Chapter Text
Max watches the clock tick down, visor up, clutching the steering wheel as the session winds toward its final moments. The track is about to clear for the last runs and everyone is on edge.
He is on a cooldown lap when he sees another car approaching fast. He eases, trying to get out of the way. The team tells him to move off the racing line. He does. At least he thinks he does.
Then the radio lights up, and the tone in the engineer’s voice changes. Max feels it in the pit of his stomach. He has apparently impeded George Russell.
He spends the next minutes in a blur of bureaucracy, summoned to the stewards. He goes because that is what he has to do, even though his race engineer tells him he did nothing wrong.
Afterward, when he stands in front of the media with the penalty confirmed, his jaw is tight. He doesn’t lower his gaze.
“I’ve been in that meeting room many times in my life and my career with people that I’ve raced and I’ve never seen someone trying to screw someone over that hard. For me, I lost all respect,” he says, voice measured, anger obvious.
Behind the cameras, on Dutch television, he lets loose what he really feels.
“He always does it very nicely here in front of the camera, but then when you talk to him personally, it’s just a different person. I can’t stand that. In that case you can better fuck off,” he says.
The words are sharper than he ever meant to use in public. He barely listens to himself.
George sits in parc fermé after qualifying, still buckled in, helmet unclicked, watching the replay of his own lap on the screens in front of him.
He remembers every angle. The placement on the track. The feeling of speed in his bones. The brief moment Max’s car was directly in his path on his final push.
He knows he has grounds to raise the issue.
When he is summoned to the stewards, he stays calm. He knows the rules and he lays out the facts precisely: the car was on line, it was too slow, it impeded him. He speaks exactly what is true.
Afterward, when Max is handed the grid drop and takes his place second while George inherits pole, the tension does not lift.
In the post-race press conference after Sunday, Max’s voice booms across the speakers, dismissive and cold.
“I lost all respect,” he says, repeating those exact words, the resentment unable to hide behind tone.
George watches the clip without flinching. It carries more weight coming from Max than anything he has said about him in the stewards’ room.
Later, in a small media briefing, George is asked about Verstappen’s reaction.
The corners of his mouth don’t rise. He keeps his tone still and calm.
“I find it all quite ironic seeing as Saturday night he said he was going to purposefully go out of his way to crash into me and ‘put my fucking head in the wall,’” he says, voice cool. “So to question somebody’s integrity as a person, while saying comments like that the day before, I find it very ironic and I’m not going to sit here and accept it.”
George walks slowly through the paddock, the hum of cameras and conversation washing over him like background noise. His gloves are still in his hand. The fight on track and the stewards’ room plays over and over in his head. Every word Max said, every shrug and sharp edge in his tone, replays like a small wound. He clenches his fists, lets them fall again. He is trying not to think about it.
He finds a quiet corner near the fan area, a break in the bustle. His breathing is steady, though the adrenaline still lingers. He runs a hand through his hair. Even with pole for tomorrow, nothing feels like relief. The tension is still there, lodged in his chest.
A young girl approaches cautiously, holding something small in both hands. She is bright-eyed and nervous, her voice soft but clear.
“I made this for you,” she says. She hesitates, like she is afraid of being laughed off, then adds, “It’s just a little something to wish you luck.”
George looks down at her hands. In them rests a bracelet, dark leather woven tight with a tiny metal clasp. He notices the warmth in her hands, the care in the way it is presented. It seems too small to matter, and yet he can’t look away.
“That is very kind,” he says, meaning it. He hesitates only a moment before adding, “Thank you.”
“It’s meant to help,” she continues, speaking quickly now. “You don’t have to wear it. I just thought… maybe it would bring you some luck.”
George smiles faintly and nods. “I’ll wear it,” he says. He slides it over his wrist. The leather is soft against his skin, the clasp clicks easily into place.
He feels nothing at first. The noise of the paddock and the press fade behind him. He tucks it under his sleeve and thanks her once more, signing one last autograph. By the time he moves away, the bracelet has become just another weight around his wrist, something to be aware of but not to think about.
