up enough for the gel and probe, and although his face remained turned toward the screen, his eyes had the fixed look of someone watching a disaster happen from a distance.
The doctor moved the probe. Then she paused. It was only a tiny hesitation, barely a second, but George saw the furrow appear between her brows and immediately leaned forward.
“What is it? Is something wrong?”
She adjusted the angle.
Max’s fingers tightened in the paper sheet beneath him until it crinkled loudly. George reached for his hand before he had time to think. For perhaps the first time in weeks, Max allowed him to take it. His fingers were cold.
The doctor studied the screen for another moment before looking at them.
“There are two.”
George stared at her. Max stopped breathing. “Two what?”
The doctor’s expression softened.
“Babies. And you are more than six weeks along. We're looking at the end of first trimester here.”
George looked back at the monitor.
The image had not become any easier to understand simply because somebody had named what was there, yet somewhere inside those grey shapes were apparently two separate lives.
Two babies. The words seemed too large for the room.
George was fifteen years old; he had a maths assignment in his bag that was already two days late; he had training scheduled for Thursday, and there were two babies that were going to need him to grow up faster than planned and act like an adult.
Beside him, Max made a sound that was almost a laugh but broke halfway through. George turned.
Max was staring at the screen with such naked horror that the breath caught in George’s chest.
There was no anger yet. No disgust. Only terror.
“No.” The doctor hesitated. Max shook his head. “No, no, that’s—no. You said one.”
“I said that the test confirmed a pregnancy. The scan confirms the number.”
“You said a baby. One. One baby! Not two!”
“I may have used the singular before we knew.”
“No.”
“Max—”
“No.” He tried sitting up too quickly. The doctor reached toward him. George did too. Max slapped George’s hand away hard enough that the sound seemed startlingly loud against the sterile quiet of the room. “Don’t touch me.”
George froze. The doctor’s eyes moved between them.
Max was breathing too fast now, his face pale beneath the flush spreading across his cheeks.
George slowly drew his hand back. “Okay.”
Max dragged his shirt down with shaking fingers and turned away from both of them. He was frantic, George could see the panic and fear on his face. The idea of one child was terrifying, but two? And already three months along? George looked toward the monitor one last time before the doctor switched it off. The screen went black.
Jos called for a meeting before George could actually process what he had seen in the gynecologist office. The man arrived one day, Max behind him, pale and trembling slightly. Steve opened the door, not expecting the two Dutchmen on his doorstep. And he certainly did not expect that his son managed to get an Omega pregnant before he even finished school.
George never discovered exactly who contacted him first. Max might have called from the corridor while George stayed behind to listen to the doctor explain vitamins, risks and follow-up appointments. The clinic might have insisted on contacting a parent because of their age. Jos might simply have possessed the almost supernatural ability to know whenever something happened in Max’s life before Max had even decided whether he wanted his father involved.
By that evening, George was sitting at his parents’ dining table feeling considerably less like a frightened fifteen-year-old and considerably more like someone waiting to hear a sentence passed. The room was painfully familiar. George had eaten hundreds of dinners there. His mother’s favourite vase stood on the cabinet behind his father. A photograph from a family holiday sat beside it, George younger and sunburnt and grinning at something outside the frame. There were small scratches on the table from years of homework and meals and ordinary family life. Nothing about the room had changed. George felt as though everything else had.
Max sat opposite him, arms folded so tightly across his chest that his shoulders were hunched forward. He had barely spoken since leaving the clinic. Jos was doing all the talking. It started with accusation, of course, after all George was an Alpha and Max an Omega. It was basic biology that George had a bigger influence on Max than the other way around. George tried to explain that he would never do something to Max and that he hadn't thought about the possibility. Jos laughed at that; the sound was cruel and loud.
George’s mother remained close enough that one hand had rested almost continuously against the back of George’s chair since they sat down.
His father sat at the head of the table. He looked grim. Practical. George found that far more frightening than anger would have been. Anger could burn itself out. Practicality suggested plans had already been made.
Jos did not bother easing anyone into them. “They marry.” George’s head came up. So did Max’s.
For several seconds, George genuinely believed he must have misunderstood. “What?”
Jos leaned back in his chair. “They marry before this gets out of control even more.”
Max stared at him as though he had spoken another language. George’s mother’s fingers tightened against the back of his chair. “They are fifteen. We cannot just make them do something like that.”
“They were old enough to make this mess. They might be fifteen but knew what they were doing.” The words were delivered without emotion.
George flinched anyway. His father’s jaw tightened, and for one hopeful second George thought he might finally tell Jos to stop. Instead, his father looked toward the table and said quietly, “There are two children involved now. It is also a massive commitment.”
George turned toward him. “Dad?” His father met his eyes. George searched his face desperately for something reassuring, something that said he understood George was terrified, that they could go home after this and work things out slowly, that somebody older and wiser would tell him what happened next. That the situation was bad, but at the end of the day they would figure it out somehow.
Instead, his father sighed. “Jos is right. It is the best course of action currently.”
The betrayal was so quiet that George almost did not recognise it. Across the table, Max gave a sharp, disbelieving laugh. “You want me to marry him?”
Jos’s expression hardened. “Yes.”
“I don’t want to marry anybody!” Max said, his accent coming out thicker than usual.
“That is irrelevant.”
“It’s my life,” Max argued; his face started to heat up, his cheeks and neck going red.
“It stopped being only your life when you got pregnant.” Max shoved his chair backwards so violently that the legs shrieked across the floor.
George jerked at the sound. Jos did not move. “You will sit down.” Max remained standing. For several seconds, something passed silently between father and son. George did not understand it then, although he would think about it years later. Jos did not need to raise his voice immediately.
Years of consequence existed behind the calm command. Max sat. His hands disappeared beneath the table.
George saw them trembling before they did. “I don’t want this,” Max said eventually. His voice had lost most of its anger.
For one fleeting moment, he sounded frightened. Alison reached toward him. “I know.”
Jos turned his head. “This is not helping. They both need to grow up; it's not the end of the world. Of their careers, maybe, but life continues.”
“It is his life. And it's suddenly changed completely.”
“It is his career I am trying to protect. And his image. Both actually.”
Max laughed again, although there was no humour in it. “By marrying me off at fifteen? The world is not as it was back in the previous century!”
“By ensuring that boy cannot disappear and leave you with two children. You are an Omega, Max. You would be a laughing stock.” Jos' words were poison. George flinched hearing them; so did his mother.
George stared at him. “I wouldn’t.” Jos looked over. George straightened in his chair. “I wouldn’t leave.”
“You say that now.” Jos waved his hand, as if it was an empty promise.
