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It was late October; Mexico City dressed itself in an almost mystical orange thanks to cempasúchil flowers, while the fragrance of copal flooded the streets. That could only mean two things: that Day of the Dead was just around the corner and, therefore, it was Mexico GP week.
All the drivers were lodged at the St. Regis hotel on Reforma Avenue, the most luxurious hotel in the entire city. As he looked out at the scenery through the large window of his room, Max couldn’t help feeling a tingling rush through his whole body, everything here felt so familiar, it felt like him, it felt like Checo.
He tried to shake off that feeling by unpacking his luggage. When he opened the largest suitcase, he came face to face with his orange helmet, the helmet he had promised to his pequitas.
-Damn it, Max Emilian.- he muttered to himself in annoyance.
He picked up the helmet and sat on the edge of the bed to contemplate it. His heart began to pound as if it were about to burst from his chest; just the thought of seeing Checo again made him shudder. Almost a year without having him in front of him, almost a year without hearing him, almost a year without being able to see his blue eyes reflected in Sergio’s pupils, creating a green blend.
Max had realized what he felt far too late. He loved Checo, but that conclusion didn’t come until he watched him leave the paddock that night in Abu Dhabi and felt a terrible anxiety that tormented him for weeks.
The last thing they shared was a rather awkward “See you soon” that left an absence and a paralyzing chill on the Dutchman’s lips. Max knew that after such an unjustified dismissal, Sergio would hate everything related to Red Bull, and that included him.
He had kept his distance, often spending sleepless nights going over every new post on Checo’s Instagram while drinking gin and tonics like water. He looked so happy, so young, so free, so handsome. Max couldn’t help regretting having realized his feelings so late. He tried several times to think of an excuse to reenter his life, but always ended up deleting the message.
“Hi Checo, are you in Monaco? Let’s grab a drink.”
“Hiii, where can I buy your tequila?”
“Checo! I’ve got extra paddock passes for Miami, wanna come?”
“Checo, do you remember how you set up your DRS last season? I was looking for a recommendation.”
“HEEEEY that SHIrT,looks uglEY., take iT of.” That last one had been during a drunken night with Yuki, but thankfully the Japanese driver stopped him.
Until August 26th, when the universe handed him an opportunity on a silver platter: “Sergio Pérez and Valtteri Bottas new drivers for Cadillac in 2026.”
The Dutch lion inside him exploded. At that moment he was in his Monaco apartment with his kittens on his lap, and when the notification came in he jumped off the couch.
-Godverdomme, dit is goed!
His heart began to race like never before; he felt the emptiness he’d carried since the start of the season beginning to be filled. Life was giving him another chance. Just imagining Checo walking through the garages again, in a black suit…
He brought his hands to his now-flushed face and started to scream while kicking his legs. He might be a beast on top of his f1 car but outside of it he was nothing more than a shy, lovestruck kid.
It didn’t take long for him to write a message; he couldn’t wait any longer.
Pequitas <3
“Checo, congratulations on your new contract! This hasn’t felt the same without you…”
Dead nervous, he pressed send. It seemed that after months of complete silence, Max wasn’t the only one who missed that friendship; Sergio took less than two minutes to reply with his usual warmth.
“Thank you very much, leoncito. I’ve missed you like hell, man... next season you definitely won’t get rid of me.”
Max lost his pulse; he’d practically died of a heart attack at the immediate reply, but his eyes locked onto that… “leoncito.”
He began to hyperventilate. He hadn’t thought he’d get this far. Now what was he supposed to do? Nervous, hands shaking, he opened ChatGPT and asked: “How can I flirt by text with a Mexican I haven’t seen in a long time if I’m Dutch? Short and easy.”
He read quickly, without blinking, until he found the answer: “Suggest a discreet date with some excuse; if you add tacos afterward, even better.” That would work.
“We still owe each other the helmet exchange! Think we could meet during Mexico GP week?”
Max grabbed a nearby plush toy and squeezed it out of nerves; a huge scratch snapped him out of it, and he realized he’d been crushing his kitten—he was beside himself.
His blue eyes fixed on the three little dots trembling on Sergio’s side of the chat, until suddenly…
“haha yeah,” was all he replied.
The Dutchman let out a sigh. “Is that it?” He waited several more minutes with the chat open; no more messages from the Mexican.
That casual confirmation alone had been enough for him to bring a helmet from the other side of the world and count the days one by one, waiting for the agreed date to arrive. Even if he only saw him for a second, it would have been worth it.
