Chapter Text
“George, how does it feel to be driving a Williams when your rookie peers are in much superior cars?”
The words land like a slap. Sharp and deliberate, cutting through the usual noise of the media pen. No one has ever asked him that outright before, not like this, not in a way that leaves no room to sidestep it. It’s always been there, the elephant in the room, the thing everyone knows but never says out loud. This reporter though, he doesn't hesitate. He bulldozes right through, like he’s been waiting for this moment, waiting to see what George will do when faced with something he can’t deflect.
George knows the answer. He’s known it since the day he signed the Williams contract. He doesn’t have Red Bull backing him like Alex. He doesn’t have a billionaire dad like Lando. He won the F2 championship, dominated it, yet here he is, stuck at the back of the grid in a car that isn’t capable of much more than survival. He should be fighting at the front, battling the same people he beat in junior formulas, proving himself. Instead, he’s stuck in what feels like a waiting room, hoping an opportunity comes before his time runs out.
Still, he won’t let them see the cracks. He forces a laugh, light and easy, even as something tightens in his chest. “Just my luck, I guess.”
The reporter doesn’t drop it. “Really? No hard feelings toward your mates?”
Of course. That’s what this is about. They want a headline, something that can be twisted into resentment, something that can be blown out of proportion. They want him to slip, to say something bitter, to make it sound like he’s jealous or angry. But he won’t. He knows how this works. He’s George Russell. He’s calm, composed, media-trained to the bone. They want to see how long that lasts.
A hundred replies spin through his head. A practiced shrug. A rehearsed joke. Something neutral, maybe even self-deprecating. Keep it light, George. Keep it clean. Say what they expect.
He opens his mouth— and stops. Because whatever comes out next, they’ll run with it. Twist it. “George Russell: Bitter. Envious. Cracking.”
Before he can figure out another carefully neutral response, a voice cuts in.
“Oh, fuck off.”
The tone is flat, firm, completely unamused.
Max.
He doesn’t look at the reporter, doesn’t entertain the question, doesn’t even offer an explanation. He just places a hand on George’s shoulder— not rough, just enough pressure to steer him away, a silent you don’t have to deal with this shit. The reporter barely has time to react before they’re moving, away from the flashing lights and the hungry mics waiting for George to slip up.
“I don’t know how you feel,” Max says when they’re clear of the crowd, voice low but steady, “but that was a shitty question.”
And just like that, he’s gone. No further comment, no need for gratitude, just Max being Max. Direct, decisive, the kind of person who doesn’t waste time explaining things that don’t need to be explained.
George exhales, the tension he hadn’t even realized he was holding easing slightly. He mutters a quiet “Thanks, mate,” mostly to himself, but he knows Max heard him.
George knows how he feels about being in Williams. Knows how much it eats at him, how much he wants to be fighting where he belongs. But those emotions? They stay locked away.
For now, at least, the PR nightmare is avoided.