Chapter Text
05 June,
4 days until the Canadian Grand Prix.
The digital clock on the nightstand glowed an accusatory 10:22 pm. Max lay sprawled on the right side of the bed, the empty space beside him a constant reminder of the distance that had grown between him and Kelly. She was curled up on the opposite side, her phone a glowing barrier between them. The rhythmic scroll of her thumb was the only sound breaking the tense silence. It was a habit she'd picked up recently, a growing addiction that mirrored the growing chasm between them.
A dull ache settled in Max's chest. Had he done something wrong? Said something insensitive? The recent situation with Daniil and Penelope, their respective daughters, had undoubtedly strained things. The thought of that innocent error escalating into a full-blown family feud was a constant source of worry. But was it just that? Or was there something more, something deeper, that he was missing?
The blame for the growing distance between him and Kelly gnawed at Max, especially after Charles' confession two days ago. The raw vulnerability in his friend's voice, the weight of his secret, echoed in Max's mind.
He, in turn, felt a strange disconnect from Kelly, who once was a constant source of comfort, now felt unreachable, a stranger lost in the glow of her phone screen.
He often caught himself lost in thought, his gaze drifting towards the horizon, his mind a tangled mess of confusion. Why, he couldn't explain, his thoughts kept circling back to Charles .
A jolt of nervous energy coursed through him. His hands, usually steady and sure, would twitch and fidget. He'd clench them into fists, desperately trying to suppress the urge to reach out to Charles. A barrage of messages, a constant stream of calls, the impulsive need to drive straight to his apartment – all these desires threatened to erupt, betraying the fragile normalcy of his life.
Returning Leo's collar had been a small act, a flimsy bridge across a chasm he didn't fully understand. But it had led to that unexpected conversation, a glimpse into a world of pain Charles had shouldered alone. The thought of him suffering, the stark contrast to the vibrant, witty Charles he knew, filled Max with a fierce protectiveness. "Suffering" and "Charles" shouldn't coexist, not in his world. A spark of defiance ignited within him. He wouldn't let them.
He stole a glance at Kelly, her face illuminated by the soft glow of her phone. The distance between them felt tangible, a vast emptiness where their connection used to be. A decision, tentative at first, began to take root.
He wouldn't stay silent. He would find a way to be there for Charles, a friend, a confidante, or even something more like a...brother, whatever Charles needed him to be. And maybe, just maybe, in helping Charles find his truth, he might rediscover his own.
If there was something to rediscover, of course…
The silence in the bedroom stretched, taut and suffocating. Max, finally fed up with the glacial atmosphere, threw his frustrations into the air.
"So, are you going to not talk to me forever now?" he snapped.
His words hung unanswered, swallowed by the digital glow emanating from Kelly's phone. It was as if he were invisible, a mere fly buzzing around a goddess engrossed in a far more important world.
"The way you treated Charles was awful, Kelly," he pressed, his voice tight with a mixture of anger and hurt. He cursed himself for immediately centering his thoughts on Charles again.
A flicker of annoyance finally crossed Kelly's face, a fleeting wrinkle above her nose that disappeared as quickly as it appeared. She didn't even bother to grace him with a look.
"Oh, so now you're blaming me?" she retorted, her voice laced with a sharp disdain that sent a shiver down Max's spine.
"I told you I was the one who grabbed his phone," he defended, his voice rising slightly. The frustration of being unheard, of being painted as the villain, bubbled to the surface.
"So you admit fault for once? Congrats," Kelly scoffed, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Doesn't change the mess you created."
"I've apologized a million times, Kelly! What more do you want?" Max exclaimed, his voice cracking with a mixture of anger and hurt.
"Responsibility," she spat back, her eyes finally snapping towards him. "I wanted you to act like an adult for once. Do you know how easily that could've been used against me in court?"
Max felt a cold dread creep into his stomach. "What are you talking about? Daniil wouldn't do that. He knows how much we care about Penelope." He tried to reason with her, but the words felt like pebbles against a fortress wall.
"He doesn't care about feelings, Max," Kelly countered, her voice cold. "He wants leverage, and you just handed it to him on a silver platter."
"Did he say that?" Max demanded, a sliver of hope clinging to the belief that Daniil wouldn't stoop so low.
