Hate to race

Miami 1.2

Friday and Saturday blurred together in Max's mind, an exhausting mix of practice sessions, team meetings, and a draining sense of disconnection. He threw himself into the car, pushing harder than necessary through each lap, searching for something to clear his mind.

Qualifying on Saturday had been a battle, with Max securing P2, while Charles took pole. The whole ordeal left him wound up and impatient for the weekend to end.

Sunday morning arrived with an electric tension in the air. The Miami sun was unforgiving, casting a relentless heat across the paddock as teams prepared for the race. Max could feel the weight of it, both the heat and something heavier. He caught glimpses of Charles in pre-race meetings and in passing, and every time, it dredged up a mess of conflicting emotions he still couldn't fully comprehend.

He tried to drown out everything that had been on his mind — the mess with Charles, the relentless questions from the media, the pressure. As he slipped into his race suit and put on his helmet, he felt his focus narrow to the track ahead. Just the race; he could handle that.

He sat in the car, gripping the wheel tightly as the countdown began. He didn't allow himself a single distraction. Yet, as they got closer to lights out, he caught a glimpse of Charles a few rows up on the grid. He couldn't tell if Charles noticed him, but his stomach twisted anyway. Not out of anger, not even frustration — just an odd, uncomfortable weight.

The lights went out, and Max launched off the line, losing himself in the speed and strategy of the race. Each lap grounded him, the roar of the engine, the rhythm of the turns. He fought through the pack, climbing positions, his usual focus taking over, as he cut down milliseconds, his mind steady and sharp.

But he was aware of Charles, the way he always was when they shared the track. He'd trained himself to read Charles' every move, his lines and rhythms, almost as if they'd been synced over the years. And when he finally closed in on him mid-race, he pushed harder, finding that extra pace.

Charles defended fiercely, but Max couldn't shake the instinct to push past him — to win, but not just for himself. Something else had buried itself in his mind, and for once, he couldn't ignore it.

Max closed the gap between him and Charles, feeling the familiar thrill of the chase. He could read every move Charles made as if they were locked into some unspoken rhythm — attack, defend, attack. Yet today, something felt different.

Charles defended his position fiercely, carving through the corners with precision, his focus razor-sharp. Each time Max tried to edge closer, Charles shut him down with ease, responding with a calculated calm that surprised even Max.

He had to admit, as much as it pained him, that Charles was on fire, racing at a level that even Max couldn't deny.

As the race drew toward its final laps, Max pushed harder, desperate to find a way through. But Charles held his ground, barely giving him an inch. Max could sense how close he was, feeling the familiar surge of competitiveness spurring him on, but Charles was just that fraction quicker, that split-second more resilient. Max's heart pounded as he tried one last daring move, but Charles anticipated it, blocking him in an instant with an almost graceful final maneuver.

The checkered flag waved, signaling Charles' victory, and Max crossed the line just behind him. The disappointment was there, flickering at the edges, but for once, it wasn't the consuming bitterness that typically flared up when he lost. He knew, deep down, that Charles had earned this one, fair and square.

Pulling into the pit lane, he caught a glimpse of Charles ahead, already celebrating with his team, the grin on his face wide and genuine. Max couldn't help but watch, an odd mix of pride and frustration mingling within him.