---
Monaco was buzzing with the kind of electric energy that only came with race weekend. The tight, twisting streets had been transformed into a high-octane battleground, where precision, speed, and nerves of steel would soon be tested.
Y/N Y/L/N stood at the edge of the paddock, her press badge around her neck and her notebook tucked under her arm, watching the Red Bull team at work. The smell of burning rubber, gasoline, and the hum of engines filled the air. This was the life she had chosen—covering Formula 1 races for a leading sports magazine. It was chaotic, thrilling, and fast-paced, much like the man she was about to interview.
Max Verstappen.
The reigning World Champion, known for his aggressive driving and take-no-prisoners attitude, was notorious not just for his dominance on the track, but for his prickly relationship with the press. Y/N had been covering F1 for years now, but this would be her first one-on-one interview with Max.
And she wasn’t expecting it to be easy.
Max was leaning against the side of his car, deep in conversation with one of his engineers. His brow was furrowed, his gaze sharp. Even off the track, there was an intensity to him, a relentless focus that made him stand out.
As she approached, his eyes flicked towards her. He straightened up, his posture shifting slightly as if bracing himself.
“Y/N Y/L/N, right?” Max said, his voice low and guarded.
She nodded. “Thanks for making the time, Max. I know race weekend is busy.”
He shrugged. “You’ve got 10 minutes. Make them count.”
Y/N smiled politely, unfazed by his bluntness. “I’ll try not to waste any of them.”
They moved to a quieter corner of the paddock. Max stood, arms crossed, his eyes narrowing as she pulled out her notebook and recorder. He wasn’t exactly the type to engage in small talk, but she was used to difficult subjects. F1 drivers were a different breed—used to the high stakes, to pressure, to having to be perfect every second they were on the track.
But Max? He was something else entirely.
“So,” Y/N began, flipping open her notebook. “You’ve had an incredible season so far. Dominating the standings again. What’s your mindset going into Monaco, where you’ve had mixed results in the past?”
Max’s gaze flickered. “You do your homework.”
“I always do.”
He paused for a moment, sizing her up. “Monaco’s tricky. It’s all about precision. You can’t afford to make a mistake, not even for a second. But I’m not here to settle for second place. I never am.”
“Is that why you’re so hard on yourself? Even after a win, it seems like you’re never satisfied.”
Max’s expression tightened slightly, the guarded mask slipping into place. “I’m a driver. My job is to push. To be better. What do you want me to do? Smile and be happy with second place?”
She met his gaze evenly. “You don’t even seem happy with first place half the time.”
He scoffed. “Happiness is overrated. Winning is what matters.”
Y/N resisted the urge to roll her eyes. It was typical Max—ruthless, focused, and unwilling to let anything, even joy, distract him from his goal.
“Do you ever stop to enjoy it, though? The success, the fame, the fans?”
Max’s jaw clenched, and for a moment, she thought she’d gone too far. But then, he leaned in slightly, his voice lower, sharper.
“What is this interview really about? You trying to psychoanalyze me, or talk about the race?”
Y/N took a deep breath. “I’m trying to understand what drives you. Because to everyone else, it looks like you’re not chasing victory, but perfection. And I’m curious to know what happens if you can’t find it.”
Max’s eyes darkened, and the tension between them crackled. “You think I’m chasing something I can’t have?”
“I think you’re chasing something that might destroy you if you’re not careful.”
Silence hung between them for a long moment. Max’s gaze bore into hers, and for the first time, Y/N felt like she was seeing behind the mask—the driver who never showed weakness, the competitor who couldn’t afford to.
Before he could respond, one of his team members interrupted, signaling that he was needed for a briefing.
Max turned back to her, his expression unreadable. “You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that.”
Y/N smirked, unfazed. “It’s my job.”
He hesitated for a moment, then gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. “I’ll finish the interview after the race tomorrow. Meet me in the garage.”
Surprised, Y/N blinked. Max rarely gave the press extra time, and she wasn’t sure whether his offer was a challenge or an olive branch.
“Deal,” she replied, her tone matching his.
---
The next day, Monaco was alive with anticipation. The race was just hours away, and Y/N had taken her seat in the press box, watching as the cars lined up on the grid.
Max was starting from pole position, as usual, the favorite to win. But as the race unfolded, disaster struck.
On lap 36, Max’s car clipped the barrier at Turn 10, forcing him to retire. A rare mistake from the world champion. The paddock buzzed with disbelief—Max Verstappen, out of Monaco.
After the race, Y/N made her way back to the Red Bull garage, unsure if Max would still want to talk after such a brutal loss. When she arrived, she found him standing alone, leaning against his car, staring at the track with a distant expression.
“You’re here,” he said without looking at her.
“I said I would be,” she replied, walking up to him cautiously. “Rough day.”
Max’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t lash out. Instead, he let out a long breath. “Yeah.”
Silence hung between them. Y/N wasn’t sure what to say. This wasn’t the same Max Verstappen who had stood in front of her the day before, full of confidence and fire. This was a man who had been humbled, if only for a moment.
“You’re not used to failure,” Y/N said softly.
He glanced at her, his expression unreadable. “No, I’m not.”
“It doesn’t make you less of a champion.”
Max’s eyes met hers, and for the first time, the walls between them seemed to crack. “I don’t know how to be anything else.”
The vulnerability in his voice took her by surprise. She’d expected anger, frustration—anything but this raw honesty.
“You don’t have to be perfect, Max,” Y/N said, her voice gentle. “No one expects you to be.”
His gaze lingered on her, searching, as if trying to figure out if she was sincere. Then, unexpectedly, he gave a small, wry smile. “I’m not used to people telling me that.”
“Well,” she said, stepping closer, “maybe that’s why I’m here.”
Max didn’t reply, but the tension between them had shifted, softened. For the first time, it felt like they were on equal ground—not as a journalist and driver, but as two people who understood the weight of expectation.
The rivalry had shifted.
