Hate to race

Bahrain 1.2

Just becouse the podium celebration was postponed, doesn't mean it didn't happen.

To make it happen. Max took the quickest shower he ever had in his entire life. And they made him wear way too much make up for his liking.

He still felt nauseous and anxious. He even thought about running away from the paddock just so he wouldn't have to go.

Unfortunately there was at least one security guard following him at all times. And his media trainer screamed at him the whole time.

"What the hell were you even thinking?!" Max wanted to cry, his whole body aching. Fucking Charles, this was all his fault. He hoped that he would manage to get out of the paddock before his media trainer told his-

"I texted Christian and Jos already." Max froze. No,no,no,no. "They are furious. I hope you're happy Max, you just earned a bunch of interviews, long ass meeting and community service from the FIA." A pause, Max couldn't even think at that point.
"Oh and don't worry your friend Leclerc will be with you the whole time. Just so you know it will be fair. But that's the least of our problems right now."

He imagined his father's disappointed glare, the heavy silence that would follow. Panic gripped him; he felt the world closing in.

He could picture the podium: the cameras, the smiles, and there was Charles, too, looking smug.

With a sudden wave of nausea, he doubled over, retching. The stress spilled out, a release of everything he was holding in. As he gasped for air, he knew he had to face it, face his father, face Charles, and whatever fallout awaited him.

"Max! What the fuck?" His trainer let out , and Max wiped his mouth, straightening up.

There was no escape. He took a shaky breath, steeling himself for the confrontation ahead.

.

Max stepped onto the podium, the cacophony of cheers and flashing cameras overwhelming. He felt like a ghost, moving through the motions without truly being present.
The weight of his earlier fight with Charles hung over him like a dark cloud.

As he took his position, he barely registered the other drivers beside him. Charles stood there, a tight smile plastered on his face, and Max could feel the tension crackling between them. He focused on the crowd, their cheers fading into a dull roar.

When it was time to spray champagne, he held the bottle limply, splashing it half-heartedly, his mind elsewhere. He could feel the eyes on him, the expectation, the scrutiny, but he didn't engage.

He just wanted to get through this.

As he stepped off the podium, he felt drained, like he was floating through the chaos. He needed to regroup, to process everything. But for now, he simply walked away, leaving the celebration behind.

.

Max sprinted down the corridor, each step echoing with the thundering of his heart. The cheers from the podium celebration faded behind him, replaced by a sense of impending doom. Anxiety clawed at his insides, the nausea swirling with every thought of facing his father.

He reached his driver room, yanking the door open and slamming it shut, leaning against it for a moment to catch his breath. But the moment of respite was short-lived. He could hear footsteps approaching, heavy and relentless.

Then, without warning, the door flew open. His father burst in, fury etched on his face. "What the hell was that out there?" he shouted, voice booming off the walls.

Max's stomach dropped. "I'm sorry, Dad. I—"

"Sorry? You think that's enough?" His father's voice was laced with anger, eyes blazing. "You're a laughingstock! You think you can act like a petulant child and get away with it?"