“I mean it.” Nobody answered.
George turned toward Max. Max was staring at him with something ugly already beginning to form behind the fear.
“What?”
Max scoffed. “Nothing.”
“No. What?” George frowned, trying to understand where the hostility came from. Yes, he and Max weren't on the best terms, before and now, but they both landed in this messy situation and needed to deal with it.
“You just sound so fucking pleased with yourself.”
George blinked. “What?”
Max leaned back. “‘I wouldn’t leave. I’ll stay. I’ll do the right thing.’ You love this, don’t you?”
“I don’t love any of this.”
“You’re not the one carrying them. And being pushed into being a fucking 'mommy-to-be' shit.”
“No.”
“You’re not the one whose career stops.” Max hissed, his eyes turning into slits.
“I know. But, after—”
“You get to sit there and play the responsible Alpha while everyone looks at me like I’ve ruined everything.”
George stared at him. “I didn't ask you any of this.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
“Max.” George tried. He didn't want Max to think he planned any of what was happening.
“Maybe this is perfect for you.”
George’s stomach twisted. “What does that mean?”
“You got me once, and now apparently you get to keep me.” George’s face burned so fiercely that he could feel it across his ears.
His mother stood abruptly. “That is enough.”
Max fell silent. George wished she had not intervened. He hated the pity that entered the room afterwards more than the insult itself.
His father rubbed both hands across his face. “It does not have to be forever.” George looked toward him sharply. His father continued, perhaps interpreting the attention as permission. “But right now, legally and financially, marriage offers protection. For you, for Max, and especially for the children. They need both parents; legally it would also look better.”
George listened to the adults discuss protection, finances, reputation and future careers while something inside him became increasingly numb. “You’ve already decided.”
His father looked at him. “No.”
“Yes.”
“George—” Steve tried again, his voice tired.
“You have.”
His father hesitated. That hesitation was the answer. George looked down at his hands. Across the table, Max was doing exactly the same thing. Neither teenager ever really said yes. In the end, nobody seemed particularly interested in that detail.
They married quietly enough that calling it a wedding felt almost insulting. There were no flowers, no music, no collection of excited relatives whispering before the ceremony and no photographs beyond whatever documentation the law required. George’s mother helped him choose a suit because his father said he needed to look presentable, and George spent most of that morning wondering why looking presentable mattered when everyone involved knew neither of them wanted to be there.
Max wore dark blue. He looked furious from the moment he arrived.
George remembered standing beside him beneath fluorescent lights while an official explained legal obligations neither of them properly understood. Every sentence seemed to contain words like responsibility, guardianship and dependency, terms designed for adults with mortgages and careers rather than two boys who still needed permission slips signed for school trips. The clerk asked several times if every involved party was agreeing not under influence. George saw how Max itched to say that they were forced, but the mere presence of Jos next to him was enough to keep him quiet.
When the papers were pushed toward George, he picked up the pen.
His hand shook. He tried to steady it. The first letter of his surname came out wrong.
Max noticed. “Jesus, Russell.”
George flushed. “Sorry.”
“For what now?”
George looked at him. Max rolled his eyes. “Stop apologising for everything. It’s pathetic.” George stared back at the paper. He corrected the letter and finished signing. The adults looked relieved once everything was completed.
That was perhaps the strangest part. Jos looked as though somebody had successfully repaired a mechanical problem. George’s father shook his hand and told him they would work everything out. His mother hugged him long enough that George almost started crying there.
He did not. He waited. The apartment their parents had organised for them had been presented repeatedly as their new home.
Nothing about it felt like theirs. The sofa had already been put next to the windows. The kitchen cupboards were stocked with food neither teenager had selected. The bed had been delivered two days earlier. Bills disappeared through accounts controlled by their parents, and a large paper calendar hung beside the refrigerator where George immediately started writing appointments because he had become terrified that if he did not remember everything, nobody would.
That first evening, Max disappeared into the bedroom without saying much.
George stood alone in the kitchen for several minutes, surrounded by someone else’s idea of adulthood. The thoughts were circling inside his head. It was a completely normal course of action not fifty years ago: if an Alpha got an Omega pregnant, they needed to marry and the Alpha to take care of the Omega and children. But it was an old law that was mostly forgotten by 2002. And here they were, living proof that the law still had power. Then he went into the bathroom. He turned the shower on. He waited until the water was loud enough.
Only then did he cry. He pressed both hands over his face and tried to make no sound even though there was nobody in the room to hear him.
When he emerged almost forty minutes later, Max was already in bed. He glanced once at George’s reddened eyes. He did not ask, just fixed his head on the pillow and closed his eyes.
Pregnancy did not make Max gentler. If anything, it seemed to strip away whatever patience he had left.
He hated nausea with a fury that bordered on personal offence. He hated being tired because tiredness felt like weakness. He hated medical appointments, vitamins, people suggesting he should rest, clothes no longer fitting properly and strangers looking at him for half a second longer than they should.
He hated racing becoming increasingly inaccessible. While he was still barely showing he could train on the sim, the tracks in real life became a distant memory. Every week that passed seemed to put another wall between him and the life Jos had spent years teaching him was the only one worth wanting.
George understood most of that. What he struggled to understand was why Max increasingly behaved as though George had personally arranged every part of it. Like it was some sort of masterplan George created weeks back when they both locked themselves in the hotel room and with inexperienced hands tried to learn about the pleasure they heard about. And now they were dealing with the consequences.
At first, George tried desperately to make their strange little household work. He really did.
He learned how to cook, although for several weeks that remained an optimistic description. He discovered onions made Max violently nauseous, while any sort of citrus helped enough that George began putting slices into nearly every glass of water he made him. Crackers appeared beside the bed. A small bowl appeared beside the sofa because Max was occasionally too sick to make it to the bathroom.
George attended every appointment he could. Sometimes Max refused to speak to him for the entire drive there.
George went anyway. He read every leaflet the doctor gave them, underlined sections and made notes in margins because information felt like the only thing he could control. He asked questions usually the Omegas asked and tried not to show how much the pitying looks from the obstetrician hurt when she saw how uninterested Max seemed in his own pregnancy and how George tried to cover both parents' interest.
One night, somewhere after midnight, George became abruptly convinced that the cot they had bought was impossible to assemble and that the babies would somehow arrive the following morning if he did not solve it immediately. He had two plasters on his thumbs, his elbow hurt, and he was sure he had burns on his fingerpads from the screwdriver.
Max found him sitting cross-legged on the nursery floor surrounded by screws, wooden panels and several pages of instructions. “You look ridiculous.”