"It doesn't matter," Kelly dismissed him with a wave of her hand. "The damage is done. And you almost made me lose my daughter." Her voice hardened further. "Honestly, Max, I don't even know if I can trust you anymore."
The finality in her words was a hammer blow. Max stared at her, his heart a lead weight in his chest. He couldn't distinguish if it was the lack of eye contact throughout the entire conversation, or the chilling doubt hanging heavy in the air that hurt him the most.
Defeated, he rose from the bed. There was no point in trying to reason with her. He grabbed his pillows, a silent testament to their crumbling relationship, and retreated to the living room couch. There, at least, he wouldn't be blamed for things that never happened.
He sank into the cushions, the silence a chilling echo of the emptiness that had grown between him and the woman he once thought he loved.
06 June,
3 days until the Canadian Grand Prix.
The night stretched on like an eternity. The unforgiving firmness of the couch offered no solace, each creak and groan a cruel reminder of the chasm that had opened between him and Kelly. Sleep, once a refuge, now mocked him, refusing to descend on his weary mind. The shrill scream of the alarm clock at 5 am was a welcome intruder, shattering the oppressive silence.
Usually, on race weekends, a flurry of activity would greet him at dawn. Kelly and Penelope, buzzing with anticipation, would be meticulously packing their suitcases, their excitement a palpable current in the air. But today, the air hung heavy with a different kind of energy – a suffocating silence. Neither suitcase adorned the living room floor, a physical manifestation of Kelly's unilateral decision.
In a fit of anger, Kelly had declared they wouldn't be going. And maybe, a niggling suspicion wormed its way into Max's mind, maybe it was for the best. He could already envision the potential disaster – a distracted mind on the track, haunted by the icy chasm between him and Kelly.
"Whatever," Max muttered, his voice laced with a bitter resignation.
Hauling himself off the makeshift couch, his body ached in protest. A symphony of pops and groans accompanied his every movement. A ghost of a smile flickered across his face when he saw Penelope emerge from her room — a small, sad figure tiptoeing to avoid disturbing her mother.
His heart ached for her. Her eyes, though tearless, held a depth of unspoken sorrow. He jumped slightly, startled by her presence. The frustration that had etched lines on his face moments ago vanished, replaced by a warm smile.
"Hey, P, good morning," he greeted, his voice gentle.
A small, hesitant response, "Hi Maxy…"
"You look a little down, sweetheart. What's wrong?" He knelt before her, his gaze filled with concern.
"I want to see you race," she mumbled, her voice thick with disappointment. Her lower lip trembled, threatening to unleash a torrent of tears.
"I know you do, pumpkin," he said, reaching out to cup her cheek with his hand. "Believe me, seeing you there cheering me on is what keeps me going. But things are a bit… complicated right now with your mom." His words were laced with regret. "She's not happy with me, and it's best if you stay with her this weekend."
Penelope's face crumpled. "But why? Don't you want me to see you win?"
"More than anything, P. But I made a mistake, and your mom is upset."
He brushed a stray tear from her cheek. "So I need you to be a champ and stay here with her this weekend. Can you do that for me?"
"I think so…" she sniffled, wiping her nose on her sleeve.
"How about when I get back, we make it up to you?" He offered, hoping to distract her. "What would you like to do?"
A flicker of excitement sparked in her eyes. "I wanna play with Leo again!"
An unexpected answer, but an answer nonetheless. Perhaps, he thought, this could be his chance to see Charles again. A sliver of hope, a reason to reach out.
"Well then," he grinned, "let's send Charles a message and see if we can schedule a playdate. But first," he said, his voice firm but filled with love, "You gotta promise me one thing, okay?"
Penelope sniffled again, pulling back to look at him with hopeful eyes. "What?"
"No more sad faces," Max declared, a playful smile on his face. "Deal?"
Penelope, her lower lip still trembling slightly, managed a small smile. "Deal!" She chirped, a ray of sunshine breaking through the dark clouds that had been looming.
Ten agonizing hours stretched ahead of Max as the Red Bull jet roared towards Canada. He popped a grape into his mouth, the sweet burst doing little to repress the bitter taste of his current reality. He usually sought solace in the flickering glow of race highlights on his iPad, a familiar routine to lull him into a pre-flight slumber.
But sleep was a distant dream tonight. Every time he closed his eyes, Charles' face materialized behind his eyelids, his vulnerability a stark contrast to the carefully crafted image he'd presented to the world.
