Hate to race

Monaco 3

Max landed in Monaco with mixed feelings knotting his stomach. Racing here always felt different, heavier somehow.

The track was unforgiving, winding through narrow streets, testing his focus like nowhere else. But it wasn't just the layout or the pressure from the fans that made it hard—no, it was knowing his father would be there, watching.

He'd been excited to see his mother and siblings again. He hadn't seen them in a while, and the thought of catching up, even if briefly, made the upcoming weekend seem a little less daunting.

His mom always managed to keep things calm, like a safe harbor, and his siblings... well, they kept him grounded. They didn't care about racing politics, standings, or mistakes on track.

They just saw him as Max, and he could use some of that right now.

But then, of course, there was his father.

Whenever he was around, his dad brought an edge to everything. It was like no matter what Max achieved, it wasn't enough, or he could've done it better.

A win wasn't a win; it was a stepping stone to the next thing he was expected to conquer.

Max had trained himself to push that weight off, to not let it sit too deeply, but there was something about Monaco that brought every criticism, every look of disappointment, back to the surface.

He gritted his teeth, reminding himself that he'd done this before. He could handle it. The fans, the crowded streets, the twisting circuit that left no room for error—it was all part of the challenge, and usually, he thrived under the strain. But the idea of his dad's sharp eyes following him, dissecting his performance, adding an invisible pressure to each lap, sat like a stone in his chest.

Max took a deep breath, letting the city air fill his lungs. He was here to race, to give it everything he had on his terms, and he'd figure out the rest.

-

Max slipped his key into the lock and pushed open the door to his Monaco apartment.
The place was quiet, empty, almost cold in its stillness. He tossed his bag on the couch and looked around, the silence a stark reminder of how, despite everything, home could still feel so...lonely.

It wasn't as if he didn't love Monaco, but something about being back, especially with the race coming up, made him restless. He tried to shake the feeling, reminding himself that he was used to being alone, that it was normal.

With a sigh, he went to his computer and pulled up a stream with Redline.

Within minutes, he was on with Crane and the boys, laughing as they cracked jokes and messed around in the game. It was good, a distraction he hadn't realized he needed, and for a while, he almost forgot the knot in his chest.

They made him laugh, and for a little while, he felt like himself again.

But when he signed off, turning off his computer, the silence settled back in, colder than before. He leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes, letting the quiet of the apartment sink in. He was about to head to the kitchen when he heard it—loud, insistent banging on the door.
His stomach twisted.

He knew that knock all too well.

It was his father. There was no point pretending he wasn't home. His father knew better. Max had just been live; his dad was probably already outside, having timed his arrival down to the minute.

Taking a deep breath, Max walked to the door and opened it. His father barely paused before storming inside, glancing around like he owned the place, sizing it up before his gaze landed back on Max.