George glanced up. Max leaned against the doorframe, one hand absent-mindedly resting beneath the curve of his stomach. It was surprising to see him in anything that actually showed the twins; he usually tried to hide the stomach as much as he could.
“I think I’ve done something wrong,” George mumbled, the Allen keys scattered around him.
“That’s reassuring.”
“I put this bit backwards.”
“Obviously.” Max rolled his eyes, rubbing the right side of his waist.
George frowned at the diagram. “You could help.”
Max laughed. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Because watching you struggle is more entertaining.”
George gave him a tired look. “Thank you for the support.”
“You’re welcome.”
For several minutes there was silence. George managed to remove the panel he had attached incorrectly. Then Max spoke again. “You know, sleeping with you really wasn’t worth all this.”
George’s fingers stopped around the screwdriver. He looked at the instructions rather than Max. Max continued with the casual tone of someone reviewing a disappointing meal. “I mean, seriously. It wasn’t even that good, and now I’m married to you and carrying twins. A fucking joke.”
George stared at the page until the printed letters began to blur slightly. “Max.”
“What?”
“Could you not?”
“Could I not what?”
George finally looked up. Max’s expression was almost bored. “Say things like that.”
“Why?”
“You know why.” The words didn't want to come out of his mouth.
“No, actually, I don’t.”
George swallowed. “It’s cruel.”
Max’s eyebrows lifted. “Oh. Sorry. Did you want me to pretend it was romantic? Or should I try to make them into a poem?”
“I didn’t say that. It's just cruel for you to say it about them.”
“Should I tell you it was magical instead? That I always dreamed of getting pregnant at fifteen and ending up trapped in an apartment playing husband with George Russell?”
George flinched. Max saw it. He kept going. “You probably love this.”
“What?”
“This.” Max gestured toward the room. The half-built cot. The neatly folded baby clothes George’s mother had brought over. The calendar visible through the open door. “You get to organise everything and walk around acting useful. You finally get to call yourself an Alpha and feel important. Every single one dreams about knocking up an Omega and living this shitty dream.”
“I don’t call myself anything.”
“You don’t need to,” Max said, eyes blazing with anger.
“I haven’t told anyone anything about us.”
“You don’t have to. You look at me like I’m some responsibility you’ve been assigned and happily accepted.”
George stared at him. “I’m trying to help. As much as you let me.”
“I don’t need your help.”
“Fine,” George whispered, looking down at the instructions again.
“There.”
George closed his eyes briefly. “What?”
“That pathetic voice.”
“What?”
“The one where you sound like someone kicked you.” George remained still.
Max pushed himself away from the doorway. “It makes me want to kick you just so there’s actually a reason for it.” The room became unbearably quiet. Max walked away.
George remained on the nursery floor for several minutes with the screwdriver resting loose in his hand. Eventually, he finished assembling the cot.
The cruelty came in waves, and that was what made it so difficult for George to understand what their life actually was. If Max had hated him every hour of every day, George might have stopped hoping much earlier. Instead, there were mornings when Max seemed almost like himself.
He would sit on the kitchen counter eating cereal directly from the box while George complained that there were crumbs everywhere, and Max would tell him he sounded like somebody’s grandmother.
Sometimes they watched racing together. Sometimes Max fell asleep on the sofa with his head tilted uncomfortably against the armrest, and George would put a blanket over him only to be told the following morning that he was irritatingly attentive.
There were evenings when the babies moved so much that even Max could not remain angry. Once, George was sitting beside him while Max complained that one of them had apparently decided his ribs were a suitable climbing frame. “Here.” Max grabbed George’s wrist.
George startled. “What?”
“Feel.”
Max pressed George’s palm against the side of his stomach. For several seconds nothing happened. Then there was a sharp movement beneath George’s hand.
His eyes widened. Max laughed. A real laugh. Bright, startled and almost boyish. “There. Did you feel it?”
George’s entire face broke into a smile. “Yeah.” Another movement came, harder this time. “That’s insane.”
“You think?” Max asked, his finger poking lightly to the place from where the push came.
“Does it hurt?”
“Sometimes. Maybe not hurts, a little when they kick up, I feel it in my ribs. But it's kind of like... stretching?”
George’s thumb moved instinctively against the fabric of Max’s shirt. Max did not stop him. “Which one do you think that is?”
“How the hell would I know?”
“You usually claim you know everything.”
“Fuck off.”
George laughed. Max laughed too. For ten minutes, perhaps fifteen, they were simply two frightened teenagers fascinated by something neither properly understood. George went to bed that night feeling foolishly hopeful.
The following morning, Max was arguing with Jos on the phone. George heard only fragments from the kitchen.
Training.
Sponsors.
People watching.
Too much time wasted.
Max ended the call hard enough that the phone struck the counter. George looked over from the table. “You okay?”
Max stared at him. “What?”
“I asked if you’re okay.”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” Max frowned.
“You sounded upset.”
“Stop listening to my conversations.”
“We live in the same apartment,” George said calmly, already knowing that he shouldn't have spoken at all.
“That doesn’t mean everything I do is your business. And that you should listen in.”
“I didn’t say it was.”
“You always do this.”
George frowned. “Do what?”
“Hover.”
“I’m literally sitting down. And I just asked if you're fine. Your scent turned sour.”
Max laughed sharply. “You suffocate me.” George went quiet. Max began pacing the kitchen. “Every time I turn around, there you are. George with the water. George with the vitamins. George reminding me about appointments. George asking when I’m coming home.”
“The doctor said—”
“I don’t care what the doctor said.”
“I’m trying to help.”
“I don’t need you to help.” Max hissed, fingers going white against the table.
“All right.”
“There again.”
George looked at him. “What?”
“You’re looking miserable.”
“I’m tired.”
“No. You’re making me feel guilty, hoping I'd change and fit into the mould.”
“I haven’t said anything, Max.”
“You don’t need to. You stand there looking wounded, and somehow I’m supposed to feel like a terrible person.” George stared. Max’s expression hardened. “If you were a better Alpha, maybe I wouldn’t hate being here so much.”
George’s lips parted. He could not think of anything to say.
Max walked past him. A few steps later, he stopped. “Oh, and don’t tell your mother I said that. I know how much you enjoy people feeling sorry for you.” The bedroom door slammed. George remained at the kitchen table until his tea had gone completely cold.
Other comments came casually enough that sometimes George did not understand how badly they hurt until hours later.
When George attempted dinner one evening and burned the sauce, Max looked into the pan and said, “Brilliant. Can’t cook, can’t race properly while you’re constantly tired, and apparently couldn’t work out contraception either. Really winning at life, aren’t you?”
