Hate to race

Monaco 3.4

"Red flag, red flag!" Charles's engineer's voice crackled in his ears, cutting through the roar of his car.

"Fuck! No! No!" Charles slammed his fists against the steering wheel, his heart pounding as the frustration spilled over. He cursed into the radio, the words tumbling out faster than he could think. "Who the fuck ruined my lap?!"

The silence that followed felt unbearable until the answer came, hesitant but clear. "Max... Max is in the barriers."

Charles froze, his knuckles white against the wheel. The fury twisting in his chest suddenly mixed with something colder, sharper—fear. "Is he okay?" he asked, his voice tight, breath catching. For all the anger he felt, the thought of Max hurt... he didn't know what to do with that.

A beat passed before his engineer replied. "He's fine, just a lock-up into Turn 1. No injuries."

Relief flooded through him, but it was short-lived. "Who's on pole?" Charles asked, already dreading the answer.

"Max."

Charles's grip on the wheel tightened, and the pieces clicked into place. The red flag, the perfect timing, the fact that Max was already on top of the timing sheets. That asshole. He could feel his blood boiling, the betrayal sinking in.

Of course.

The anger returned in full force, this time tinged with something darker—hurt. He should have seen it coming, should have known better than to think Max was anything more than a rival. Whatever moments they'd shared, whatever glimpses of vulnerability, it had all been for nothing.

Charles couldn't even speak into the radio again. He just gritted his teeth, bringing the car back to the pits, his mind racing.

-

Charles stormed into the paddock, fury radiating off him like heat from an open flame. His helmet was barely off before his thoughts sharpened into one singular mission: find Max.

But, of course, the coward was nowhere to be seen.

The garage was empty, the Red Bull team swarming to ready the car for the race, but Max? Gone. Like a ghost. Charles's hands clenched into fists at his sides, his chest heaving. His jaw ached from how hard he was grinding his teeth.

Before he could scream or punch something—or someone—an FIA official intercepted him. "Interviews, Charles."

He glared, wishing he could tell them where to shove their interviews, but he forced himself to comply. Not because he cared about the media, but because Max wasn't here. He'd bide his time. The moment that asshole appeared, Charles would be ready.

Pierre and Carlos tried to approach him as he stalked toward the media pen. Pierre's hand even reached out to clap him on the shoulder. "Tough luck, mate, but—"

"Don't," Charles snapped, shrugging him off so harshly Pierre's expression shifted to hurt. Carlos was next, his usual calm, reassuring tone coming through. "There's always the race. Look—"

"Don't. Talk to me," Charles said through gritted teeth, pushing past them both. He didn't have the patience for sympathy.

His family was there too, but he avoided their eyes. Arthur's concern was palpable; Enzo even called after him, but Charles barely glanced their way. This wasn't their problem. It was his.

In the media pen, the questions were relentless. "Charles, tough break today. What happened on your final lap?"

Charles barely managed a polite smile. "Unfortunate. We couldn't finish the lap because of the red flag."