He got up from the bed, leaving the helmet on it, and went back to the large window. “Checo… my pequitas. Where could you be?” he sighed, leaving his handprint on the glass.
Nostalgia hit him, and he began to remember all the times Sergio had shared a little piece of his country with him. From filming marketing videos eating traditional dishes to the intimacy that existed when Checo tenderly shared memories of his childhood.
A silly smile slipped out; he was completely in love with his former teammate. Captivated by every detail: his soft curls that used to fall over his ears and settle in waves, his sweet freckles scattered like constellations, his divine brown eyes that turned green when mixed with Max’s blue ones, his comforting smile, his ever-woody scent from refined fragrances.
Max didn’t know if Checo felt the same, he didn’t even know if he was gay, but he couldn’t waste this opportunity by staying in his room watching the city move on while he remained still.
Determined, he pulled his phone from his pocket and called him. When the ringing stopped, Max realized what he’d done and fell silent.
"Max?” came from Sergio’s mouth, and even without seeing him he could tell by the tone that there was a smile on his face. That mexican hot accent again.
“Ch-Checouh… I’m sorry… I didn’t…” He began to tremble saying his name, his mind freezing up.
“I taught you Spanish for four years for you to forget it in just one. I know you can do it, leoncito. Say Checo, not Checouh.” His mischievous giggle didn’t get picked up by the microphone.
The Dutchman’s heart sped up faster than on any corner; he loved it when Sergio used that tone with him. “Sorry, Checo, I just wanted… wanted to see if the helmet exchange is still on, I’m already in Mexico.”
A turn signal clicked from the Mexican’s line; he seemed to be driving. If Max were in his place, he would’ve already crashed into a pole. “Are you at the St. Regis?”
Max nodded with a grunt that might’ve sounded a bit suggestive. He immediately covered his mouth. “What the hell is wrong with me?!”, he thought.
“Okay, lencito.”
There is a saying in spanish that goes: "The devil knows more because he’s old than because he’s the devil", and that applied perfectly to Sergio. He had noticed Max’s attraction to him from day one, but he’d limited himself to teasing him and waiting for the younger one to realize it on his own. By then, Checo would welcome him with all the desire he’d repressed for four long years.
“Look, Max, I’m on my way to a meeting with some sponsors; I should be out around eight in the evening. Will you be free by then?”
“Yes, yes!” the answer burst out desperately. “I need you, Checo…”
Max blinked a few times before realizing what he’d said. “I need you… to deliver the helmet! I don’t have room to take it back.”
Sergio laughed proudly; he’d hit the spot. “See you at the St. Regis then. Until tonight, leoncito.”
Max couldn’t take it anymore; he hung up without saying goodbye and ran to bury himself in the pillows to scream. After a few minutes, he lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, sinking into his thoughts.
It was Thursday; he only had to film some marketing stuff with Yuki and he’d be free all afternoon. He had to plan something special for Sergio; he needed to taste those pink lips that very night or he’d take it out during the next day’s practice by crashing George into the wall.
He stood up and shook his head to snap out of it, the sooner he finished his tasks, the better. He headed to the dressing room to take off his travel clothes and put on his Red Bull kit.
As he pulled off the hoodie he was wearing, he noticed his chest bristling more than usual. Alarmed, he stepped up to a full-length mirror, and immediately his gaze landed on his crotch.
“Fuck… me…” he brought a hand to his mouth.
If his underwear had tightened like that from just a phone call, he was going to have to work very hard on his self-control that night.
Max was back at the hotel by 06:30 p.m. He ran into his room and dropped everything he was carrying onto the bed. He immediately headed to the bathroom to take a shower and do whatever he could with his hair.
As the hot water ran over his body, he looked at the different types of shampoo available to him. He decided to mix them all together, hoping for some miraculous effect, but all he managed was being unable to rinse the foam out for ten minutes. “Verdomme, Max Emilian!” he scolded himself for being so creative.
When he finished, he wrapped himself in a towel and ran for his phone. 7:15 p.m. “AHHHHHHHHH!” he burst out furiously and ran to the closet.
Red Bull T-shirt, Red Bull T-shirt, Red Bull jacket, Red Bull T-shirt, Red Bull hoodie.
Desperate, he massaged his temple, only now realizing how limited his wardrobe was. He didn’t have time to go to a mall and buy a shirt, so he put on a robe and stepped out into the hotel hallway.
On the doors of each room was the name of each driver; he began walking, looking for someone who could lend him something to wear.
10-22 Yuki Tsunoda, too small.
