Dopamine | Adrenaline Book Two

29- Sacrifice

Brazilian Grand Prix

Race Day

Like every year, the Brazilian Grand Prix was one of the most exciting races of the season. The energy of the crowds was unmatched, the fans were many and extremely passionate about the sport. Historically Formula One had been a very prominent sport for the country, similarly to other European countries such as England, Italy and Germany.

This year the grandstands had sold out in just a couple of minutes due to the presence of a Brazilian driver in the grid for the first time in home grounds since Felipe Massa in 2017. For a country that has so many fans and talents it was surprising that they remained so long without one of their own in the sport. Imagine if there were no British drivers on the grid for over seven years?

That wouldn't happen. Privileges.

Due to the absence of a Brazilian on the grid it seemed like, for years, Lewis Hamilton had taken an unexpected role of representing the country. He was a local favorite and consequently, as his direct rival, Max Verstappen had always been openly disliked and booed through the years. Now, that also included Charles Leclerc.

That day, Max Verstappen found himself seclusive, avoiding interviews and even his own team members. Charles seemed to choose the same approach, unknowingly mirroring the Red Bull driver's behavior. And in contrast, Lewis basked in the attention of the grandstands and fans in the paddock. It all seemed like a painting of what was to come, as if the two drivers had already accepted their defeat at the hands of Lewis Hamilton without even fighting for it.

"Max Verstappen, Charles Leclerc said you're not a threat to him. What do you have to say to that?"

There were probably more questions, but this one struck a nerve. Hearing the name of the one person he wished to forget was like torture. Being asked about him? That was unbearable.

"No," Max muttered, momentarily forgetting all of his media training. In a moment of desperation, he chose to simply ignore any questions that mentioned the Ferrari driver he still longed for.

Seeking solace from the crowds and desperate to avoid more questions, Max ran into the Red Bull motorhome. He bumped into a few mechanics and sponsors who also seemed eager to have a second of his time. But Max was on the brink of a breakdown, overwhelmed by the usual banter around him. All he wanted was a moment for himself, a second to deal with the emotions that were still a great part of him.

"Max!" The blond heard the familiar voice of his father calling for him in the corridor that led into one of the meeting rooms in the hospitality house.

He didn't want to see him. Fear and hatred for his own father made him quickly move out of his room, escaping the eventual encounter with Jos through the back doors of the unit, landing on a narrow corridor with no one but an older man who was scrubbing one of the walls to make him company.

Feeling like he had successfully escaped a monster, Max leaned against one of the walls and slid down to take a seat against one of the railings. He finally noticed the rapid beating of his heart and his quick, shallow breaths. His hands were sweating. His body had been in a fight-or-flight state, and he had chosen flight.

"Você é um piloto?" the older man asked after noticing the lingering presence of Max.

"I'm sorry, I don't understand," Max replied, watching as the man placed the scrubbing sponge back into one of the buckets.

"Driver?" the man asked again, in broken yet understandable English.

"Yes, I'm a driver," Max nodded.