Chapter Text
The door to the stewards’ room clicked shut behind them.
George could still feel the tension in his jaw, his palms sweaty where he’d clasped them tight in his lap. He hated every second of being in there—hated the way Max sat across from him, jaw tight, arms crossed, eyes burning holes through his skull.
He started down the narrow hallway, trying to calm the thudding of his heart.
But Max’s voice sliced through the silence behind him.
“You think you’re clever, huh?”
George didn’t stop walking. “Not now, Max.”
But Max’s footsteps picked up speed, his shoes striking the floor hard and fast. In the next second, a hand clamped down on George’s shoulder and spun him around.
“You really think you can smile at me, joke with me, and then stab me in the back like that?” Max growled, his grip tight.
George yanked his arm free, glaring. “Get your hands off me.”
“You’re two-faced,” Max spat, his voice rising. “You’ve got everyone fooled with that polite little act, but you’re just a snake waiting for the right moment to bite.”
George barked out a bitter laugh. “You’re one to talk about biting. You’re the biggest hypocrite in this paddock, Max. You do whatever the hell you want and expect everyone else to fall in line behind you like you’re God’s gift to Formula One.”
Max stepped closer, so close George had to tilt his chin up slightly to hold his gaze.
“I expect people to race fair,” Max hissed. “Not to run crying to the stewards the second they feel hard done by. You couldn’t beat me on track, so you went whining off-track instead. Congratulations, George—you’ve got your little penalty. Feel proud?”
George’s nostrils flared, his chest heaving. “You blocked me in the pit lane. It was dangerous and you know it.”
“It wasn’t dangerous,” Max snapped. “You had space. You just didn’t like that I was in front of you, and now you’ve played politics to fix it.”
“Politics?!” George’s voice cracked. “This isn’t politics, it’s the rules. You think because you’re Max Verstappen the rules don’t apply to you.”
Max’s lips curled into a smirk that didn’t reach his eyes. “The rules don’t apply to me. That’s why I’m a world champion, and you’re still just… George Russell.”
George’s stomach twisted. He shoved Max hard in the chest, but Max barely stumbled back.
Max stepped closer again, close enough that George could see the faint sweat still clinging to his collarbone. “If you had a problem, you could’ve said it to my face like a man.”
“I am saying it to your face,” George shot back. “You’re a bully, Max. You’ve always been a bully.”
Max’s lips curled into a mocking smirk. “Careful, George. You’re lucky we’re not on track right now. Otherwise I’d put your head in the fucking wall.”
George’s breath caught. The paddock around them felt too quiet suddenly, too heavy.
“Do it,” George said, his voice low but shaking slightly. “Go on. Prove me right.”
Max’s nostrils flared. He took another step forward, until George was backed up against the side of the Mercedes motorhome.
“You’re such a pain in the ass,” Max growled.
“Go to hell,” George spat back.
Max laughed, low and sharp. “Oh, I’ll see you there, sweetheart.”
George stiffened as Max stepped forward again, pressing him back against the wall. Their noses nearly brushed, the heat rolling off Max’s body suffocating.
“You know what your problem is?” Max murmured. His voice was softer now, but it was no less dangerous. “You act like you’re all calm and composed, but you’re just as desperate as the rest of us. Desperate for wins. Desperate to prove you belong here.”
“Fuck you,” George said, though his voice was quieter this time, the words catching in his throat.
Max’s eyes flicked down George’s face—to his lips—and then back up again.
For one terrible second, George thought he was going to do something insane.
But Max pulled back, a sharp breath leaving his nose.
“I’ll be taking that position back on Sunday anyway,” Max said coldly. “So enjoy your little victory while it lasts.”
George clenched his fists so tight his knuckles went white.
“Stay out of my way, Verstappen,” he said, forcing his voice steady.
Max smirked again, but there was something darker in his eyes now.
“Not a chance.”
And then he was gone, striding down the hallway with his shoulders stiff and his jaw tight, leaving George standing there, chest heaving, heart pounding too hard.
The silence was deafening.
George lay flat on his back, chest heaving, his skin slick with sweat and still tingling where Max’s hands had held him down. He stared at the ceiling like it might have answers, but all he saw was the mess of what they’d just done.
What he’d just done.
Max shifted beside him. The mattress dipped with his weight as he sat up, raking a hand through his damp hair. His broad shoulders were rising and falling with each uneven breath.
Neither of them spoke.
George wanted to say something—anything—but his throat felt tight, words lodged somewhere between anger and shame. He clenched the sheets in his fists, trying to ground himself, but his heart kept hammering like it hadn’t gotten the memo that it was over.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not with him.
Not with Max Verstappen.
“Don’t look at me like that.”
George blinked, startled. Max’s voice was low, sharp, but there was something frayed at the edges of it.
“I’m not looking at you,” George shot back reflexively.
Max turned slightly, his eyes catching the dim hotel light. They were still dark, intense, but softer now than they had been all night.
“This doesn’t mean anything,” Max said.
The words landed heavy in George’s stomach, even though he’d already been telling himself the same thing.
“I know,” George replied, his voice tighter than he meant it to be.
Max’s gaze lingered on him for a beat too long, then he swung his legs off the bed and stood. He moved around the room in silence, collecting his shirt from where it had been flung onto the floor.
George forced himself to sit up, tugging the rumpled sheets around his waist. His whole body ached in ways he wasn’t ready to think about.
“You could’ve just left me alone, you know,” George muttered.
Max paused in the middle of pulling his shirt on. “Could’ve. Didn’t.”
The quiet that followed was worse than the fight they’d had earlier.
Max didn’t look back as he finished dressing. He moved to the door, his hand hovering over the handle for a moment.
“You know I’ll still take that position back on Sunday,” he said, his voice smooth again, like he hadn’t just unraveled George entirely a few minutes ago.
George smirked bitterly. “Try not to get another penalty while you’re at it.”
That earned him a low chuckle from Max, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
“Goodnight, Russell.”
The door clicked shut behind him.
George exhaled shakily and buried his face in his hands.
It didn’t mean anything. It couldn’t.
So why did it feel like the ground had shifted beneath him?
This didn't mean anything. It wouldn't change anything.
God, how wrong he had been.