10-16 Charles Leclerc, not his style.
10-43 Franco Colapinto. By the time Franco finished chattering, Checo would already be gone. Not an option.
10-04 Lando Norris, no way in hell.
10-63 George Russell, he wouldn’t even open the door.
10-55 Carlos Sainz, that would work.
He hurried over and knocked anxiously. “Carlos, it’s Max, I need a favor!”
Sainz opened the door; his thick eyebrows rose and his eyes scanned him from top to bottom. “Max, mate, you know I appreciate you, but I’ve never seen you as anything more than a good friend.”
Verstappen grabbed him by the collar and shook him. “I urgently need clothes for a date, Carlos! Something elegant, size M, please.”
Sainz let out a little laugh and leaned against the doorframe. “Since when do you go on dates, Max Emilian? I don’t think you should dress that formally for the dentist.”
“CHECO ARRIVES IN HALF AN HOUR, CARLOS!”
The Spaniard’s cockiness vanished instantly and he hurried his friend into the room. This was serious.
“You absolute idiot, Max! Go dry your hair while I find you an outfit, put on ALL the creams I have in the bathroom.” Carlos immediately jumped to his wardrobe; helping him would be a personal challenge.
Ten minutes to eight. Sainz was already putting on the final touches. Max had to admit the Spaniard had miraculous hands.
His eyebrows were perfectly shaped; he’d left him a subtle beard that sharpened his jawline. His hair felt silkier than ever, his eyelashes slightly curled, giving a prettier glow to his bluish gaze.
He had dressed him in perfectly pressed beige trousers that flattered his figure, and a white shirt not fully buttoned, highlighting the paleness of his skin and the pink of his full lips.
“I’m a fucking genius, Max. I should quit F1 and become an image consultant,” Carlos said with a proud laugh as he doused him in his cologne.
“I have to go now, Carlos. Checo shouldn’t take long to arrive. We’re meeting for a helmet exchange.”
The Spaniard stepped back, his playful expression turning completely serious. “You made me get you ready… like a damn Vogue model… to exchange helmets?”
“Carlos, I—”
“It would be better if you exchange fluids, more fun. Just don’t make too much noise or Lewis will get grumpy,” he said while walking away to get a matching pair of shoes, indifferent.
Max froze, all the blood rushing to his face, making him blush. “Sainz, please!”
“Shut up, put the shoes on and go. Did you plan anything for dinner?” He came back into the room and placed the pair in front of him.
“I didn’t have time…”
“I’ll take care of getting you something. Now go already.”
Sainz tried to keep acting annoyed, but his frown relaxed the moment he received an unexpected hug.
“Thank you, Carlos. I don’t know what I would’ve done without you, you’re incredible.”
“Now go, you fucking virgin.” He couldn’t hide his little laugh
.
Max ran to the door, and before closing it completely he shot back, “Not for much longer!”
The Dutchman only managed to tidy up his room a bit before hearing the door being knocked on. He felt his legs stop working at that moment, let out a cracked “I’m coming!”—damn it, how that thirty-something Mexican made him nervous.
He hid the helmet under the bed, ran to the mirror and tried to minimally fix his hair. Before opening the door he took a deep breath. “Je kunt het, Max Emilian.”
And of course he couldn’t; it was enough to lock eyes with Sergio to never want to leave that spot again—again that spark, again that green tone that was only created when they were very close to one another.
Checo was dressed quite formally: a white shirt with a tie, a navy-blue blazer fitted at the waist, beige trousers and white sneakers. He was also carrying a paper bag in his hand. Max couldn’t help but take a step back; it was like seeing him again for the first time.
“Checo…” he sighed in a soft, nostalgic tone.
“Maxie…” he replied with a warm, confident smile.
Sergio had changed quite a bit since that unfinished evening in Abu Dhabi. His skin looked tanned—not reddish like a clumsy burn, but a beautiful golden tone that made his freckles stand out. In his eyes reigned a peace and happiness Max hadn’t seen since before Brazil ’22; the immaculate sweetness with which he had met him in his pre–Red Bull era had returned. His chubby cheeks were pressed together by his smile; Max adored them with all his soul, dotted with various freckles that made Sergio’s eyes squint, making him look sweeter. And his hair… his curls so pure and authentic, a brown combined with lighter highlights, probably because of seawater and sun.