When George fell asleep over his schoolwork, Max nudged his leg with one foot. “You’re going to make a fantastic provider if one essay exhausts you.”
When George reminded him about an appointment, Max sighed and muttered, “You act like some desperate little husband. It’s embarrassing.”
Once, George asked whether Max wanted him to accompany him to see Jos. “My father barely tolerates you,” Max said. “Why would I inflict you on him more than necessary?”
And sometimes Max attacked the one thing George never actually demanded. Affection. “You know this marriage doesn’t mean I love you.”
George would answer quietly, “I know.”
“Good.”
Or:
“Don’t start acting possessive when I go back racing.”
“I wouldn’t.”
“You say that now.”
“Max, I genuinely wouldn’t.”
“Sure.”
The worst argument during the pregnancy started over a wet towel.
George came into the bedroom after showering and found it abandoned on the wooden floor again. “Can you please hang these up when you're finished with them?”
Max barely looked away from his phone. “What?”
“The towels.”
“What about them?”
“They’re not going to dry and will stink, and they will need to be washed again.”
“Then hang them up,” Max said, eyes not moving away from the analysis of the GP.
“I keep hanging them up.”
“Congratulations.”
George exhaled. “Max, I’m just asking if you could—”
“Oh, my God.” Max threw the phone onto the bed.
“What?”
“You never stop finding something to complain about.”
“I asked you to pick up a towel,” George said, keeping his voice steady.
“You always need something.”
“A towel, Max.”
“You know what’s funny?”
George immediately wished he had left it alone. Max sat up. “Before this, you would never have had me.” George stared. Max smiled without warmth. “You know that, right? And now you think you can have some sort of control or authority over me.”
“What?”
“If I hadn’t got pregnant, we wouldn’t be together. I wouldn’t have married you. I wouldn’t have chosen you.”
George’s face burned. “I know you didn’t choose the marriage.”
“No. I mean any of it.” Max stood. “You were one stupid night, George. One. Don’t confuse being the Alpha who got me pregnant with being somebody I actually wanted.” George remained silent. Max continued because silence had always irritated him. “You think I would’ve looked at you twice otherwise?” George’s eyes dropped. “There are plenty of Alphas I could have had.”
“I know.”
“Better ones.”
George swallowed. “Okay.”
“Ones who don’t walk around looking scared all the time.”
George bent, picked the towel up from the floor and carried it into the bathroom. That evening, he slept on the sofa. Max never asked why.
Bastiaan arrived first. Ophelia followed eleven minutes later.
George remembered almost every second of the birth, although some parts remained as isolated fragments rather than one coherent memory: bright hospital lights, Max swearing at almost everyone who came within touching distance, voices speaking too quickly, monitors beeping and somebody repeatedly telling Max to breathe until Max finally snapped that he was obviously breathing because he was still alive.
George stood beside him throughout it. At one point, when a nurse asked George to move so she could reach a piece of equipment, he stepped away from the bed. Just two steps, he was still in the room, still looking around with wide eyes.
Max’s hand shot out. His fingers closed around George’s wrist. “Where are you going?”
George immediately turned back. “Nowhere.”
“Then stay.”
“I am.”
“Don’t fucking leave.” Something inside George hurt at the words. He stayed. Max squeezed his hand so hard during the worst contractions that his nails broke the skin across George’s knuckles.
George did not complain. Their parents were supposed to come, but Jos was away in the Netherlands. George's parents had a last-minute babysitting duty from his older sister. So George called the ambulance, and they arrived at the hospital without their families. Max looked terrified enough to ask George to try calling them again or even try his mother. Sophie was furious once she learned what had happened, but she couldn't do anything; the papers were signed, and the children were ready to arrive. George called her while the technicians were loading Max into the ambulance. She promised to come as soon as she could but he knew it would take hours.
Then suddenly there was crying. Sharp. Furious. Alive.
George stopped breathing. Somebody said something he did not hear. A tiny red-faced baby appeared, outraged by the entire concept of existence.
Bastiaan.
George laughed and cried at the same time. Max turned his head desperately. “Is he okay?”
“He’s perfect.”
“Are you sure?” There was a vulnerability in Max's voice. He was staring at the ceiling, breathing hard, face red and sweaty.
“He’s perfect.”
Then everything began again. Eleven minutes later came Ophelia, quiet for perhaps twenty seconds before somebody tried moving her away from Max and she released a shriek so indignant that even George laughed through his tears. “Jesus.”
The nurse smiled. “She has opinions, that one.”
“Apparently.”
Max looked exhausted beyond anything George had ever seen. His hair was damp against his forehead, his face pale and streaked with tears he would later deny having shed. When the babies were finally brought close, something in the room changed.
Max looked at Bastiaan first. His entire expression collapsed. All the anger disappeared. All the resentment. For a little while, there was only wonder.
George sat beside him carefully. Bastiaan’s impossibly small fingers wrapped around one of Max’s. Ophelia made a tiny irritated noise where she had been settled against his chest. Max started crying again. Not dramatically. The tears simply slid down his cheeks while he stared at them.
George hesitated. Then he put an arm around him. Max leaned into his side. That nearly broke George more than anything else. “They’re ours,” George whispered.
Max looked at him. For one of the last times George would remember for years afterwards, there was no anger in his face. “Yes.” George pressed a kiss against his temple. Max allowed it.
For several minutes, they were simply two terrified fifteen-year-olds staring at two tiny people they had somehow made.
George would preserve those minutes far too carefully. For years, whenever he wondered whether he had imagined the softer version of Max entirely, he would remember Bastiaan curled against his chest and Ophelia tucked beneath Max’s chin and Max whispering that he could not believe how small their hands were.
Those few minutes were probably the last time George truly believed their family might still work. He would spend years wishing he had known it was almost the end.
The first year nearly destroyed them. Sleep ceased to exist in any recognisable form. There was never enough time, never enough energy and always another bottle to wash, another load of laundry to start or another child waking just as the other finally settled.
School continued for George. Training continued for both of them whenever possible. Racing remained somewhere beyond the apartment, waiting impatiently for them. Or for George. Jos increasingly arranged testing opportunities, meetings and sponsor appearances for Max while declaring that any gaps in his education could always be repaired later with private tutors.
George’s education did not receive the same flexibility. He revised while wearing one sleeping baby against his chest. He wrote essays at two in the morning with Bastiaan in a bouncer beside his foot. He learned how to warm two bottles at once, how to change one child while distracting the other and how to survive whole days after sleeping for little more than two hours. Bastiaan hated being put down after feeding and would scream with impressive stamina until somebody picked him up again. Ophelia would sleep almost anywhere provided someone rested a hand against her stomach.
