The Fight • Max Verstappen•

•ninety-six•

SCARLET

I flicked the TV off as I heard the heavy footsteps of the Dutchman coming up the stairs. I shuffled in the sofa so that I was sat up and I stretched my legs out on the poof. Max rested against the wall almost as if he didn't want to get to close. "Hello Crusoe."

His usually bright eyes were hollow, and it was obvious from the dark circles under them that he had not been sleeping. "These are for you; I remember they are your favourite." Max said holding out a bouquet of daisies wrapped in brown craft paper. "Though you could probably open a florist with the number of flowers in here." He lightly chuckled to break the tension.

Max placed them down on the table next to the vase of vivid purple hued flowers, "Obviously these are from Lewis." He noted and air ticked after he read the cute note from my mentor. I had received flowers from several people in the paddock, Pierre had sent peonies and George had sent a colourful arrangement. Lando had opted not to send flowers and instead sent a basket of cookies which had gone very well with my brother.

He pursed his lips, "So how are you?" Max asked.

I scoffed, "Max, are you being serious right now? You ended my season." I spat as he stood awkwardly in front of me.  "And whether it was intentional or not – I don't care."

He had a lingering sadness in his glossy blue eyes as he looked to me. "But I apologised, I don't know what else I can do." Max gravely replied. He sat down on the edge of the sofa opposite me and dropped his head in his hands.

"THIS," I said whipping away the fluffy pink blanket that was covering my legs to reveal the ankle to knee rigid cast. "THIS, is the result of your recklessness."
Max's gazed fixated on the signature and doodled covered cast that was being held by a brace. A whimper left his lips, but he couldn't bring himself to look back to me. "It was an accident, I would – could never hurt you." He cried as he rubbed the back of his neck.

My breath hitched in my throat. To say that Max looked broken was an understatement, but I couldn't pity him. The anger that had built up in the weeks that past the crash had turned to sadness.

I draped the fluffy blanket back over my legs. Ever since being released from hospital I had been staying with my brother at his house just outside of London. Lewis had also remained in the British capital and had spent many days keeping me company. Daniel and George had both made a lot of time for me, and I had loved spending time with the Australian and getting to know him better.

Max bit down on his lip, his eyes shining with the threat of tears. "But-but..."  he wept

I swatted my hand, "You could still go on and win the championship, but I can't. Don't you get that?" I broke in a quavering voice. "I can't race?! Because of your actions I can't race. I was leading the championship by, like, fucking, 57 points, and it means fuck all because of you."

The crash at Silverstone resulted in a compound fractured knee which required surgery, and a fracture in my ankle. Once out of surgery it was completely evident that I would not be racing again this season. I had spent a total of ten days in Northampton Hospital, and in those days, Max reached out only once via text message.

Max stared out of the large windows that looked over the garden, "What can I do?" He asked with the same pang of sadness in his voice that he held on to his face. "There has to be something I can do?"