Later, he walks toward the hospitality area and almost collides with Max in the narrow corridor. Max is moving quickly, expression taut from the day’s events. George freezes. Their eyes meet for a split second. Max does not smile. George does not step aside fast enough.
“Still annoyed about earlier?” Max asks, voice calm but sharp, a hint of amusement he cannot hide.
George takes a deep breath. He intends to speak carefully, to keep his words neutral, to say something that will close the interaction without escalating it.
Instead, the words that leave him sound harsher than he intended. “You don’t get to act like you did nothing wrong.”
Max stops, just a fraction, eyes narrowing. “Right,” he says, almost quietly. “Good to know.”
George feels a sudden pressure at his wrist. The bracelet digs in, tighter than before, sharp enough to make him flinch. He glances down. The leather looks the same, the clasp secured as it always was. He presses a thumb to it reflexively.
“That is not what I meant,” he starts, then the pressure spikes. His words catch in his throat. He swallows and lets his hands fall. He steps back, giving Max space.
Max watches him closely. “Oh like you have anything nice to say about me.” he asks.
George shakes his head in disagreement but nothing comes out of his mouth. The tightness eases as he steps away. The dull ache fades to a lingering pressure, and he notices a faint red line forming around the leather bracelet.
Max glances back once as he walks away. George feels the weight of the look, the tension, and the unresolved energy still hanging between them. For the first time since Qatar, the anger and frustration are not just in his mind. Something real has settled on his wrist, and he does not yet know how dangerous it might be.
*
George starts to dread speaking.
It happens gradually, quietly, in ways that are easy to explain away at first. A misplaced tone. A poorly chosen word. A sentence that lands wrong and cannot be pulled back.
The bracelet sits snug around his wrist as he walks into the paddock that morning. He tries not to look at it. Tries not to think about how warm it feels against his skin.
He fails.
The first slip happens with his engineer.
“So, how are you feeling about today?” his engineer asks, casual, friendly.
George means to say calm. Confident. Ready.
Instead, he hears himself say, “Honestly? I think we are behind.”
There is a pause.
“Behind?” his engineer repeats, surprised.
George blinks. His wrist pulses, a dull warning. “That’s not what I meant,” he says quickly. “I mean, we are fine. We are strong.”
The bracelet tightens. Just a little. Enough to sting.
His engineer gives him a confused look. “Right,” he says slowly. “Let’s just go over the data again.”
George nods, silent now, jaw tight.
It gets worse when Max enters the picture.
They cross paths near the media pen. Max looks rested, composed, infuriatingly at ease. George tells himself to be neutral. Professional. Civil.
“Hey,” Max says.
George wants to respond normally. He wants to keep it short.
“Enjoying the advantage you stole?” George hears himself say.
Max stops.
The air between them sharpens instantly.
“I did not steal anything,” Max replies, voice flat.
George’s heart stutters. The bracelet constricts suddenly, biting into his wrist. “That’s not what I meant,” he says, breath coming faster now. “I meant, you drove well.”
Max stares at him. “You have a strange way of complimenting people.”
“I know,” George says, too quickly. “I mean, no. I do not. That came out wrong.”
Max’s mouth twitches, not quite a smile. “You are really committed to this, huh?”
“Committed to what?” George asks.
“Being angry at me,” Max says. “At least be honest about it.”
The pressure tightens again. George feels heat spread up his arm. He clamps his mouth shut before he can make it worse.
Max watches him for a long second. “Whatever,” he says finally, walking away.
George exhales shakily once Max is gone. He grips his wrist, thumb pressing into the leather, testing it. The bracelet does not budge. The pain fades slowly, like it is satisfied.
George waits until the corridor is empty before he tries again.
He ducks into a quiet corner, heart still racing from the encounter, and tugs his sleeve back. The bracelet sits there like it always has. Innocent. Ordinary. Too tight.
“Come on,” he mutters under his breath.
He pinches the clasp between his fingers and pulls.
Nothing happens.