The advantage Checo thought he had over the young Dutchman was lost just as he lost himself in his gaze. He noticed a certain sadness in that blue, regret, submission, a need to ask forgiveness for something he hadn’t done but at the same time a reproach like a “Why did you leave me alone?” His pink lips trembled anxiously as if begging to dance with his own. Like someone who leaves something behind and then comes back for it, Checo immediately searched for the mole on Max’s upper lip that he had contemplated so many times, it was still there. He longed to take him by the face and caress his cheeks with his thumb. The blond in his hair looked lighter; he could swear that before him stood a fairy-tale prince, and Sergio longed to be his king.
“May I come in?” the Mexican finally dared to say to break the ice; otherwise the two of them would have stayed staring at each other for hours.
“Oh yes, come in, you must be tired from so much work.” Max took three steps back and made room for Checo to enter.
Sergio let out another smile as he scanned the room with his gaze.
“What are you laughing at?” he asked, closing the door.
“It’s just that I never thought I’d be back in your room during a GP…” Checo walked around slowly, wanting to analyze every detail in case something had changed since he left. Shortly after, he opened one of the closets near the bed and a pile of clothes fell to the floor. “And you’re still just as messy at every race,” he laughed, trying to hide his face.
“Checo, that—don’t look at that!” Max ran up to him and grabbed his arm to try to distract him.
Again that green spark in their gazes, that poetic fusion that made both their hearts explode, that almost cannibalistic need to consume one another in order to always remain together.
“I brought this,” Sergio lifted the paper bag he was carrying. “I can’t give you one of my helmets because they’re all in Guadalajara, but as temporary compensation I brought a good bottle of wine.”
The tension in the air was enough to fog up the large window. They needed each other, truly did, and that made the fear of making a mistake and losing each other even greater. For now, they had to control themselves.
Max took out the bottle and didn’t take long to recognize it. “Checo…” his eyes lit up with sweetness and his brows arched, softening his gaze even more. “This is a St Martinus Cuvée Texere, how…?”
Sergio smiled and for the first time succumbed to the nerves Max caused him. “Oh, I… I have some friends who export wine from all over the world. I asked them if they had any from the Netherlands and they recommended that one. Do you like it?”
Verstappen smiled; his lips seemed to grow pinker by the second, or perhaps it was just the hunger Checo felt for them. “It’s my favorite wine.”
“So will it work as compensation for not giving you one of my helmets?” Sergio winked.
The younger one nodded. “I’ll keep waiting for your helmet, but this works as a prepayment.”
Max walked over to the small kitchen included in the suite and put the bottle away. When he tried to throw the bag that had contained it into the trash, his nerves betrayed him and he dropped it. Both of them crouched down to try to pick it up and bumped their foreheads together when they collided with each other. They shared a complicit laugh, one they hadn’t shared in a long time, long before leaving the team, if they thought about it, they had never shared one quite that special.
Silence wrapped around them again. It wasn’t uncomfortable; it felt natural, intimate to a certain extent. “So… Cadillac in 2026…”
Sergio smiled. “Yes, we have a lot of faith that things will go well for us. I am very comfortable with Valtteri; I feel like the two of us are putting together a good car.”
“You and… Valtteri?” Ouch, it wasn’t the best topic of conversation, but it was something that tormented him every night before going to sleep, it just slipped out. Max lowered his head; it gnawed at his soul to know that someone would take the very special place he once held in his teammate’s life.
Checo couldn’t resist anymore. He took a step forward and with his right palm cradled the Dutchman’s cheek; both their bodies bristled instantly. Almost by instinct, Verstappen let his face fall to be cradled and closed his eyes. He fit perfectly in Checo’s hand, as if it had been made just for him and to his measure.
“Maxie… leoncito…” Sergio’s tone shifted to one of sincere comfort. With his other hand he drew him closer until he was pressed against his chest. He wanted the younger one to hear how his heart was beating so there would be no doubt left.
Max opened his eyes; his emotions had finally overflowed. At the welcoming touch and the incessant pumping of the Mexican’s heart, he started to cry. “Checo…”
The younger man’s gaze was identical to the fallen angel. At once, it portrayed that same deep melancholy with desolation and rage, a perfect blend of divine beauty and human pain. His brows pleaded, his pupils dilated as they consumed every instant of that closeness, his lips trembled with a virginal and impatient purity that made the distance between their souls vanish in that moment.
Checo leaned in delicately, as if trying to kiss an ephemeral statue but also asking for permission, trying to give time in case he was making a mistake. He wasn’t. Max took a step forward and, the moment a tear finally traveled from his heart to the corner of his eye, Sergio and he fused.