For all Max’s resentment, he learned them too. There were nights when George came downstairs and found Max pacing slow circles around the living room with Ophelia tucked beneath his chin, whispering nonsense because she refused to settle.
There were mornings when George woke on the sofa and discovered Bastiaan asleep on Max’s chest while Ophelia lay tucked carefully into the crook of his arm.
Once, George stood in the doorway for nearly five minutes simply looking. Max opened one eye. “Are you being creepy?”
George smiled. “You look comfortable.”
“I can’t feel my arm.”
“I can take one.”
“No.” The answer came immediately. George paused. Max glanced down at the babies. “They’re asleep.”
George’s smile softened. “Okay.”
Those memories mattered. That was the problem. Because as the months passed, Max spent less and less time at home.
There was always a reason. A sponsor had organised testing. Someone wanted to assess him. There was training. A meeting. A possible contract. Another driver-development discussion. Jos needed him somewhere. Jos always needed him somewhere. The man who had insisted they marry because Max supposedly required the security of a family now seemed determined to extract him from that family one piece at a time.
One evening, Max came home after midnight. George was sitting in the kitchen with Bastiaan asleep against his chest. Ophelia had finally settled in her cot half an hour earlier after spending most of the evening feverish and miserable. Max dropped his keys onto the counter. George looked toward the clock.
“You said eight.”
Max stiffened immediately. Then he breathed out. “Here we go.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You looked at the clock like I am some child needing supervision.”
“Because it’s midnight. And you said it'll end at eight.”
“I can tell time.”
“Could you have called?”
“I was busy. It's not like I keep checking the time.”
“I was worried. And they were waiting for you.”
Max scoffed. “You sound like somebody’s wife.”
George looked down at Bastiaan, who shifted against his chest. “Could you keep your voice down?”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
“He just fell asleep.”
“So everything revolves around them now?”
George stared. “They’re babies.”
“I know what they are.”
“Then why are you acting like this?”
Max dropped heavily into a chair. “I’m trying to create a career.”
“So am I.”
“Then figure it out.”
George could feel exhaustion stripping away the caution he had spent months developing. “They’re your children too.”
“I know that. I felt that too. Not an experience I'd like to repeat.”
“Then please act like it.”
Max’s chair scraped violently backwards; he was on his feet, glaring at George with all his might. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” George regretted the sentence immediately.
But he was so tired. His eyes burned constantly now. He could not remember the last uninterrupted night of sleep.
“It means Ophelia has a fever, Bastiaan has been teething and screaming for hours, I have an exam tomorrow, and you told me you would be home at eight.”
“I had something important.”
“They’re important.”
“Don’t start.”
“I’m not starting anything.”
“You always do this.” Max’s voice rose.
Bastiaan stirred. George immediately cupped one hand over the back of his head.
“Lower your voice.”
Max laughed. “Of course. Sorry. Mustn’t disturb your perfect little children.”
“Our children.”
“Whatever.”
George’s face changed. Max saw it. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“No. Say it.”
George looked at him. “They deserve better than ‘whatever.’”
The argument lasted for hours. Max told him he was trying to sabotage his career. George told him he had never once asked him to miss a test. Max said George made home unbearable. George asked whether he understood what it felt like to spend three days caring for two sick babies alone. Max told him George loved playing the martyr. George finally shouted that he did not want martyrdom; he wanted another parent.
Max slammed the bedroom door so hard a picture shook crooked on the wall. Afterwards, George sat on the nursery floor with Bastiaan asleep against his shoulder, and Ophelia curled against his thigh while Max continued moving angrily through the apartment downstairs.
George was sixteen. He felt eighty.
The day Max left was ordinary. That was what George remembered most.
There was no storm outside, no ominous phone call and no dramatic argument that morning. Bastiaan had thrown porridge across the kitchen. Ophelia had spent twenty minutes furious because George refused to let her chew on a wooden spoon. George had been laughing five minutes earlier because both twins somehow had cereal in their hair.
He was standing at the sink washing bottles when he heard footsteps on the stairs.
Max came into the kitchen carrying a bag. George looked at it. Then at him. “Where are you going?”
Max put the bag beside the door. “I got the seat.”
George froze. For one second, he did not understand. Then he did. His stomach dropped. “You got it?”
Max nodded. There was excitement in his face. Real, bright excitement. George’s first reaction, horribly and instinctively, was happiness. “Oh my God.”
Max smiled. George turned away from the sink completely. “That’s amazing.”
“It is.” Max nodded, satisfied.
“Max, congratulations. Seriously, that’s—”
“I’m leaving tonight.” George stopped. The smile vanished. “What?”
“I need to go tonight.”
“What? So soon? Okay, that's-”
Max looked at him. “I'm leaving. And everything stays behind.”
Behind them, Bastiaan babbled from his high chair. George glanced toward him. Ophelia was attempting to retrieve her spoon from the floor.
He looked back at Max. “What does ‘everything’ mean?”
Max’s expression changed. The excitement hardened around the edges. “I’m not losing my chance, not again.”
George frowned. “I didn’t ask you to.”
“Right, I can see how readily you went against our fathers when they threw us into this circus. You will do it again.”
“No. Max, I would never!”
“You already do.”
George stared at him. “I only ask you to come home.”
“Exactly. See? Already asking me for something.”
“You have children.” George tried, a plea badly hidden in his voice.
“And I have a seat. Something I have dreamed about since I could understand what it was.”
George’s face went cold. “You can have both.”
Max laughed.
“No, George.”
“You can.”
“Maybe you can live in this fantasy where we change nappies and wash bottles and pretend to be some happy little family while also becoming racing drivers, but I’m not doing it.” George’s eyes began burning.
“I never asked you to give up racing.”
“You don’t have to ask.”
“I have never asked.”
“You make me feel guilty every time I leave.”
“Because you leave me alone with two babies!”
“They’re not dying.” He shrugged. George stared at him. Max seemed to realise how it sounded. He did not apologise. “They have you.”
“They need you too.”
“No, they don’t. They're fine with just you.”
“Yes, Max. They do.”
“You’re perfectly capable.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Then what is?” Max was starting to lose his patience; he fixed his hold on the bag.
George’s voice cracked. “That you’re their parent.” Max grabbed his bag. George stepped in front of him. “Wait.”
“Move.”
“No.”
“Russell.”
“Please.” The word stopped them both. George hated the sound of it. He hated how desperate it was. He hated that Max had heard him beg before and it had never made him kinder. “Please don’t do this.”
Max’s jaw tightened. “I got the seat. And I am not letting someone take it from me.”