He tries again, harder this time, nails digging in, jaw clenched. The leather does not shift. The metal does not give. Instead, heat blooms under his skin, sharp and immediate. Pain shoots up his wrist, sudden enough to make him hiss and drop his arm.
“Shit,” he breathes.
He stares at it, chest rising and falling too fast. His wrist is red now, the skin irritated, almost angry looking. He presses gently around the edges, testing, hoping maybe it will loosen if he finds the right angle.
The moment he applies pressure again, the bracelet tightens enough to make the message clear.
Do not.
George lets his arm fall to his side. His fingers are trembling now, whether from pain or panic he cannot tell. He swallows hard, a tight, unpleasant feeling settling in his chest.
This is not normal. This is not stress. This is not in his head.
He does not hesitate anymore.
He turns on his heel and heads straight for Alex’s driver’s room.
Alex looks up when George knocks and then immediately opens the door wider, concern flickering across his face. “Mate? You look like hell.”
George steps inside and shuts the door behind him, leaning back against it like his legs might give out otherwise. “I need your help.”
Alex’s expression sobers instantly. “Okay. What’s going on?”
George pushes his sleeve up without another word and holds his arm out. “I cannot get this off.”
Alex frowns. “That bracelet?”
George just nods, scared to speak too much.
Alex hesitates only a moment before reaching for it. He grips the clasp carefully and pulls.
George gasps.
Pain flares instantly, white-hot and brutal. His knees buckle and he has to grab the back of a chair to stay upright.
“Alex, stop,” he says sharply as speaking hurt even more. “Stop. Please.”
Alex lets go immediately. “Jesus. I barely touched it. Are you alright?”
George nods, though his vision swims. “It does that,” he says hoarsely. “The harder I try, the worse it gets.”
Alex stares at the bracelet now, unease clear on his face. He does not touch it again. He just looks.
“Okay,” he says slowly. “That is not normal.”
George lets out a shaky laugh. “You are overreacting.”
The words land wrong even to his own ears.
Alex blinks. “Am I?”
“No,” George winces. “I mean. Yes.” His wrist throbs, a dull ache spreading outward. he says quickly. “I mean, I am not fine.”
Alex’s gaze sharpens. “George.”
“I am doing great,” George says, voice tight. “Everything is completely under control.”
“That is a lie,” he says through clenched teeth. “I am not. I am really not.”
The bracelet tightens.
George sucks in a breath and bends forward slightly, one hand braced on the chair, the other gripping his wrist hard enough to leave marks.
Alex steps closer but stops himself short of touching him. “Then tell me what is happening.”
George straightens with effort. He takes a breath, slow and deliberate. “Nothing is wrong.”
“Something is very wrong,” George corrects, voice breaking slightly. “I am trying to explain it and it will not let me.”
Pain flares instantly, sharper this time, like a warning.
Alex’s expression shifts fully now, disbelief giving way to concern.
“Let me guess,” Alex says carefully. “That bracelet reacts when you try to say what you actually mean.”
George nods once, relieved despite the ache. “Yes.”
Then, without intending to, he adds, “I am making all of this up.”
Alex does not react immediately. He watches George’s face instead. The way his jaw locks. The way his shoulders tense like he is bracing for impact.
George squeezes his eyes shut. “I am not,” he says. “I am not lying to you. Please do not believe that.”
The bracelet tightens again, enough to make his knees threaten to give out.
Alex lifts a hand slowly, palm out. “Alright. Do not push it. We will take this one step at a time.”
George nods, breathing shallow, eyes fixed on the floor.
“I am going to ask you something simple,” Alex says. “You answer honestly. Do not try to correct it. Just say the first thing that comes out.”
George looks up sharply. “That is a bad idea.”
The bracelet warms, not painful yet. Waiting.
Alex replies gently. “Ready?”
George hesitates, then nods once.
“Do you trust me?” Alex asks.
George opens his mouth.
“I think you are the last person I should be talking to right now,” he says.
The words hang there, ugly and wrong.