The urge to reach out, to offer comfort or some semblance of solace, was a constant itch beneath his skin. His hands, usually steady and sure on the wheel, wouldn't stay still. They twitched, fidgeted, clenching and unclenching in a silent display of nervous energy.
A flicker of movement on his left caught his attention. Checo, his teammate, scrolled through his phone, a self-satisfied smirk playing on his lips. Max couldn't muster the energy to feign disinterest.
"Oh, no way," Checo's voice, usually jovial, grated on Max's nerves. "Did you see this?"
He thrust his phone screen in Max's face, the harsh light momentarily blinding him. A headline screamed across the display: "Charles Leclerc Announces Breakup with Girlfriend: 'I Need to Focus on My Career, Now More Than Ever.'" Three hundred thousand likes in two hours? The absurdity of it all sat heavy in Max's stomach.
"Yeah, I know," Max managed, his voice tight. "Poor guy…"
He forced a casualness that felt brittle, a mask barely concealing the turmoil within.
"Hope this throws him off his game in Canada," Checo chuckled, oblivious to the undercurrent of tension.
Max snapped. "Don't joke about this, mate, come on."
Checo raised his hands in mock surrender, a sarcastic apology on his lips. "Alright, alright, sorry mate. Just a bit of banter, you know?"
But the playful facade didn't fool Max. He narrowed his eyes. "Why are you even following that kind of trash?" He pressed, his annoyance a thinly veiled shield for a deeper emotion.
Checo hesitated, then sighed. "Daniel sent it around the group chat. To everyone on the team, actually." A flicker of annoyance crossed his face. "Typical Riccardio."
Max felt a cold dread pool in his gut. Daniel. A little predictable.
The carefully constructed narrative, the convenient timing of the announcement – it all fit into place with a sickening clarity. This race weekend, already fraught with tension, had just become infinitely more complicated.
This didn’t feel like a break-up, it was a calculated move, a weapon aimed straight at Charles' heart, and by extension, at his championship hopes . A fierce protectiveness surged within Max. He wouldn't let them win. He wouldn't let them break Charles. Not if he had anything to say about it.
With a newfound determination, Max snatched his phone, his gaze burning a hole through the screen. He wouldn't play by their rules. This time, he would fight back.
His thumbs danced across the screen, composing a message unlike any he'd ever sent. It couldn't be words of empty sympathy, not after Charles' raw vulnerability. It had to be genuine, a bridge built on honesty and a flicker of something more — something he couldn't quite define yet.
"Hey Charles," it began, the simple salutation feeling oddly formal. "Just saw the news. I know things must be tough right now. Don't let anyone get you down. Focus on the race, focus on yourself. You're an incredible driver, and whatever's going on, it won't change that."
He reread the message several times, each time feeling it lacked the sincerity he wanted to convey. Finally, with a frustrated sigh, he sent it. He knew it wasn't much, but it was a start. A lifeline thrown across the vast distance separating them, a silent promise of friendship in the face of the storm.
He leaned back in his seat, his gaze fixed on the sliver of blue sky visible through the tiny airplane window. The world seemed to blur as the engines droned on, a monotonous soundtrack to the tumultuous battle raging within him. There was a race to be won, a championship to fight for, but it all felt secondary now.
His thoughts drifted back to their conversation, Charles' raw vulnerability echoing in his mind. " They really wouldn't understand ," he'd whispered, his voice thick with despair. And Max, for the first time, truly understood.
He understood the suffocating weight of expectation, the crushing pressure to conform to a world that wouldn't accept his truth. He understood the yearning for connection, for a hand to hold in the darkness. And in that understanding, a seed of something new began to take root.
The flight attendant's voice announcing meal service interrupted his introspection. He barely registered the options, his stomach churning with a mix of anxiety and a burgeoning sense of purpose. He wouldn't let Charles face this alone. He wouldn't let anyone exploit his vulnerability.
As the plane soared through the clouds, Max made a decision. This race wasn't just about winning trophies or outpacing his competitors. This race was about taking a stand, about showing his support for his friend, for Charles, in whatever way he could.
He wouldn't win the race for Charles, but he would race for him, for their newfound connection, for the chance to create a world where Charles wouldn't have to hide anymore.