“I know.”
“I’m not letting it disappear because you’re scared.”
“I’m not asking you to.”
“Then what are you asking?”
George looked toward the twins. Bastiaan was watching them. Ophelia had begun hitting the tray of her chair with one palm.
George lowered his voice.
“I’m asking you to be their parent.”
Max looked away.
“You can race. I want you to race. I swear to you, Max, I want you to take the seat. Go. Test. Train. Do everything you need to do.” George stepped closer. “Just don’t disappear. They don't deserve to be left behind.”
Max’s mouth tightened. “Listen—”
“Come home when you can. Call us. Be here for birthdays. See them between races. Anything. We can work it out.”
“You don’t understand.”
“Then explain it.”
“I can’t have this hanging over me.”
George’s face crumpled before he could stop it. “This?”
Max gestured around them. The kitchen. The bottles drying beside the sink; the same ones Max bought and let the twins pick their favourite. The toys scattered beneath the table; Max was playing with the twins with them just that morning.
The twins. George. “All of it.”
George stared. Max exhaled. “Every time I come back here, I’m reminded of everything I fucked up.”
“They’re not something you fucked up,” George said, his hands shaking with the emotions.
“I didn’t say they were.”
“You just pointed at them while saying it. It sure looked like it.”
“I pointed at this life.”
“They are this life!”
Max’s voice sharpened. “And I don’t want it!”
Silence fell. Bastiaan stopped babbling. George looked at him instinctively. Max saw it. For a fraction of a second, regret flickered across his face. Then it disappeared beneath irritation.
“There. Once again you're proving how much of a mistake it was to let it go on for so long.”
George turned back. “What?”
“Like I’ve kicked a puppy. You change your entire face and posture. Like... playing the victim is in your blood at that point, huh?”
“You just said you don’t want our children.”
“I said I don’t want this.”
“They can hear you.”
“They’re one!”
“Stop shouting.”
“You don’t get to tell me what to do.”
George closed his eyes. “Fine.” Max picked up the bag. George whispered one final time. “Max, please. Try. For them. Just try.”
Max stopped at the door. When he looked back, his face was hard. “If you were a better Alpha, maybe I’d want to stay.” George went completely still. Max continued. “Maybe if coming home to you didn’t feel like walking into a funeral every fucking day, I’d actually want to be here.” George could not speak. “You wanted to prove you could handle everything?” Max jerked his chin toward the twins. “Handle it.”
Then he walked out. Bastiaan immediately started crying, face red and hands reaching for his Dad, who just decided he wasn't worth the trouble of balancing a career and raising children at once.
George stood in the kitchen for several seconds, staring at the door. Then he crossed the room and picked his son up. “Hey, hey.” His voice shook. Bastiaan buried his face against George’s neck. Ophelia reached toward them from her high chair. George picked her up too.
Both babies settled awkwardly against him. George pressed his face into their hair. He did not allow himself to cry until they did.
The first time somebody called George a failed Alpha in public, he was pushing the twins through a supermarket.
Bastiaan was asleep beneath a pale blue blanket. Ophelia was awake, chewing furiously on the strap of a toy George had attached to the pram specifically because she had entered a phase where everything placed within reach immediately ended up on the floor.
George was comparing two brands of baby food when he heard the whisper behind him. He ignored it. People could be talking about anything; it was not his business. He put away one of the cans when he heard a laugh. Once again, he tried to explain to himself that it probably wasn't about him and that he was being paranoid.
“So that's the boy? The one whose Omega left him, didn’t they?”
George’s fingers tightened around the jar of gherkins, tips of his fingers going white.
“Apparently.”
“The Omega left him with the pups? Didn't even take them?”
“Shame, right? ” A pause. “Jesus. What kind of Alpha gets left with children? Couldn't even keep the Omega for his children.”
George put the jar into the basket. He kept walking.
“Must have been useless. He looks the part. Whimsy and so thin. Not like an Alpha.”
“Or controlling. They get more and more controlling because Omegas got more freedom. Thinking it's still the Middle Ages.”
“Well, Omegas don’t leave good Alphas.” George’s hand closed so tightly around the pram handle that his knuckles turned white.
Ophelia looked up at him. George immediately relaxed his grip. He smiled down at her. “There you are. Finished with the toy? ” His voice sounded normal. He had become very good at sounding normal.
Behind him somebody whispered another word George refused to acknowledge. He pushed the pram toward the next aisle. That was how it began. The rumours spread more quickly than truth ever could.
People knew there was a teenage Alpha with twins and an absent Omega.
They did not know Max’s identity. George made certain of that. So people filled the gaps themselves.
Maybe George had been violent.
Maybe he had been possessive.
Maybe he had failed to provide.
Maybe his Omega had run because George was weak.
Maybe his Omega had realised they could do better.
When Bastiaan got obsessed with cars and karting, the parents from the events joined the gossip circles. They whispered about the young driver with two pups left in his care because he failed as an Alpha so much his Omega actually left him.
At school, people stared. Other teenagers were less subtle.
“Couldn’t keep your Omega, Russell?”
“Bit embarrassing.”
“Two pups and they still fucked off?”
Someone once laughed and asked whether being abandoned meant George technically counted as “half an Alpha.” George walked away.
He always walked away. Because if he hit somebody, there would be questions. There could be police and social services informed, and he couldn't lose the twins. If there were questions, someone might start digging.
If somebody dug deeply enough, they might find Max. And if they found Max, they found the reason why he left. So George protected him.
That was perhaps the greatest humiliation of all. He protected the person who had abandoned him.
One afternoon, someone asked directly whether the children’s Omega had left because George “couldn’t satisfy one enough to make them stay.” George got into the bus. He went home. He made it through the front door before he ran to the bathroom and vomited.
Hours later, Bastiaan announced that he hated peas. Or at least eating them, because he was throwing them everywhere. Ophelia wanted the blue cup instead of the green one and began crying when George could not immediately find it. George washed his face. Then he made dinner.
That was the thing nobody told him about heartbreak. Life did not stop to accommodate it. Humiliation did not wash bottles. Abandonment did not soothe fevers. Cruelty did not care whether George had training at six the next morning. So George kept going.
When Williams announced George as a Formula One driver, the official photographs showed a young man with carefully styled hair, immaculate team clothing and a composed smile suggesting his life had travelled along a perfectly straight road toward that moment.
George looked at the photographs later and barely recognised himself. He had made it. Somehow. Through school and racing and bottles and nursery illnesses and whispered insults and two children who seemed genetically incapable of sleeping through the same night, George had made it to Formula One. Without almost any help because he was forced to move away from his home town due to people becoming more and more cruel and his parents being less and less accepting about it.