George flinches like he has been struck. His hand flies to his wrist. “Alex, no. That is not true. I trust you more than anyone.”
The bracelet tightens, sharp enough to steal his breath. He doubles slightly, teeth clenched.
Alex swears under his breath. “Okay. I saw that. You did not even hesitate.”
George shakes his head, panic creeping in. “I did not mean to say that.”
“I know,” Alex says quickly. “I know. Look at me.”
George forces his gaze up.
“Next one,” Alex says. “Answer without thinking about the bracelet. Just answer.”
George lets out a shaky breath. “I will try.”
“Do you want help,” Alex asks, “or do you want me to leave you alone.”
George swallows.
“I want everyone to stop interfering,” he says.
His shoulders sag immediately after. “I want you to help me,” he says, voice strained. “I am terrified of doing this alone.”
The bracelet constricts again, slower this time, deliberate. George hisses, fingers digging into the leather like he might pry it off through sheer force.
Alex nods to himself. “It is not flipping words,” he says. “It is flipping intent.”
George laughs weakly. “That feels worse.”
“Yeah,” Alex agrees. “It is worse.”
He paces once, then stops in front of George again. “One more. And then we stop.”
George nods, already bracing himself.
“Tell me how you feel about Max,” Alex says.
George freezes.
The bracelet goes warm immediately, like it knows.
“I cannot stand him,” George says.
His voice cracks as soon as the sentence ends. “That is not it. I am angry, yes, but I do not want this to keep going. I wanted to end the fight. I wanted to make things right.”
Pain flares bright and sharp. George gasps, knees threatening to buckle again.
Alex does not hesitate this time. He grabs George by the shoulders, grounding him without touching the bracelet. “That is enough. Stop talking.”
George shuts his mouth instantly. The pressure eases, not disappearing, but loosening enough to breathe.
They stand there for a moment in silence.
Alex exhales slowly. “Okay,” he says. “I believe you.”
George looks at him, eyes glassy with pain. “You do.”
“I watched it happen,” Alex replies. “You try to say what you mean, and it punishes you. You say something you do not mean, and it lets you.”
George nods faintly. “I am starting to dread opening my mouth.”
“I can tell,” Alex says softly.
He glances once more at the bracelet, then back at George. “Until we figure this out, you are not explaining things. You are not correcting yourself. You keep answers short, or you say nothing at all.”
George swallows. “That is going to make everything worse.”
The bracelet stays still. Alex understood what George actually wanted to say.
Alex gives him a small, grim smile. “Yes. it is better.”
For the first time since Qatar, despite the pain and the fear, George feels something close to relief.
And the bracelet, quiet against his wrist, waits.
*
Christian Horner does not waste time.
Max is barely through the door before Christian gestures for him to sit, fingers already steepled, expression carefully neutral in the way that always means trouble.
“This cannot continue,” Christian says. “Qatar was bad enough. The interviews after were worse.”
Max crosses his arms. “I told the truth.”
“I am not saying you were wrong, kid,” Christian replies calmly. “But Sponsors matter. They are calling. People are talking about grudges instead of racing.”
Max exhales sharply and looks away. He knows where this is going.
“You need to speak to George,” Christian continues. “Clear the air. At least publicly. We do not need you two to be friends. We need you not at each other’s throats.”
Max laughs once. “He is the one who took it to the stewards.”
“And you are the one who escalated it afterward,” Christian says. “Meet him. Talk. End it.”
Silence stretches between them.
Max does not want this. Everything in him resists the idea of walking up to George Russell and pretending that Qatar did not happen. Still, he understands the subtext. This is not a suggestion.
“Fine,” he says finally. “I will talk to him.”
George is near the hospitality area when Max finds him later that afternoon. He looks tired. Not just frustrated, but worn down in a way that does not match a driver starting near the front of the grid. His posture is rigid, shoulders set like he is bracing for impact.
Max stops a few steps away. “George.”
George turns. His expression tightens immediately. Then he stills, visibly reining something in.
