Hate to race lestappen

Zandvoort Turns Cold

The Zandvoort paddock had a different kind of hum on race weekend. It was Max's home, but it never felt like one. Not with the weight of expectations pressing on his shoulders from all angles.

There was something about the sound of the fans here, louder, more insistent. His hometown. His country. And yet... every cheer felt like a reminder that he had to be the best.

Anything less was failure. Anything less was a reflection of his worth.

Of who he was in his father's eyes.

Max was supposed to win. That's what he was trained for. That's what Jos drilled into him since he could walk—win, no excuses.

And in a way, he'd been right. It made him the driver he was now. The World Champion. The man who never took a step back, who cut through rivals like they were nothing. It was a constant, relentless push, an inner fire that drove him to keep getting better, to never let up.

But it was also the thing that broke him sometimes.

It was the reason his hands sometimes shook before he stepped into the car, the reason he woke up with his stomach tied in knots, the reason the smallest misstep could send his mind spiraling, thinking of all the ways he wasn't enough. The weight of the world. His father's voice in his ear. Max had learned to silence it all... most of the time.

He finished the simulator session, met with media, posted the usual smiles and comments. He did what was expected of him. He played the part. It was easier to get through it like this—numb, detached, a professional mask that could never crack.

But then came the fans and the pressure.

"Max! Over here!" The voices rang out from every direction, and he signed the first few pieces of memorabilia thrown his way, like always. People screamed his name, asking for selfies and autographs, desperate for his attention. He smiled, posed, pretended it wasn't slowly suffocating him.

They expected so much. Expected him to be perfect. Expected him to give them everything he had. He wasn't allowed to let his guard down.

And that was when he remembered them.
His mother and sister.

It was the first time this season they were at a race, and the reason was as clear as it was painful.

The one thing he could never escape.

Jos always made sure they stayed away. Always had. "Family is a distraction," he used to say. And Max... Max had believed him. He'd thought it was better this way. His father was the one who knew what it took to win. Who taught him the path. And Jos was right. He'd made Max into a winner. A champion. A person that could stand on the top step, no matter the cost.

But what did it really cost?

Seeing his mother and sister here, knowing they were there for him, something inside him twisted uncomfortably. Jos had made it clear, time and time again—family, love, those things weren't supposed to matter in this game. They were distractions. And yet, here they were, right in front of him.

His gaze flickered towards their hospitality suite, hidden behind the glass doors, knowing they'd be watching him from there. He hated that he couldn't enjoy this moment with them. That his father's presence would always loom over their visits.

Family wasn't supposed to be a distraction. Was it?

Max huffed, brushing the thought away, and kept walking through the paddock, his head low, a quiet storm brewing in his chest. He hated that they were watching. Hated that he felt like he had to do this for them. For his father. For everyone who had their eyes on him.