By then, Bastiaan and Ophelia were old enough to understand that Dad drove very fast cars for work and young enough to believe Formula One hospitality existed primarily to provide them with biscuits. The paddock began learning George again.
Not as the teenage Alpha people had once whispered about. Not as the boy pushing a pram through supermarkets while strangers tried to decide what he had done to make his Omega leave. But as George Russell. Formula One driver.
Max appeared to hate that almost immediately. At first, he ignored George. That suited George perfectly. They could cross the same paddock without acknowledging one another, attend briefings without speaking and exist in the strange reality of being legally binded while behaving like distant acquaintances.
Then Max began making comments. Small ones at first. The kind people could dismiss as competitive banter. They crossed paths after George’s first proper appearance in team colours.
Max looked him up and down. “You made it.”
George smiled politely. “Seems so.”
“Took you long enough.” George continued walking.
After a difficult test session, Max passed him near hospitality. “Williams must be desperate.” George did not stop.
A few weeks later, George produced a surprisingly strong qualifying result. Max found him near the weighing area. “Enjoy it.” George looked over. Max smiled faintly. “Probably won’t happen again.” George stared at him for a second. Then he shrugged. “We’ll see.” The indifference seemed to irritate Max more than anger would have.
The comments sharpened.
One afternoon, when they happened to find themselves alone in a corridor, Max leaned against the wall and watched George approach. “Still doing the sad abandoned Alpha thing?”
George stopped. “What?”
“You know.” Max gestured vaguely. “The tragic Alpha. Raising the poor little children alone. Very heroic.”
George’s face went blank. “I don’t talk about you.”
“No. You just let everyone assume whatever makes you look best. Playing a victim was always easy, huh?”
“I have never told anyone who their other parent is.”
“Wow, what a fucking sacrifice.”
George stared at him. Max stepped closer. “You know everyone thinks you’re interesting because of them, right?”
George’s jaw tightened. “My children? You think I'd use them to get pity? Or whatever?”
“The whole story.” Max smiled. “Teen father. Abandoned Alpha. Poor George doing everything alone. It’s marketable.”
“You think I wanted that?”
“I think you like sympathy.”
George’s expression hardened. Max continued. “You always did.”
George walked past him. Max called after him. “Don’t worry. Maybe Williams will keep you around because the family story tests well.”
George did not turn around. His hands shook for several minutes afterwards. Then he went to pick up the twins, got them home, cooked dinner, praised the pictures they drew and towers they built, fed them, bathed them and put them to bed. It was not worth crying over something that wasn't going to change his reality.
Bastiaan’s first proper karting race happened on a Sunday morning that began with rain against George’s bedroom window and Bastiaan standing beside his bed at five twelve, fully dressed.
George opened his eyes slowly. For several seconds, he did not understand why there was a small person hovering beside him in the grey morning light. He frowned and blinked, thinking it was a part of the dream he was having.
Then Bastiaan leaned closer. “Dad.”
George closed his eyes again. “No. Bas, please tell me it is an emergency.”
“Dad.”
“It is five in the morning; whatever you are going to say better be an emergency.”
There was a pause. George could feel his son continuing to stare at him. “Dad.”
“Bastiaan.”
“We have to leave, or we will be late!”
George cracked one eye open and found his son already wearing the little racing suit they had collected from the karting club several days earlier. It hung slightly too loosely from his narrow shoulders, the sleeves nearly reaching his elbows, and he had apparently attempted to do something to his own hair because several damp strands were plastered strangely across his forehead. George was hit by a memory of Max, who looked similar at one of the races.
George stared at him. “What time does your race start?”
“Nine.”
“And what time did I say we were leaving?”
“Seven thirty.” Bastiaan sounded proud that he remembered the time. George sighed and closed his eyes and reached blindly toward his bedside table and found his phone. Five twelve. He turned the screen toward Bastiaan. His son looked at it. “But what if there's traffic?”
George pushed himself upright and caught Bastiaan gently around the waist before the boy could continue. “Come here.” Bastiaan protested automatically when George pulled him onto the edge of the bed, but the resistance disappeared quickly enough. George rubbed a hand over his face and looked at him properly.
The excitement was obvious. So were the nerves. Bastiaan’s fingers were worrying at the hem of his polo, twisting the fabric around and around until George reached down and carefully freed it.
“You know what today is?”
“My first race.”
“No.” Bastiaan frowned. George smiled. “It’s the first time you get to find out whether you actually enjoy racing other people.”
“I already know I enjoy it.” The boy protested.
“You enjoy driving.”
“I like overtaking too.” He grinned.
“You have overtaken three children in practice sessions.”
“Four.”
“Benjamin spun. Doesn't count.”
“That still counts.”
“It absolutely does not.” George laughed. Bastiaan smiled despite himself. George reached up and smoothed his disastrous hair back from his forehead. “Today is not about winning. If you finish last,” George repeated, “I will be exactly as proud of you as I would be if you finished first.”
Bastiaan gave him the deeply sceptical expression only children seemed capable of producing. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“It makes perfect sense,” George said, his eyes more open.
“First is better than last.”
“For racing, yes.” George tapped him gently on the chest. “For this? No. Remember that everyone would like to be first. But that does not mean you should do it no matter what.” Bastiaan blinked and nodded, looking down at his hands. “I want you to listen to the marshals, listen to your coach, drive properly and have fun. I don’t care what number appears beside your name afterwards.”
A sleepy voice came from the doorway. “You’re both very loud.”
George looked over. Ophelia stood there wrapped in her duvet, her hair sticking out in several directions and a deeply unimpressed expression on her face.
Bastiaan immediately announced, “It’s race day.”
“I know. You helped me with the poster yesterday.” She climbed into the bed as well, lying her head on George's stomach.
“You should be excited.”
Ophelia yawned. “I will be excited after breakfast.”
Within seconds, George had one child pressed against either side. He looked toward the ceiling.
Five seventeen in the morning.
He had once believed Formula One would be the most exhausting lifestyle available to him. He had been extremely naive.
The rain had stopped during their drive, but the asphalt remained dark and damp, reflecting the pale morning sky in uneven patches. Temporary awnings had been erected beside trailers and vans, folding chairs crowded beneath them, and parents moved between tables carrying helmets, gloves, boxes of tools, water bottles and enough equipment to suggest every seven-year-old present was about to contest a world championship rather than a regional novice race.
The smell reached George before they were properly through the gate. Wet grass. Fuel. Rubber. Coffee.
For a moment, memory caught him unexpectedly. Not Formula One. Earlier than that.