The Mexican held his face with both hands while Max clung to his neck with both arms, both trying to make sure the other wouldn’t slip away.
That green spark they had once seen in the glances they shared moved to live in their hearts. How beautiful it was to find each other when they didn’t know they were lost.
Another tear fell from Max’s face, like drops of amber that would crystallize that union for eternity. The kiss was a perfect balance between the most animal desire and the purest, most angelic supplication.
They pulled apart for moments only to take air; there came a point when even that no longer mattered. Nothing would delight them more than to immortalize their union like the lovers of Modena, a pair of skeletons that were found buried embracing and loving each other for eternity. They would give anything to die like that, here and now, fusing their souls until meeting again in paradise even if that paradise could be no better than being in each other’s arms.
“My Maxie…” Checo panted as he loosened his tie and advanced, pushing him toward the bed.
The Dutchman grabbed his hair and pulled him closer still. “Schatje… Schat… Mijn lief… Ziel… Engeltje…” he whimpered.
Sergio managed to lay Max beneath him. Before continuing, he allowed himself to look at him deeply and caress his face. “I have no idea what the hell you just said, but I adore your voice in Dutch,” he smiled and placed a delicate kiss on the mole on his upper lip.
“Jij bent alles voor mij.” Max nodded as he said it and also caressed Checo’s face.
“I waited four years to have you like this, Emilian. Four long years waiting for you to realize something I noticed the moment I saw you for the first time. I adore you, my querubín.”
“Querubín? What does that mean?” Sergio had never taught him that word, much less heard him use it with anyone else.
“You,” he replied, nodding, now letting his first tear fall.
There was no longer any barrier or prejudice that kept them from consuming each other, from fully possessing one another, from surrendering body and soul. Sergio took the lead and began unbuttoning Max’s shirt, leaving soft kisses along the pale skin of the Dutchman, who responded by stroking his hair.
“You’re very naughty, my querubín. Making up that you wanted to see me to exchange helmets… I adore you, but what a silly excuse…” A soft, quick bite near his chest was the equivalent of punishment for that “invention.”
“Fuck… Checo…” His back arched as he felt the touch of his beloved at his crotch, still protected by his pants. “No… I really did want to give you the helmet…”
With a dominant smile, Sergio continued teasing him with his stroking. “Don’t lie, Maxie Max… I don’t see it anywhere…”
The young man tried to justify himself, to argue, but that hand was driving him crazy. “Fuck, Checouh… let me explain…” His chest began to sweat as he moved desperately up and down, reddened in certain areas.
“No Checouh and no Sergiouh, Max. You must say my name in spanish, okay?”
He was completely overstimulated. He covered his mouth trying to repress any little sound and only nodded.
“Say it.”
“Yes… Checo…” He whimpered again and by accident a word slipped out in his language. “Klootzak!”
“I like it when you speak Dutch.”
Checo was just as desperate as Max, but he didn’t want to show it. He liked feeling that he had the advantage here, at least here, unlike on the track. Calmly and making himself desired, he removed the belt; he unbuttoned the pant with his teeth.
“Schatje, please…”
Sergio smiled at the sight in front of him: Max Verstappen, the four-time world champion, writhing on the bed, begging and pleading for him.
“I’ll give you a little preview of your prize if you win the race and not that idiot of Lando.” Sergio quickly went up to kiss him; when he finished, he went down to the younger man’s crotch, now fully exposed, opened his mouth wide and—
“Room service! Dinner in the name of Mr. Verstappen!”
Max and Checo looked at each other, confused.
“Did you order something?” Sergio whispered to him, lifting his head and sitting up on the bed.
“No, Checo… I…” Max was barely catching his breath. “What the fucking hell?! Who is that?!” he said furiously at the interruption.
The door was knocked again. “Room service!”
Sergio stood up, taking responsibility for openning, after all he was the only one dressed. Max grabbed a nearby sheet and covered his nakedness.
When the door opened, a cart with several dishes burst in, pushing Checo aside. A startled Max covered himself up to his nose.
“Good evening, you requested our best dinner service. Believe me, we won’t disappoint you. As a starter we have some delicious garlic rolls; you can spread a bit of olive oil on them or—”
Checo stopped the man, took off the chef’s hat and the horrible glasses he was wearing; that accent was unmistakable. “Long time no see, Carlos…” he said angrily after discovering him.
When Max saw that it was clearly Sainz meddling once again, he exploded in fury. “Je bent echt een bemoeial van kut! Get out, idiot!” He threw a pillow as a farewell gift.
