Hate to race lestappen

Saudi Arabia

The tension between Charles and Max was palpable from the moment they stepped into the paddock at the Saudi Arabian Grand Prix. The air around them seemed to crackle with the hatred they barely kept in check.

They couldn't even stand within a few feet of each other without shooting icy glares or muttering curses under their breath.

The last race had done nothing to ease the animosity—if anything, it had made things worse.

Every time they crossed paths, something sparked. During the driver briefings, Max's smug smile only fueled Charles' anger, and the brief moments of proximity before the race were enough to make Charles' blood boil.

Max acted as if nothing could touch him, and Charles hated it.

Meanwhile, Max couldn't stand Charles' attitude, that thinly veiled arrogance that clung to him every time he opened his mouth.

Their rivalry was no longer just professional—it was personal, and it poisoned every interaction they had.

On race day, the hostility between them spilled over.

Their cars were lined up side by side on the grid, the crowd roaring, but all Charles and Max could focus on was each other.

Max shot a look in Charles' direction, his eyes blazing with unspoken challenge. Charles didn't flinch, staring back with pure hatred.

The media could sense the tension, but no one truly understood just how deep it ran.

As soon as the lights went out, the war began.

Both drivers launched off the line like their lives depended on it. Max got the better start, but Charles was right on his tail, determined not to let him get away.

The first corner came, and Charles immediately went for the overtake, diving down the inside. Max cut him off, their tires almost touching as they raced wheel to wheel.

The radio chatter was filled with fury.

"He's trying to take me out," Max growled, swerving to block Charles' next move. His voice dripped with contempt, his focus solely on keeping Charles behind him, not giving him a single chance to breathe.

"He's reckless," Charles barked back to his engineer. "I won't let him win like this."

Every corner, every straight, they were at each other's throats.

Max defended aggressively, slamming the door on Charles at every turn. Charles retaliated by forcing his way into gaps that didn't exist, nearly causing contact more than once.

Neither cared about the rules anymore—it was about beating the other, about proving who was the better driver, and who could withstand the hate.

Lap after lap, the battle raged on.

They fought like wild animals, neither backing down.

Charles edged closer, his car nudging dangerously near Max's rear tire.

Max, his jaw clenched in frustration, swerved just enough to keep Charles off his line, barely avoiding a collision.

Their teams were frantically trying to calm them down over the radios, but nothing worked.

This wasn't a race anymore—it was a fight.

By the midway point, their mutual hatred had reached a boiling point.

Charles tried to overtake down the back straight, pulling alongside Max, but Max slammed him wide, pushing him toward the wall. Charles cursed, yanking the car back into line, but his anger flared, and he shot right back at Max, diving into the next corner with reckless abandon.