Cold mornings with his own father. Gloves too big for his hands. Standing beside a kart while adults discussed things over his head. That peculiar combination of excitement and terror that came from wanting something badly enough that losing it seemed catastrophic.
Ophelia stood on George’s other side wearing bright ear defenders around her neck and holding a small backpack against her chest.
She observed the chaos. Then she looked at George. “This is very disorganised.”
George laughed. “It is actually extremely organised.”
Bastiaan came toward him already wearing his suit and carrying his helmet beneath one arm. George looked him over, checking if the suit was put on correctly, if everything was zipped and buttoned.
He crouched. “Comfortable?”
“Yes.”
“Gloves fit?”
“Yes.”
“Helmet?”
“Yes.”
“Had water?” Bastiaan hesitated. George raised an eyebrow. “I had some.” His son looked toward the circuit. The nerves had returned.
George saw them immediately. He rested both hands on Bastiaan’s shoulders. “Hey.” Bastiaan looked up. “You don’t have to prove anything today. Remember? It's all about you actually wanting to race, okay?” George smiled. “Go drive your kart.”
That finally worked. Bastiaan’s mouth curved upward. “Okay.”
George kissed the top of his helmet before Bastiaan could protest.
“Dad.”
“You’re seven. I’m allowed.”
“People can see.”
“Excellent.”
George had expected to be nervous. He had not expected to feel physically ill. He stood behind the barrier with his arms folded tightly across his chest while the karts completed their formation lap, trying very hard not to become the person who shouted instructions a child could not possibly hear through a helmet and an engine.
Bastiaan qualified fifth.
When the race started, the drizzle returned, but it was not too strong for the organisers to pause or cancel the race. The karts moved a little slower, the children more cautious. Bastiaan managed to overtake two of his karting friends at once on turn one. Bastiaan held third when the older boys tried to overtake him on straights. When the chequered flag fell, he crossed the line less than half a second ahead of fourth place.
George laughed, clapping his hands with the rest of the people around. It didn't matter that it was not first place. What mattered was the way Bastiaan immediately punched one little fist into the air once he had slowed enough to realise where he had finished.
By the time Bastiaan climbed out of the kart, George was already waiting. The boy tore his helmet off. His hair was flattened completely to his forehead, his cheeks bright red with heat and excitement.
“Dad!” George barely had time to open his arms. Bastiaan crashed into him. George caught him and lifted him straight off the ground. “Third!”
“I know!”
“I overtook two people!”
“I also saw that.”
“The second one nearly pushed me off!”
“I noticed.”
George put him down but kept both hands on his shoulders. Bastiaan was breathing too quickly, words falling over each other. “I thought I was going to lose it because there was water and then I saw he went too far outside, and I thought if I stayed in maybe I could get through, and then I did, and—”
“Bas.” The boy stopped. George smiled at him. “Congratulations.” Bastiaan beamed. George pulled him into another hug. “I’m proud of you.”
The podium was a plastic structure erected beside the clubhouse and barely high enough that George would have needed to bend slightly to step onto it. To Bastiaan, it might as well have been Monaco. He climbed onto the third-place step carrying a little trophy no larger than his hand and smiled so widely that George felt something tighten painfully behind his ribs.
George took several photographs. He needed a reminder for the future of how happy his son was. Bastiaan lifted the trophy. George forgot about everything else.
He did not notice the woman several metres away looking at him repeatedly.
He did not notice her quietly saying his name to the man beside her.
He did not notice the phone being lifted.
That evening, they returned home after promised dinner and Ophelia immediately went to sleep, while Bastiaan polished the award and put it into bed with him. George finally looked at the messages from Alex and frowned when he saw a link to one of the gossip pages. He opened the link.
A photograph loaded. George recognised himself immediately. He was standing beside the little podium, hands shoved into the pockets of his coat while Bastiaan smiled above him.
The caption was innocent enough.
Did not expect to see George Russell at our local karting event today! Apparently his little boy was racing. Kid came P3 in his first race and George looked more nervous than any F1 weekend 😂
Then the phone vibrated again. George should have left it. He picked it up. The comments had multiplied.
Somebody had reposted the photographs onto another account with considerably more followers.
GEORGE RUSSELL SPOTTED AT SON’S FIRST KARTING RACE
The replies beneath that were worse.
Of course he has the kid racing already. Alpha dads and their legacy obsession 🙄
Heard from somewhere the Omega parent left them. Leaving your mate is one thing, leaving the pups is disgusting. Especially that young, George was taking care of them on his own
Russell couldn't even keep an Omega and now he's trying to manufacture the next generation 😂
A soft noise came from the hallway. George looked up. Bastiaan stood near the stairs. His hair was flattened on one side from sleep, his pyjamas wrinkled and rolled up on one leg.
George straightened immediately. “Hey. What are you doing awake?”
Bastiaan walked into the room. “I forgot something.”
“At eleven at night?” The boy climbed onto the sofa beside him. George automatically lifted one arm so Bastiaan could tuck himself against his side. “What did you forget?”
Bastiaan looked at the trophy in his lap. “To ask if third is actually good.”
George’s chest tightened. “Bas.”
“Because Benjamin said his dad told him podium only matters if it’s first.”
George felt anger flash through him so quickly that he had to actively soften his expression. “Well, Benjamin’s dad is wrong.”
Bastiaan looked up. “Really?”
“Yes.”
“Even though you’re a proper driver?”
“Especially because I’m a proper driver. Third is as good as second or first. Especially on the first race. Do you know how many races I’ve done where I would have happily taken third?”
Bastiaan considered it.
“A lot?”
“An embarrassing number.” That earned a tiny smile.
Bastiaan leaned against him more heavily. “Can I race again?”
There was no hesitation in George’s answer. “If you want to.”
“What if I’m bad next time?”
“Then you’re bad next time.” George shrugged and kissed his head. “There's no rule saying that you need to be good all the time. You learn if you lose; you learn when you win. Just don't be too sure you can win. There are always things we can't control that can mess up the race, okay?”
George walked him back to bed, tucked the duvet around him and placed the little trophy once again on the bedside table. Before George left, Bastiaan reached for his wrist. “Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“Next time I’m getting second.”
George smiled. “Go to sleep.”
“And then first.”
“Bastiaan.”
“I’m just saying.”
George switched off the lamp. In the darkness, his son’s voice came one final time. “You’ll still come if I’m last, right?”
George stopped at the doorway. He looked back at the little shape beneath the duvet, barely visible in the dim light spilling from the hallway. There were promises George had learned not to make lightly. This was one of them.
“Every time.”