Medical attention I Max Verstappen

Hands on experience

As I stumble backwards into the room behind me, Max's hand swiftly moves to my lower back, holding me up and pressing me against his solid frame. A woman seated at a desk inside the room catches sight of us, her gaze fixated on us with a stern expression.

"What are you two doing?" she questions, her words instantly breaking the tension. Max responds with a playful grin, "Hi Susan," accompanied by a cheerful wave, his grip on me remaining intact. Still catching my breath, I manage to explain, "I think I was accidentally leaning against your door. I am sorry."

To my surprise, Max seems to have completely regained his composure. "Can I have just one day without you bothering me, Max?" Susan retorts with a hint of jest, her irritation evident as she raises an eyebrow. It's clear that this exchange is a well-practiced routine between them. Despite her annoyance, a glint of amusement sparkles in her eyes as she glances at Max.

Regaining my footing after the slightly embarrassing encounter, I finally stand on my own, a mix of relief and embarrassment coloring my cheeks.

"Sorry," Max interjects, making an apologetic gesture toward Susan. His fingers, which had been offering  support at my lower back, transition smoothly into a guiding touch. With an apologetic nod and a grin, he leads us out of the room.

As the door clicks shut behind us, effectively sealing off her office, there's a palpable shift in the air. The transition is almost tangible. Max's demeanor, which was previously apologetic, takes on a different tone.

The transformation in him is abrupt, like a gust of wind changing its course. His posture straightens, his shoulders square off as though preparing for an attack. The warm expression that was on his face only moments ago gives way to a stern guardedness. Without a word, he starts walking away.

My fingers wrap around his forearm, halting his attempt to escape. "Just so you're aware," the words emerge, assertive and composed, "I'll be the one doing your physical therapy tonight." He meets my gaze with a casual disinterest, his eyes distant, as if my statement barely grazes his thoughts. "Don't bother," he retorts, his tone dismissive and impatient, once again attempting to flee.

My grip tightens on his arm, "I will bother," I assert, "You're not exactly in a position to refuse, Max." 

I can't let the physical therapist down; they are counting on me to manage just one session. It's not too much to ask for.

He halts his attempt to pull away, his gaze locking onto mine, a spark igniting in his eyes. "And what if I do?" he counters, a taunting glint in his eyes. "You gonna force me?" 

I respond with an arched eyebrow, refusing to back down. "No, but I doubt Horner would be thrilled to learn that his star driver is developing wrist weakness due to neglecting his training. I have heard that you are driving with a bandage wrapped around your wrist. Not the most reassuring sight, right?"

"Red Bull must be really cutting costs if they couldn't even get me a real physical therapist," Max remarks, a hint of sarcasm lacing his voice. "Oh, come on. They thought since you're kind of the king of no-shows, you wouldn't even notice," I counter.

I release his arm, closing the gap between us until there's barely any space left, our gazes locked in a fierce battle of wills. "I'm just here to make sure that you're fit to drive, Max," I retort, my tone carrying sincerity. "Whether you like it or not, I care about your driving. Do it today, and if it's as bad as you've imagined, I'll stop bothering you."

He leans in, his voice a low rumble, a challenge lingering in his eyes. "Is that so?"

I meet his gaze head-on. "Absolutely."