The Canadian Grand Prix unfolded like a masterfully crafted thriller, a story where fate, strategy, and raw driving talent intertwined to rewrite the script from Monaco. Max Verstappen, still smarting from his unexpected defeat on the streets of Monte Carlo, returned with a vengeance.
Though starting from second on the grid, shadows of Ferrari's resurgence loomed large. George Russell, the surprise pole-sitter in his Mercedes, initially held off Verstappen, but the Red Bull driver was a hungry lion circling his prey.
Then, on lap 25, came the turning point. A rookie error by Logan Sargeant triggered the safety car, and Verstappen, with a pit stop strategy that seemed plucked from the pages of a racing strategist's dream, pounced. He gambled on an early pit, jumping ahead of both Norris and the unsuspecting leader.
The race remained a chess match on wheels. Norris, fueled by his home crowd's roar, fought back gallantly. He retook the lead after the restart, only to be overtaken again by Verstappen in a thrilling duel on the track after the second round of pit stops.
Meanwhile, a different drama unfolded behind the leading pack. Russell, desperate to secure a podium finish for Mercedes in their barren season, clung to third place with gritted teeth. Oscar Piastri, a rising star, hounded him relentlessly, their battle culminating in a nail-biting final few laps. Russell, with the metaphorical "knife between his teeth," managed to hold off his young challenger, securing a crucial podium finish for the German team.
Ultimately, Verstappen crossed the checkered flag first, a dominant victor after a strategically brilliant race.
Max’s victory solidified his lead in the championship, his point total now a substantial 194. However, Leclerc's absence opened up a new dynamic in the fight for second. Lando Norris, finishing second in Canada, now sat just seven points behind the Ferrari driver. The battle for the runner-up position had just become tantalizingly close.
But the day wasn't without its upsets. Charles Leclerc's unexpected retirement from the race opened up a new front in the championship battle. Lando Norris, now a close second, smelled blood in the water, the fight for the championship crown just beginning to heat up.
Charles tossed his helmet into his designated area with a dull thud, the frustration echoing in the clang. Ferrari's PR woman, a woman named Olivia known for her unflappable demeanor, approached him, clipboard in hand.
"Charles," she began, her voice a practiced calm, "Here's what we'd like you to say for the interviews. Briefly acknowledge the disappointment, emphasize the team effort, and focus on moving forward."
Charles scanned the pre-written script, lips twisting into a sardonic smile. "Bullsh*t and more bullsh*t," he muttered under his breath. "sh*tty excuses for a sh*tty race. We can't sugarcoat this, Olivia."
Olivia sighed, a flicker of annoyance crossing her usually composed features. "Charles, you know it goes. Sponsors, image management—"
"Doesn't mean we have to be hypocrites," he cut her off, his voice firm. "Look, thanks for the effort, but I'll say what I want."
With a curt nod, the PR woman retreated, leaving Charles to face the media onslaught. He squared his shoulders, a mask of forced composure settling over his features as he turned to the waiting cameras. The barrage of questions began, each one a fresh jab at the raw wound of his failed race.
"Charles," the first interviewer began sharp and quick, "a disappointing day for Ferrari. Can you walk us through what went wrong out there?"
Charles took a deep breath. "It was a combination of factors," he admitted, his voice tight. "We had a significant engine issue that started early on. We were hemorrhaging time with every lap, and switching to slicks was a calculated risk. Honestly, at that point, we had nothing to lose." He paused, his gaze flickering across the sea of faces before him.
"This hurts. It's a massive blow to the team, especially with both cars out. We'll need to get to the bottom of this engine problem and make sure it doesn't happen again."
He answered question after question, each one a fresh barb, chipping away at his already frayed composure. He felt like a caged animal, forced to perform for the cameras while his insides churned with raw frustration.
Then, a question cut through the monotony, sharper than the rest. "Charles, with all due respect, do you think your recent break-up with Alexandra Saint might have affected your performance today?"
The dam within Charles finally burst. A fierce scowl contorted his features, his eyes blazing with fury. "Was Alexandra responsible for the team's strategy or the mechanical integrity of the car?" he shot back, his voice laced with venom. "Do you hear yourself? What kind of question is that?"
He lunged forward, his voice rising to a shout. "What the f*ck does my personal life have to do with anything?" He might have launched himself at the reporter had a hand not clamped down on his shoulder.
