Sunday, November 11th, 2018- São Paulo, Brazil
Brazil Grand Prix, Autódromo José Carlos Pace- the Interlagos Circuit
You hadn't needed to see the instant replay of the incident to know that it had lit a powder keg that was about to explode, you'd known the very moment it had happened that any hope that today would be uneventful, that Max and his reputation would escape the race weekend unscathed, was dead in the water.
Even if you hadn't been tuned in, sitting in the garage with Kaia in your lap, the two of you sporting a matching set of headphones as you watched the race, listening in with unparalleled access to every word that was said on the radio from Max's end and the team's, and hadn't been able to hear the younger Red Bull driver's reaction in live time as Ocon, in the process of trying to unlap himself, clipped the 33 car, sending the then race leader spinning off the track, you would have still come to the same conclusion.
"What a fucking idiot!" Pure, unadulterated venom drips from Max's voice, staining every word a seething, poisonous shade of red as you make quick work of making certain Kaia's headphones aren't actually actively linked to the radio, not wanting to remove them all together less she loses the only ear protection you have on hand at present.
"I don't even know what to say," GP replies deftly, his tone calm and steady, somehow a perfect measure of soothing and comforting without being overwhelming or oppressive, falling in stark contrast to Max's, which rocks with unbridled fury.
"I know what to say," Max answers without missing a beat, already sounding proud of whatever is it he's about to say, which rarely means anything good, "I hope I don't find him in the paddock."
You're not the only one in the Red Bull garage that lets out an audible groan at that.
Electing to take this opportunity to start putting together a plan for whatever the hell it is to come, you glance around, wondering if you're the only one who seems aware of the fact that the imminent possibility that before the day is over and you can go to bed, no doubt on the right side of the king bed in Max's room with Kaia curled up in the middle of the mattress between you, things will go, however briefly, to hell in a handbasket no longer hangs over your head, inevitable but uncertain, because that eventuality has just been guaranteed.
When the race ends, Max will no doubt be out for blood, and there's very little that anyone could do about that since the 21-year-old cares about as much for the rules, the FIA and his reputation- both on and off the track- as he does about such minor inconveniences as, you don't know, the concept of anger management or self-restraint for starters.
And now, due to your recent promotion and change in job title, but thanks in large part to the fact that youngest driver in the history of Formula 1 hadn't wrapped it up and subsequently added the title of 'former teen dad, current single father' to his lists of accomplishments, Max had become exclusively your problem to deal with.
But regardless of whether or not it was your job, that doesn't directly translate to "I'm first in line to play the classic cliche role of 'look at me! Max, look at me, don't look at him! This isn't you; this isn't you! It's me, I'm right here, look at me- this isn't you; this violence isn't you!'"
Because, sure, white it might be your responsibility to keep him in line, at the end of the day, Max is a grown ass fucking man, and a father at that, so if he's stupid enough to try to start a physical brawl in the pits following a race over a collision for which the guilty party has already been punished by the stewards, that's on his head, not yours.
Or at least that's what you told yourself, having put your full confidence in the fact that while Max was still more than likely to throw a temper tantrum after the race, go stomping around the podium, the pits and the paddock like an overgrown child with less emotional intelligence and restraint than his two-year-old daughter had, he'd still had a good 27 laps between when Ocon's car had made contact with his own and the checkered flag.
Foolishly, you'd been certain that the 40 or so odd minutes separating the point of contention and the finish line would be more than enough time for his anger to burn off the top and subside, the roughly 72 miles of track he'd covered since then would force him to cool down, and would therefore mitigate the circumstances under which he had been absolutely resolute were the sole factor to blame for not being the on the top tier of the podium today.
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"Where's Kaia?" It's the very first thing Max says to you the moment that the race and the podium ceremony proceedings are over, his concern for his daughter and his disappointment that she was nowhere to be found now that he was off the stage is genuine and palpable so you don't take it personally that he hadn't even said hello to you.
"She-" you partially grateful when he cuts in, interrupting you mid-sentence, because you hadn't had any earthly idea of what lie to tell him about why Kaia was at present, nowhere to be found but at the same time, you can't suppress entirely the agitation that rises to the surface in the fact of Max's beyond mediocre behavior.
"I saw her with you when I was on the podium, she waved back at me and grinned so big I could see it clear as day even from all the way up there," Max sounds invigorated by the mere recollection of the moment alone, "I've been looking forward to seeing her for hours, hell, I spent the first half of the race just wanting to see Kaia-," he pauses, cocking his head to one side, his eyes narrowed in careful assessment of your features, like it's only just registered with him that you were there,
"Almost as much as I wanted to see you," Max sounds surprised at first, like the realization had caught him entirely by surprise but he seems to come to terms with the matter just about as quickly as he'd discovered it, shrugging his shoulders in acceptance and continues on, maintaining a steady stream of chatter, all the while failing entirely to take note of the shocked expression still frozen in place on your face.
"I was thinking, not that we have to do anything at all for the holidays but maybe, if you don't want to go back to see your family for the holiday's, then the three of us could go-"
"Are you okay? Is the heat getting to you? I don't think I've ever heard you talk this much, like ever," you ask him, starting to get genuinely concerned about his behavior which has strayed so far outside the confines of his usual personality and characteristics that you feel like you hardly even recognize the man standing next to you, "seriously, are you having a brain bleed or something-"
"No, it's not the heat," Max answers, "it's just what happened to all the anger and resentment that built up during the race, that didn't have anywhere to go but in, that I'd expected to boil over the top and instead just simmer, cooking down into nervous energy."
"Is that a good thing?"
"I don't know what it is, but it's certainly something, " he snorts, shaking his head, "I'm not really sure what to do with it because it doesn't really feel like it's... stable?"
"Basically, what you're trying to tell me is that you feel volatile?"
"I guess that might be the best way to explain it," Max says with a shrug, glancing nervously around, his eyes snagging on someone and his head snapping back to them, "Ocon," he lets out a heavy sigh, "best I go and try to make amends."
