the money shot (max verstappen )

british gp

all the races over the course of the F1 calendar offered equal points, but there were certain races during the year that provided an increased level of pride, of self satisfaction, than the others.

there were three tracks like this for each driver.
the first was their home race, as the crowd would be surging with support for them.
the second was monaco, lavish and prestigious, drawing in thousands of viewers as well as celebrities.

the third was silverstone. formula one originated in britain and, as such, there was a heightened excitement each year around the silverstone race.

max had a comfortable lead in the drivers championship now, though mercedes seemed to be getting stronger and stronger every race.
max had managed pole by winning the sprint race, hamilton was just behind him and then bottas in p3. they would be breathing down his neck right from the start.

max's nerves built as he began his formation lap, weaving around to get as much temperature as possible into the tires. he took his place on the grid and waited as the other drivers joined.

one by one the lights went on. and there it was. that moment of still. an infinity of time that passed in an instant.

max slammed onto the gas, hamilton right on his heels, as they made their way through the track, clipping the kerbs of each turn in order to claim the fastest race line. the pressure of starting on pole was incomparable to anything max had ever experienced. the rumble of cars behind you, their colourful liveries flashing in your mirrors.

as he exited the corner before the first straight, max knew hed made a mistake. hamilton had gotten better traction than max and, as such, was able to pull alongside the redbull as charged down the straight.

max had the inside line as they approached the next turn and squeezed his redbull past lewis. he was unable to get much distance between them though as lewis was pulled along by max's slip stream down the pit straight.

max watched hamilton draw closer and closer as they approached copse corner. hamilton was trying now to push himself along the inside line and in front of max.

lila looked on excitedly, entranced by the race's intencity, captivated by the battle between the drives.

she watched the screen as their cars rounded copse corner. she watched as they touched. she watched as max's car went spinning. she watched as his wheels came off the car. and finally she watched him slam into the barriers with such an intensity that they immediately came apart.

she was filming from the pit lane and listened as the crew in the garage went silent. murmurs and mutters of increasing volume began to fill the air.

"how did that even happen?"

"shit, is he alright?"

"what the fuck was hamilton thinking?"

the voices overlapped and swarmed in the air.
lila lowered her camera, briefly forgetting about her responsibilities and watched the big screen intently.

finally she saw max, printed upon the screen, hauling himself out of the cockpit and attempting the walk away. he lipped as he did so and, as soon as they were within reach, fell upon the shoulder of one of the safety marshals.

the crowd roared with relief and congratulations as max stood, clearly trying to catch his breath. an impact like that would empty your lungs, winding you in the most painful way imaginable. lila hated that feeling; not being able to get any air in.

he hobbled over to the ambulance and got in, clearly painfully before being taken away to hospital.

lila was unable to focus for the rest of the race. she was sure max would be fine, but she couldn't help but worry. he could've easily strained his neck, preventing him from racing next week. or worse still, cracked a bone somewhere.