𝐴𝑙𝑙 𝑌𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑠~𝑙𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑝𝑝𝑒𝑛

dinner date

Max hadn’t exactly planned on taking Charles Leclerc out to dinner—especially not in a restaurant that felt suspiciously like the kind of place people brought dates. But here they were, sitting across from each other at a small table with a flickering candle in the center, surrounded by soft music and couples gazing lovingly into each other’s eyes.

Max shifted uncomfortably in his seat, glancing around. "So, this wasn’t what I had in mind when I said dinner. How did we end up here?"

Charles looked just as bewildered, staring at the menu like it was written in a foreign language. "I don’t know. You said you’d treat, and I picked the first place that popped up on my phone. Didn’t realize it was… you know… this kind of place."

Max smirked, his competitive instincts kicking in even now. "If I didn’t know any better, Charles, I’d say you’re trying to woo me with a romantic dinner."

Charles laughed, shaking his head. "Trust me, if I was trying to woo you, I’d pick a place with a better wine list."

"Fair point," Max chuckled, easing into the situation. "So, what are you getting? The lobster sounds good, but I don’t want to have to wrestle with it."

Charles scanned the menu, his brow furrowed. "Honestly, I’m just trying to figure out what half of this stuff is. What’s a ‘foie gras emulsion’? It sounds like something you’d put in a car engine."

Max snorted. "No idea, Let’s just stick to something we can pronounce."

They finally settled on pasta dishes—safe choices that didn’t require a degree in culinary arts to appreciate. As they waited for their food, an awkward silence settled between them. It wasn’t the usual silence they shared on the track, where their focus was on winning. This was different, more personal. And Charles could feel it hanging in the air like a weight he wasn’t sure how to lift.

Max, ever the observant one, noticed. "You okay, Charles? You’ve been quiet since we sat down. Well, quieter than usual."

Charles shrugged, poking at the tablecloth with his finger. "Yeah, just… you know, thinking."

"About the race?" Max guessed.

"Partly," Charles admitted. "But also… other stuff. Racing, life, everything."

Max leaned back in his chair, genuinely curious. It wasn’t often that Charles opened up, especially not like this. "Want to talk about it?"

Charles hesitated, his eyes darting to the candle between them as if it held all the answers. "It’s just… I’ve been feeling stuck lately. Like no matter how hard I push, something always goes wrong. And it’s not just the car, you know? It’s me. I keep questioning if I’m good enough, if I’ll ever win a championship, or if I’m just going to be ‘that guy who almost made it.’"

Max watched him closely, recognizing the weight of those words. He’d been there before, staring down the barrel of self-doubt, wondering if all the sacrifices were worth it. But hearing it from Charles, the guy who always seemed to have everything under control, was different. It hit harder.

"Charles, you’re one of the best drivers on the grid," Max said, his voice firm but not patronizing. "Everyone knows that. You know that. But racing’s a mind game as much as it is about skill. You can be the fastest out there, but if you start doubting yourself, it’ll mess with your head—and your performance."

Charles nodded, but the doubt was still etched on his face. "I know, but sometimes it feels like I’m stuck in a loop. I work harder, push harder, but the results don’t come. And then I see guys like you—winning, dominating—and I start thinking, ‘What am I doing wrong?’"

Max thought for a moment before responding, trying to find the right balance between honesty and reassurance. "Look, I won’t lie and say it’s easy. I’ve had my fair share of doubts too. But it’s not about what you’re doing wrong—it’s about staying patient and believing that what you’re doing right will eventually pay off. It’s a grind, man. You’ve got to keep your head in the game, even when it feels like everything’s against you."

Charles looked up, meeting Max’s eyes. "But what if it never happens? What if I never win?"

Max leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. "Then you keep going until you do. That’s the only way to look at it. You don’t stop because things get tough. You keep pushing until you break through. And trust me, you will."

Charles let out a long breath, the weight on his shoulders easing just a little. "Thanks, Max. Sometimes it feels like everyone’s expecting me to have all the answers, but I don’t. I’m just trying to figure it out like everyone else."

Max grinned. "No one has all the answers. We’re all just winging it, hoping for the best. But you’re not alone, Charles. We’re all in this crazy sport together, and we all go through the same stuff—just don’t forget that."

Charles smiled back, feeling a sense of relief wash over him. He hadn’t expected to have this conversation, least of all with Max Verstappen, but he was glad they did. It was easy to forget that beneath the rivalry, they were both just human—two guys chasing the same dream, dealing with the same doubts.

Their food arrived, and they dug in, the heavy mood from earlier lifting with each bite. They started joking about the race, laughing at the absurdity of some of the situations they found themselves in, and even made fun of the overly romantic ambiance of the restaurant.

By the time they finished, they were both feeling lighter, the weight of the day’s events no longer pressing down so hard. As they left the restaurant and headed back to their cars, Max turned to Charles.

"Next time, you pick a place that doesn’t feel like a date, okay?"

Charles laughed. "Deal. But don’t expect me to pay."

Max grinned. "I wouldn’t dream of it."

As they sat in the car, Charles couldn’t help but feel a renewed sense of determination. He knew the road ahead wouldn’t be easy, but for the first time in a while, he felt like he could handle it. After all, if Max Verstappen could take the time to offer him support—genuine, no-strings-attached support—then maybe he was doing something right after all.

And who knows? Maybe one day, they’d be sharing a podium instead of a pasta dish.