Hate to race lestappen

Imola

Max was running late, practically sprinting through the paddock to make it in time for practice. Everything felt off; he hadn't been able to shake the weird, sluggish feeling since Monaco. He tried to convince himself it was just because he'd slept on a cold, damp boat in soaked clothes. But he knew better. That night had left him feeling strange, raw even, in a way he wasn't used to. It was messing with his head.

He shook off the thoughts as he headed to his garage. Focus. The week had been a blur of preparing strategies and tuning, but he just hadn't felt as sharp. Maybe it was the memory of that stupid hoodie or the way Charles had lingered a bit longer than necessary before getting out of his car. Max scowled. It was a one-time thing. Charles was his rival.

Whatever strange truce had been forged under the stars that night didn't change that.

When qualifying finally came around, Max put everything he had into the car. By the end of the session, he'd secured third on the grid. Not his best, but it'd do. Lando had snagged pole, and Charles had beaten him out for second. Max exhaled sharply. He'd get them in the race. He always found a way.

As he made his way over to shake hands with the other drivers, he kept his attention mostly on Lando, clapping him on the back and congratulating him with a grin.

But Charles was standing there, too, waiting, his eyes searching Max's face. Max felt a surge of guilt and annoyance in equal measure.
Why did Charles have to look at him like that?

He shook Charles's hand quickly, nodding as though it were any other race weekend. "Good job," he said, a bit more curtly than he'd intended, avoiding Charles's gaze.

They moved over to the press line for photos, and Max shifted his position to stand closer to Lando. He kept the conversation light, joking with Lando about the lineup, carefully ignoring the way Charles kept glancing his way. Charles must've noticed. Max could feel the weight of it, even without looking.

Charles tried to brush it off, acting unaffected in front of the cameras. But he felt a familiar pang of disappointment settle in his chest. After everything he'd seen with Max—the fragile moments when Max let the walls down, even if only slightly—it felt like they'd regressed back to where they'd started. He didn't expect gratitude, but this avoidance stung more than he thought it would.

Max kept his focus forward, telling himself that it didn't matter. Whatever had happened in Monaco stayed there. This was the track. This was racing, and Charles was the one person he had to beat. But beneath his cold exterior, there was an unfamiliar ache he couldn't shake. The harder he tried to push it away, the closer it seemed to cling.

As they broke away from the photos, Max gave Lando one last pat on the shoulder, turning sharply away from Charles. He was focused. He was ready for tomorrow. He had no interest in dissecting whatever strange camaraderie had sparked that night on the boat.

-

Max started race day with a fierce determination.

Third on the grid wasn't where he wanted to be, but he knew he could work with it. Lando was on pole, and Charles was just ahead of him in second. He didn't need to be told that getting past Charles would be the real challenge.

The first few laps were intense, the three of them breaking off from the pack and fighting for every inch. Max managed to edge up on Charles, getting close enough to push the Ferrari hard. He kept the pressure on, and when his team called him in for an undercut, he didn't hesitate. It was risky, but that's what Max lived for. He got in and out clean, finding himself just ahead of Charles when he rejoined the track. Max couldn't stop the smug smile that tugged at his lips. He could almost feel Charles' frustration behind him.