Finding Home - an f1 romance

chapter 3

Max Verstappen (POV)
My father had blasted my phone with his cruel, wretched comments and words. It was like I could hear his angry voice yelling at me. Like I could hear his hand connecting. I didn't want to tell Natalia about them, and i definitely didn't want to read them in the middle of dinner, but the damage was done. I read them instantly.

I craved his attention and validation, so I constantly checked every criticism, my brain always went over whatever he said. I tended to lock in on what he said, believe it, overthink it, and then either get drunk, sleep, or harm myself. It wasn't the healthiest cycle.

My head repeated what he said. Useless son of a bitch. HOW MUCH MONEY DID I PUT IN FOR YOU TO GET 6TH! You can't do anything! Why do I put up with you?

But, my thoughts also drifted towards the grumpy girl I was fake dating, her sultry voice caging me against the wall. I was surprised by her boldness, but also intrigued.

I knew nothing of my supposed girlfriend, and that quickly became apparent. After a pretty much sleepless night, I crawled out of my bed, ready for racing. It was the only thing I like at this point.

The adrenaline (and lots of caffeine) would keep my up and motivated consistently throughout the day, but I knew I would crash later. At least I'll get more sleep later on.

FP3 goes better, but it still has me wanting to gouge out my eyes. I can practically hear my father screaming at me.

Quali goes way better, and I land pole position, which I normally get. My exhaustion doesn't just creep up on me, it holds me hostage. I'm a few blinks away from falling asleep as I sip some water.

Christian gives me a worried look. "You good, Max?" he asked. "Sick? Tired?"

I shake my head. "I'm good." I quickly move away from prying, concerned eyes. Going through the motions gets harder and harder when I have to communicate with hundreds over a weekend.

Unfortunately, the drivers want to have a small "hangout" to celebrate the first race being tomorrow. No alcohol, they promised. I'm on the verge of passing out, so I decline when Leclerc asks me.

"Mate, just join us. Everyone is already whispering and concerned about you. This will just fuel that."

My body tensed at his words. "No one should be concerned about anything," I snapped. "Fine. I'll go to this hangout, or whatever."

I leave him standing in shock at my outburst. Quite frankly, I don't care. I quickly shower and change into some jeans and light, long-sleeve shirt. Simple. Easy. Done.

The group goes to this secluded restaurant, one where they welcome the famous and take care of their privacy. A few drivers whisper to someone else the minute I walk in.

Self-doubt rears into me like never before. I shouldn't be here. I shouldn't do this. Why am I here? Why did Charles goad me into this?

I'm tense the whole time, which Daniel notices, as he's right next to me. "You good?" he whispers, knowing how much I hate socializing and being around others.

My nod is a fraction of an inch, and I don't open my mouth. I'm so goddamn tired I could fall asleep this second.

I play with the sleeves of my shirt, looking anywhere but at anyone else. This is stupid. I eat some of the food, but not all.

"We'll leave once Danny, Lando, and Max finish up," I heard one of the drivers say.

"I'm finished," I say as cooly as possible. I want to strangle everyone in here including myself.

Daniel and Lando nod an agreement, although they've hardly touched their food.

I frown and whisper to Daniel, "Are you not hungry?"

He shakes his head and merely answers, "Nope."

Okay, then. We all pay for our portion, and I leave the second I can. I'm practically stumbling back to my hotel, which most likely attracts attention.

"Mate, are you okay?" I hear Charles ask from behind me. Shit. I forgot some of us were all in the same hotel.

I turn around and see him through my drooping eyes. "I'm fin-"

"He's okay. Just a bit tired, right Max?"

I blink and jolt when someone comes up beside me, wrapping their arms around my stomach. I look down at see none other than Natalia.

"Exactly right, Lia," I say, and she frowns at the name for a second before her face melts in a fake smile.

Leclerc's eyes bounce from me to my fake girlfriend various times in confusion. "Y-Yeah," he says to fill up the silence. "I'll just go. Good night." I nod and he leaves quickly.

Natalia instantly falls away from me, her grumpy expression back on her face. "Don't call me Lia," she grumbles.

"You're supposed to be my girlfriend, I have to call you something! I assume you don't want to be called 'baby' or 'darling' or something else, right?"

Her face blanches. "Definitely not," she rushes to say, the changes the subject just as quickly. "Why do you look like a crazy insomniac?"

I blink at her choice of words. "I don't look that bad, right?"

She smiles coyly. "You look like you haven't slept in a decade." Natalia laughs at my humiliation.

"I'll go to sleep then. Bye." I don't wait for her to respond as I dash away, ready for the day to be over.

~

I do end up sleeping, much to my delight. I wake up more than ready for the race. There's always nerves, any driver can tell you that, but becoming professional means learning how to deal with it.

My strategy is to relax and listen to some white noise beforehand. It works.

The rush of everyone running around has adrenaline coursing through my veins. Natalia comes in to look at all the chaos. She smiles with a wistful look in her eyes. She hardly looks like that, like she has no care in the world.

I walk up to her, and her expressions settles back in a grumpy, I-don't-give-a-fuck look. I ignore the jab of guilt. Why do I feel bad?

"Hey, Lia," I say mockingly, resulting in her glaring at me. "Do you want to watch the race here?"

She shudders, eyes widening. "Nope. Too much goes on in here. Christian told me you'd set up a room for me." She blinks at me, expecting me to provide this.

Her father is a big sponsor. Shower her with money and luxury, I don't care. Just keep her happy. And you try to be happy.

Christian's words played back in my head. I give her a tense smile. "Of course, princess."

I arrange for a room. It's an empty conference room, the race playing  She can hear my radio, too. A bowl of fruits wait for her in the middle of the table, but she eyes them suspiciously.

"I promise they're real, they won't bite," I say, trying to lighten the mood. This obviously the wrong thing to say, as she pegs me with the coldest glare she's ever given me.

"Shut up and focus on your race, pretty boy," she mocks. My stomach twists. I've been self conscious of myself since forever, but my crippling self esteem has been on a trajectory downward since last year when a hate comment got to me at the wrong time.

I nod slowly. "I'm going to go. Get comfortable," I say, unable to keep the bitterness out of my tone. My irritation dampens my mood noticeably. It follows me around like a dark cloud, and something I can't control.

This dark feeling sometimes bubbles up to the surface in the past, but now it infiltrates my head way more often. I hate it. I hate it. I hate it.