speed / max verstappen

twelve

Max's comment got cut from the video. As did our entire conversation about Italy and being more than friends. With Christian watching over the proceedings, we returned to Lissie's pre-set questions, answering them as if we hadn't just dropped an absolute bomb on her a few minutes prior.

Formula One was quick to edit the video and post it, spending less than ten minutes in post before they pushed it out on all their socials. Despite what happened in the middle, it was a gold mine they intended on cashing in on.

We still kept to our plan, albeit without actually saying we'd once been an item, but if the Twitter reaction was anything to go off of, the message had been received loud and clear.

When it'd ended, Max had tried to talk to me, had tried to reach out and grab me so we could go somewhere and discuss what I'd confirmed for Christian.

Since Abu Dhabi, I've been playing the role of Max's best friend with expert precision. Not a toe out of line or a hair out of place. He'd been the one to initiate the end of things, claiming he couldn't balance us and racing at the same time. It made his mind too loud, he'd told me.

And I'd accepted it, because of course I did, and that was that.

Until I got under the microscope that is Christian Horner's eyes. The facade fell in a matter of seconds.

We didn't get to talk after the video, though. Not with the both of us behind on our media schedules, rushing to attend our assigned TV pen interviews where the second element of the 'make the media think we're friends' plan would come into effect.

Toto's waiting for me outside, ignoring the cameras and interviewers hoping to catch a quick chat. "Hospitality, now," he grunts, walking a pace behind me as he marches me through the paddock to Mercedes's designated area.

He doesn't say a word until we're up in his office, where Mo is sitting with a sweaty brow and what must be a hundred different papers strewn across his lap and all over Toto's desk. There's a broken trinket on the floor, a suspicious paper weight shaped dent in the wall above it.

"Give me one reason why I shouldn't call your godfather and offer him your seat."

That's a new one. "It'd be a waste of minutes." My answer is strained, but it's the right one. I can't show weakness with Toto when he's like this. He's a fucking shark and there's blood in the water. Whose blood it is has yet to be decided.

"I have an international plan."

I shrug, taking the seat beside Mo. "Lewis is retired. And there's no shot he'd ever pull an Alonso."

Toto blinks, gesturing toward Mo, "Is it all true? What Mo told me?"

"It is." I answer both questions at once. Best to keep the explanations to a minimum, lest he think I'm trying to weasel my way out of this.

Toto sighs, leaning back in his chair as he stares me down. "I still could fire you."

"You won't," I responded quickly, fully confident in my place here. My seat isn't replaceable or up for grabs. Not so long as I provide results. And I always provide results.

Mick may be good, but he isn't as good as me. And Toto knows that.

Mo clears his throat, anxiously looking up from his notebook and papers like a kicked dog. He must've gone through the ringer while I was finishing up the video if he's still sweating because of it. "We could always take the...alternative approach. Get ahead of things before any leaks come out."

I blink, my heart dropping into my feet. Alternative approach? "I'll discuss it with Christian." Toto's had to work with Christian all week and he doesn't look too pleased to speak with him again.

"'Alternative approach'?" I don't like the sound of that. Not one bit.