Carlos ran out in terror while laughing, satisfied at having seen what he wanted. Sergio noticed Sainz wasn’t the only one in the hallway, so he ran to catch them. At the door he ran into Colapinto, Antonelli, Tsunoda, Leclerc, Piastri, Bearman, and even Russell.
Their nerves betrayed them and they couldn’t hide it. “Hi, Checo!” was all they managed to say while trembling.
“Damn it! ¡Hijos de la chingada!. I SAW YOU, FRANCO!”
Everyone fled laughing. Checo wasn’t going to bother chasing them, but he did give them a good string of insults until he was sure they couldn’t hear him. His anger faded when he returned to the room and saw Max burst into laughter.
"Weren’t you the angry one, querubín?"
Max opened his arms to welcome him back into bed with a kiss. "Well, I don’t mind that everyone knows now that I have sex with you. I see it as just another achievement."
Checo couldn’t help but laugh. "Well then, how about we give them some audible evidence so it’s crystal clear, what do you say?"
The Dutchman nodded with a mischievous smile, wrapping his legs around the back of Sergio. "All night long, my pequitas."
The sun of the Mexico slipped in through the large window facing the bed. Max lay across Checo’s chest, both barely covered by light sheets. Max would definitely have to pay a fine for denting the wall behind the headboard. It didn’t matter—he’d buy the entire hotel just to be with Checo once more.
The room was a complete mess, Sergio’s clothes soaked in a puddle of wine. He’d have to borrow some clothes from his lover; maybe later they could even take a picture wearing matching outfits and posing with the helmet.
They woke up at the same time, the Mexican barely able to open his eyes against the intense sunlight welcoming them.
"Good morning, leoncito," he said softly, brushing a few blond strands away from his face and kissing him.
"Did I die on some curve?" he replied, returning the kiss, as if suggesting he was in paradise.
"You killed me with your curves."
It took him a moment to process that sentence, but when he did, he burst out laughing. "That was cute, you have a point there.
"Close the window, will you? The sun’s hitting me straight in the face.
Max nodded and got up, walking over to the curtains and pulling them shut.
"That’s a nice ass. You should make your own calendar like Bottas,"Checo said, even tilting his head to get a better view of Max’s glutes.
"I’ll give you something much better than Valtteri’s calendar,"he said with a sly smile, then crouched down at the bed to pull something out from underneath. "I never lie.
With a sharp motion, he tossed the long-promised helmet at Sergio. It landed on his stomach and knocked the air out of him for a moment.
Max climbed back onto him and kissed him. "You owe me a good helmet. This one’s from my home race last year— I want the one from your Monaco victory."
Checo laughed at his lover’s delirium. "To earn that helmet, you’d have to let me get you pregnant. Not a chance, cherub."
With a swift smack, Max knocked the helmet to the floor and sat astride Sergio. "Then I’ll start working to earn it."
It was already new years eve. Max and Checo were together in an apartment in Mexico City, a Christmas gift from Sergio to his leoncito. That country had already become the couple’s love nest; they spent several weeks vacationing there after the season ended.
The place was filled with family and friends. If someone had told them months earlier that this would happen, Sergio might have believed it—but Max, not at all.
They were curled up together on the couch under a soft blanket, drinking the same wine as that time. Through the large window they watched fireworks while deciding which photos to add to their last post of the year.
"Checo, are you sure you wanna post our helmet photo?"
"Of course, querubín. It’s been the most important moment of my year."
"Yeah, but people don’t know that you and I… you know… “became friends again.”
Sergio let out a soft little chuckle, the kind where only his cheeks dimple and his eyes squint, without opening his mouth. —Let it be a teaser. I don’t doubt that next season they’ll realize we’re together anyway.
Max took a sip from his glass. "You have a point, Schatje. Just edit out the hickeys on my neck."
"Ah, yes!" he laughed again.
Suddenly they heard all their friends starting the countdown.
10
"Let’s go, Checo! Or Carlos and Charles will finish the grapes
9
—Are the grapes green?
8
—Umm… yes…
7
—Over my dead body
6
Sergio took Max’s hand and they ran into the living room, heading toward the first year of all the years they would spend together, until death.
—HAPPY NEW YEAR!
The couple kissed like never before, promising to be each other’s beginning and end in every year—just the two of them, for eternity.
Fireworks flooded the apartment with their glow, reflecting off the visor of Max’s helmet and Checo’s helmet on a shelf. Beside them stood several framed photos of their victories together, as well as their adventures in this new stage of love. All thanks to a…
Helmet exchange.