Max notices it. The pause. The restraint.
“I am not here to fight,” Max says. “Christian asked me to talk to you. We can end this now.”
George’s jaw flexes. His gaze drops briefly to his wrist, then lifts again.
Max frowns. That is odd.
“I do not want this dragged out,” Max continues. “Qatar happened. It was messy. But it does not need to keep going.”
George nods once. He takes a breath. “Good.”
The word lands flat.
George opens his mouth again. Max can almost see him choosing his words.
“I am glad you finally realized you were wrong,” George says.
Max stiffens. “Excuse me?”
George’s eyes widen a fraction. His hand curls at his side. “That is not what I meant.”
Max feels irritation spark. He had come here prepared to swallow pride. Prepared to meet halfway. This is not that.
“You just said I was wrong,” Max replies coolly.
“I was trying to say I want this to stop,” George says quickly. There is strain in his voice now. “I am tired of this.”
“And this is how you show that?” Max asks. “By starting again?”
George shakes his head. He looks genuinely distressed now, gaze flicking away as if searching for something that is not there. “You crossed a line,” he says.
Max’s patience snaps. “You went to the stewards. You talked about me to the media. And now you want to act like I am the problem?”
George flinches.
Max notices something else then. George’s breathing is shallow. His fingers tremble slightly. He presses his wrist against his side like it hurts.
“I did not want it to go this far,” George says. “But you always make it personal.”
Max stares at him. “That is exactly what you accused me of in the interview.”
George freezes.
For a moment, he does not respond at all. Then his face drains of color. His hand grips his wrist fully now, knuckles white.
“That is not what I am trying to do,” he says, voice tight. “Please.”
The word surprises Max. It does not match the rest of the conversation.
“Then say what you mean,” Max says quietly.
George swallows. He opens his mouth.
“You are impossible to deal with,” he says instead.
Max steps back before he can stop himself. Anger flashes hot and immediate. “Unbelievable.”
George looks stricken. Whatever is happening now is clearly not intentional. Max can see it in his eyes. The confusion. The frustration. The way he looks almost panicked.
“I wanted this to end,” George says. “I swear.”
Max studies him for a long second. The tension is still there, heavy and unresolved, but something else has crept in alongside it. Something wrong. This is not calculated hostility. This is not rivalry spilling over.
This is someone losing control of their own words.
Max exhales slowly. “This is pointless,” he says. “We will talk later.”
He turns and walks away before it escalates into something worse.
As he leaves, he glances back once.
George is still standing there, gripping his wrist like it is the only thing keeping him upright.
And for the first time since Qatar, Max wonders if this fight is not entirely George’s doing.
*
Max does not stop thinking about it.
He tells himself it is nothing. A bad weekend. Ego. Tempers running hot after Qatar. That is normal. That happens. He has dealt with worse.
Still, the image stays with him. George standing there, fingers dug into his wrist, looking like he had just said something he did not recognize.
Max notices it properly the next morning.
They are both in the media pen, staggered interviews but close enough to hear each other. George is answering a question about strategy, calm and composed at first.
“We were happy with the balance,” George says. “The car felt predictable.”
Then the journalist asks about pressure, about expectations.
George pauses. Just a second too long.
“I do not think the team knows what they are doing,” he says.
There is an audible intake of breath from the reporter.
George blinks. His posture stiffens. “That is not,” he starts, then stops. His lips press together hard. “Next question.”
Max watches from a few meters away, brows knitting. That is not like him. George is careful. Polished. He does not throw his own team under the bus like that.
Later, in the paddock, Max sees it again.
One of George’s engineers hands him a tablet, talking through a setup change. George listens, nods, then says, “I do not trust your judgment on this.”
The engineer looks stunned. “Right,” he replies after a beat. “We can revisit it.”
George immediately looks uncomfortable. He rubs his wrist absently, sleeve tugged low over it. “I just mean,” he tries, then stops himself again. He exhales sharply and turns away.
Max slows his walk.
He starts paying attention.