Max Verstappen, his face etched with concern, stood behind him, a silent buffer between Charles' rage and the hungry eyes of the media. "Charles, easy," Max murmured, his voice a soothing counterpoint to Charles' rage. "Let it go. Not worth it.”
Charles struggled against Max's hold, muscles taut with barely contained anger. He wouldn't give them the satisfaction of seeing him crack, wouldn't let them twist this into another narrative.
"I'm done here," he finally spat, shaking off Max's hand. He stormed off, his every step a testament to his frustration. Max, with a sigh, knew he had to follow. He couldn't leave Charles alone in this state, not after such a public meltdown.
"Where are you going?" a voice echoed in the sterile hallway, but Charles ignored it, his long strides carrying him deeper into the labyrinthine corridors of the Ferrari paddock. He felt like a hunted animal, the cacophony of the press conference a distant, jarring memory.
Max, ever the pragmatist, shot a wry smile towards the departing voice. "I’ll go check up on him," he said, a small wink escaping his eyes. He felt like a rogue operative venturing into enemy territory – a vibrant blue splash amidst the sea of Ferrari red. But the concern for Charles eclipsed any anxieties about propriety.
Following Charles' trail, Max found himself outside the Ferrari garage, the air thick with the metallic tang of machinery and defeat. He hesitated for a moment, then pushed open the door, the familiar Ferrari red replaced by the stark white of the medical bay. Empty.
Heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs, Max scanned the room. A single door remained closed – the bathroom. He approached cautiously, the silence broken only by the faint whoosh of ventilation. "Charles? Are you alright?" he called out, his voice laced with concern.
No answer. Just the same unsettling quiet. Max's gut clenched. "Charles?" He tried again, this time a hint of urgency creeping into his voice.
Max frowned. "I'm sorry for today," he offered tentatively. "No one knew there'd be such a heavy rain." It was a weak attempt at consolation, he knew, but it was all he could offer at the moment.
"And you still won, so what?" Charles finally retorted, his voice laced with a bitterness that stung Max's ears.
"That's not the point, Charles," Max countered, pushing closer. He could hear the tremor in Charles' voice, a vulnerability that tugged at his heartstrings.
Max knew he’d touched a nerve, it was obvious. "I know you're angry, and rightfully so," he said, his voice softening. "But lashing out won't change anything."
A beat of silence followed, then a muffled, "I didn't mean to… sorry." A sigh escaped from within the stall, a sound that spoke volumes.
Max's heart ached. This wasn't the fiery, competitive Charles he knew. This was a Charles on the verge of breaking, and the sight filled him with a surge of protectiveness.
He creaked the door open, his breath catching in his throat at the sight before him. Charles sat huddled on the cold floor, his face buried in his hands, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs.
Max didn't hesitate. He crouched down beside Charles, his presence a silent offering of support. "It's just that…" Charles began, his voice heavy with exhaustion, "everything keeps going wrong. I'm tired of this."
"Tired of what?" Max asked, his voice barely a whisper.
"Everything," Charles mumbled, his voice muffled against his knees.
Max placed a hand on Charles' shoulder, the warmth radiating through his racing suit. "That wasn't your fault," he said firmly, squeezing gently.
"I know, it was all because of that engine issue," Charles muttered, his voice laced with self-recrimination. "If they hadn't messed up—"
"Not that, Charles," Max interrupted, his voice low and sincere. "I saw the post…"
Charles' head whipped up, his eyes blazing with a flicker of defiance that quickly morphed into something else entirely – shame. He rolled his eyes, not in annoyance, but in self-deprecation.
"I didn't know you followed me to know what I post," he mumbled, his voice barely audible.
Max chuckled softly. "It's kind of hard to miss, Charles. You're, you know, the famous Charles Leclerc."
A hint of a smile played on Charles' lips, a flicker of light breaking through the storm raging within him.
"Yeah, sure," he admitted, a wry note in his voice.
"And a big fan of yours sent you a lovely message," Max continued, his voice teasing. "Probably too busy with the race to reply, but it’s okay, I'm sure he understands."
Charles' eyes widened comically. "You texted me? Sorry, everything's been a mess right now—"
Max burst out laughing, the sound echoing in the cavernous garage. "Relax, Charles, just messing with you."
Max's hands touched Charles' thigh, a jolt of energy going through their bodies. Their gaze grew stronger, but Charles couldn't allow himself to let that go on.
