Dopamine | Adrenaline Book Two

23- Civil War

Netherlands Grand Prix

Race Day

"I'm so happy you two made up," Max's mother whispered to him as she caressed his hand, both of them in the quietness of his dressing room, one of the very few moments where Max was left alone in his home race.

"I told you, we didn't make up," he stated, pulling his hand away from hers. "She's just staying over while she figures things out."

"Wasn't that how you two got together?" His mother pointed out.

Touché.

"It doesn't matter right now. You're annoying the boy," a third voice joined the conversation, his father. "Sophie, give us a moment, huh?"

Reluctantly, Max's mother rose from her chair and left the room. Taking her seat, Jos looked at Max, staring into his eyes.

"Today is important. If you don't win this, you'll be too far behind on points," Jos pointed out, setting his hand on the table. "Do you get that, Max?" His tone was threatening.

"I know," Max replied, forcing himself to meet his father's harsh gaze.

"You need to work harder, focus. Stop thinking about other stuff," he added.

But Max couldn't stop thinking about other stuff. How could he?

"I know the car is just not the same as last year. Ferrari has a better car and..." Max started, only to be immediately cut off by Jos.

"Excuses," Jos complained. "Is your name Carlos Sainz? Checo Perez? No! You're Max Verstappen. You can still win with a bad car; you just have to try harder." His words came like a command. "Make it work."

Max sighed in agreement, despite his low expectations for the car, he was determined to extract the best performance from it.

"National anthem, Max!" his manager interrupted, knocking on the door and mercifully ending the conversation with his father. Max always disliked hearing whatever his father had to say.

Joining the lineup on the track, Max caught sight of Charles standing right next to him. Immediately, he knew those moments would be painful — standing next to someone he yearned to touch more than anything but couldn't. It was like an addict in recovery facing the very drug he was desperately trying to stay away from, just under his reach but not quite.

But that drug had made him feel so good. Could it really be that bad?

On the other side of the bridge, a glimpse of Max was the last thing Charles needed. Yet as Max settled in, Charles couldn't help but subtly glance over at his former lover. He wasn't sure if it was intentional, perhaps to show how much better off Max was without him since their split, but Max seemed to have become even more attractive.

His dirty blonde hair was perfectly disheveled, just messy enough to appear effortless yet styled enough to avoid looking sloppy. It brought back memories for Charles of running his fingers through those locks, playing with them slightly to achieve a similar look. Whether it was a trick of the light or Max's stance, his upper body seemed broader, commanding attention. Charles couldn't tear his eyes away from him, even in his peripheral vision.

In what universe was it fair that Charles bore no blame for their breakup, yet Max appeared to thrive without him? The brunette felt an overwhelming urge to walk away, to avoid any proximity to Max. The lingering feelings he held for the other driver made him want to retreat, only resurfacing when it was time to race. He couldn't bear to be near Max in any context.