𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚞𝚛𝚎 | 𝚖𝚊𝚡 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚗

prologue

Wimbledon 2023 was a quintessential display of English summer, a dazzling blend of tradition and modern spectacle. The grass courts, meticulously groomed, shimmered like emerald carpets under the golden rays of the sun. The air was filled with the heady aroma of fresh grass and strawberries, mingling with the distant hum of excited conversations. The atmosphere was electric, yet serene, as if the very air knew it was part of something monumental. This wasn't just tennis; it was Wimbledon, the epitome of the sport's grandeur, where history was written with every serve and volley.

Max Verstappen strolled through the historic grounds, taking it all in. The energy was different here—more refined, almost exclusive. Fans who managed to spot him offered polite nods or soft whispers of excitement, a far cry from the raucous cheers he was used to in the F1 world. It was, after all, a place where decorum was king, and the audience dressed the part. He felt the weight of tradition here, from the pristine whites of the players to the dapper outfits of the spectators.

He'd always known the sport of tennis existed, but seeing the grandeur of Wimbledon was like discovering a new flavour of ice cream: sweet, refreshing, and he wished he'd tried it sooner.

"Man, this place is something else," Max muttered under his breath as he walked alongside George Russell.

George, ever the epitome of British elegance, had gone all out for the occasion. He wore a crisp white double-breasted suit, the kind that screamed sophistication. Underneath, a soft grey shirt was perfectly matched with a charcoal grey tie, and to tie it all together, an orange pocket square peeked from his breast pocket—a nod to his girlfriend, Carmen, who was making waves in her pop-orange ensemble. George looked every bit like he belonged, the image of a man comfortable in both the paddock and the royal box.

"Feeling a bit underdressed, mate?" George teased, noticing Max's more casual look.

Max glanced down at his navy-blue Ralph Lauren jacket over an orange shirt paired with cream trousers, shrugging. "Well, I didn't get the memo that we were playing dress-up," he joked, adjusting his collar. "But I'm here for the tennis, not a fashion show."

"Come on, Max, it's Wimbledon! You've got to look the part," Pierre Gasly chimed in, catching up with them. Pierre had opted for a navy-blue double-breasted jacket adorned with gold accents—a classic Wimbledon look with a dash of flair that only Pierre could pull off.

"Speaking of looking the part," Charles Leclerc joined the group, flashing a grin. He was dressed in a more relaxed pinstriped blazer and white shirt, effortlessly pulling off the smart-casual vibe. "You guys ready to see some real action? I've only ever watched this on the telly, and it's surreal to actually be here."

The two had arrived with their respective partners—though Arthur Leclerc, Charles's younger brother, was still single, opting to tag along without a date.

Max chuckled. "Yeah, it's definitely something. Though I've got to admit, I don't know half as much about tennis as I do about racing."

"You're in good hands," George assured him, his tone playful. "Just follow my lead, and you'll be fine."

"Can you believe we're actually here?" George exclaimed, adjusting his cap as they navigated the crowd. "It's like the F1 paddock, but with more rackets and fewer people screaming about tire strategies."

"Right? And instead of fuel flow rates, we've got..." Max squinted, "what do they even talk about? Is it all just 'Nice serve, mate'?"

They found their seats, which were separated from Charles, Pierre and their girlfriend, who looked utterly bewildered by the whole affair. Max opted to sit with George, who seemed to know the ins and outs of the tennis world. Charles could barely handle the complexities of F1, let alone the arcane rules of tennis.