Charles, you can't give in, he whispered in his head, a voice fueled by the complexities of their situation and the weight of public scrutiny.
Max, ever perceptive, picked up on the shift in Charles' demeanor. He retreated a touch, his voice laced with playful amusem*nt.
"But that big fan," Max began, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down Charles' spine, "has another lovely message to send you."
"Another one?" Charles raised an eyebrow, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He was allowing himself to be drawn back in, if only slightly.
"Indeed," Max confirmed. "This particular fan, a young lady by the name of Penelope I think, said she wants to play with a certain… Leo. Do you know him by any chance?"
The tension in the room dissipated with a burst of genuine laughter from Charles. The sound, light and melodic, chased away the shadows that had clung to him for far too long. It was a balm to Max's heart, a reward for his risky attempt to lighten the mood.
Charles' smile, when it finally appeared, was like a sunrise after a long night, radiating a warmth that chased away the lingering chill of defeat.
"Penelope, huh?" Charles chuckled, a playful glint returning to his eyes. "You're unbelievable. When we go back to Monaco, I'll be sure to pass the message on to Leo."
"Appreciate it, messenger boy," Max joked, his voice shining with happiness.
“Max, I’m supposed to be sad, stop making me laugh."
"That's what friends are for, right?" Max winked, a playful challenge in his eyes. "Besides, a champion like you shouldn't let a bad race get him down. You'll be back on top in no time."
Charles shook his head, a hint of amusem*nt flickering across his features. "Easy for you to say,"
"Maybe," Max conceded, a slow smile spreading across his face. "But hey, maybe next time, the winner's podium will have two spots instead of one." The words hung in the air, an unspoken invitation, a promise of a future yet unwritten.
As they both rose, the weight of the awkward silence seemed to press down on them. Charles, his face flushed and streaked with tears, moved towards the sink, desperate to wash away the evidence of his emotional breakdown.
He splashed water on his face, the coolness a stark contrast to the heat that had risen in his cheeks. Suddenly, a guttural sound echoed through the small bathroom, making him jump. It was Max, doubled over with a dry heave.
"Max, what's wrong?" Charles exclaimed, concern etching lines onto his previously tear-stained face. He rushed to Max's side, worry eclipsing any lingering awkwardness.
Max, his face pale, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Ugh, oh my God," he muttered, his voice strained. "That stupid Mexican snack Checo gave me… I don't think my stomach's a big fan."
Charles stared at him, his initial apprehension giving way to hesitant concern. "Really? Isn't this a bit much for just one snack, Max?"
Max winced. "Yeah, tell me about it. Monaco hangover wasn't enough, apparently." He leaned against the wall, his breathing shallow and rapid.
"Maybe you should sit down for a while," Charles suggested, gesturing towards the floor. "I can get you some water, or…" He trailed off, unsure what exactly a person needed in this situation.
Max shook his head, a weak smile flickering across his lips. "Nah, I'll be fine. Just need some meds for indigestion. This isn't exactly the first time this has happened."
Charles couldn't help but feel a pang of sympathy. Here he was, wallowing in his own misery, and Max was dealing with a whole other kind of problem. He supposed it put things in perspective.
"Alright," Charles conceded, his voice softer now. "But if you start feeling worse, don't hesitate to call for help, okay?"
Max nodded, a flicker of gratitude in his eyes. "Thank you, Charles. Really. But I should probably get going. Wouldn't want to… contaminate the Ferrari hospitality with my… rotten stomach contents." He attempted a joke, but it fell flat.
"Yeah, probably not," Charles agreed, a faint smile playing on his lips.
Max straightened up, his movements a little wobbly. "So, I guess I'll see you around then? Take care, alright?"
"You too, Max," Charles replied, a genuine warmth in his voice. "Text me if the medicine works, okay?"
Max paused at the door, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "If you answer me, I'll think about it," he winked, a playful challenge lingering in his voice before he disappeared down the hallway.
Charles leaned against the sink, a smile tugging at his lips. Perhaps, this disastrous race weekend had taken an unexpected turn for the interesting.
He pulled out his phone, Max's unreplied-to text a stark reminder of the tentative connection they shared. With a deep breath, he began to type, a single phrase that held the weight of a thousand unspoken emotions: "Hey. Thanks for today." He hit send, a nervous flutter in his stomach, and waited.