At lunch, George sits with a few drivers. Someone cracks a joke. George smiles, then says, “That was not funny at all.”
The table goes quiet.
A few minutes later, George excuses himself, chair scraping back a little too hard. As he leaves, Max notices him flexing his hand, shaking it out like it hurts.
Max frowns.
This is not selective. This is not just aimed at him.
In the afternoon, Max passes the Mercedes garage. George is inside, mid-conversation with Toto. The body language is tense but controlled. Toto speaks first.
“You did a good job managing the tires,” Toto says.
George nods. He takes a breath. “I think you guys made a lot of mistakes.”
Toto’s expression shifts slightly. “George.”
George presses his lips together. His shoulders rise and fall with a slow breath. “I need a minute,” he says, and steps away.
As he turns, Max catches a glimpse of his wrist. The leather bracelet is visible now, dark against his skin. George grips it reflexively, thumb pressing into the band like he is grounding himself.
Max stops walking.
That bracelet was not there before Qatar.
Later that evening, Max finds him alone near the edge of the paddock, standing by the barrier, looking out at nothing in particular. George does not notice him at first.
Max finds George by accident.
It is late. Most of the paddock has quieted down, the chaos replaced by the low hum of generators and distant voices. Max is heading back toward the Red Bull motorhome when he spots George near the outer walkway, phone in hand, shoulders tense.
George looks exhausted. Worn thin.
“George,” Max says.
George looks up. Whatever he sees on Max’s face makes him straighten immediately. His hand drops from his wrist, but not before Max notices the instinctive motion.
“We need to talk,” Max continues. “Now.”
George hesitates. Then nods once. “Fine.”
They stand a few feet apart. The space between them feels deliberate.
“I know you are angry,” Max says. “I was too. Qatar was messy. But this,” he gestures vaguely, “this is something else.”
George lets out a slow breath. “You wanted to reconcile. This is me trying.”
Max studies him. “By insulting everyone around you.”
“That is not what I am doing,” George snaps.
Max raises an eyebrow. “You just told your engineer he does not know what he is doing. You told your team they are making mistakes. You told me I was impossible to deal with.”
George’s jaw tightens. His fingers twitch.
“I am trying to stop this,” George says. “I am trying to move on.”
“Then say that,” Max replies. “Say you want it to end.”
George closes his eyes.
When he opens them again, there is something desperate there. He takes a breath, slow and deliberate, like he is stepping onto a knife’s edge.
“I do not want to fight with you anymore,” he says.
The bracelet tightens instantly.
George gasps, hand flying to his wrist. Pain flares sharp and hot, forcing the words out of him before he can stop them.
“I think you are arrogant and reckless and you ruin everything you touch.”
The words hang in the air, ugly and final.
Max goes very still.
“That,” Max says quietly, “is crossing a line.”
George looks horrified.
“No,” he says immediately. “No, that is not what I meant. I swear to you.”
Max takes a step closer. “You just said I ruin everything.”
George shakes his head hard. “I did not choose those words.”
Max’s gaze drops to George’s wrist.
The bracelet is obvious now. Dark leather biting into skin gone red and irritated. George is gripping it like he wants to tear it off, but his fingers slip uselessly over the clasp.
“That thing,” Max says slowly. “You touch it every time this happens.”
George freezes.
Max watches the realization hit him. The way George’s breathing stutters. The way his shoulders slump as if something has finally collapsed.
“It forces me to say weird things and it will not come off,” George says hoarsely. “I have tried.”
Max’s anger drains, replaced by sharp clarity. “Are you for real right now?”
“It the truth,” George admits. “And it hurts every time I try–” the pain was making him dizzy.
Silence settles between them, heavy but different now. The hostility has cracked, revealing something fragile underneath.
“You were trying to end the fight?” Max says.
George nods.
“And it forces you to say the opposite?” Max continues.
George swallows the pain. “The more I force my thoughts, the more it hurts.”
Max exhales slowly. He looks at George again, really looks at him, and for the first time since Qatar, he does not see an enemy.
He sees someone trapped.