Wrath & Protest [Max Verstappen]

[o n e .]

The Red Bull hospitality became a place of whispers after the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix this year. Gossip being passed on from ear to ear, instances of "Did you hear...?" slicing through what silence Max might have known if it weren't for such peculiar news. He himself remained clueless to what was topical. All his focus trained on testing for the next year, but with the excruciating feeling of being out of the loop, he just had to find a way to sink his teeth into whatever rumors sprang up among his team. Max was like that - always wanting to be involved somehow, even when it didn't necessarily apply to him. Unless, of course, he found that he simply didn't care.

Max intended to just ask the nearest employee about the latest scoop, but it seemed he didn't need to. Upon exiting his changing room, he was immediately met by several people rushing their way to the main garage, all of them wearing expectant looks on their faces. The driver himself took to joining them, and when he arrived all he saw was a crowd of bulls surrounding a single computer screen.

"What's going on?" Max asked an engineer standing next to him. She frowned.

"You haven't heard?"

He shrugged, "I wouldn't be asking if I did."

"Toro Rosso announced their new driver."

That was it? He crossed his arms and looked at the bewildered groups of people, most of them amazed and in disbelief at the same time. It was common for drivers to be dropped in Toro Rosso. Bringing in a fresh face wasn't really a surprise, so much so that Max never really thought much about it whenever it happened. He had much more important responsibilities to tend to, and with his crew ogling over something so insignificant, he naturally felt somewhat annoyed. Max groaned, "What is he, a celebrity or something?"

"No, man. The driver is a she."

He widened his eyes at the engineer, brows furrowed and mouth gaped. Her nod in confirmation was enough for him to push past the crowd and toward the screen with urgency he never knew he had.

There she was, smiling sweetly in her picture with eyes gleaming. Her dark hair only reached a few centimeters above her shoulders and her hands were clasped together. Nothing about her matched the fierce image Max created in his head only seconds prior, and so it was safe to say he was rather disappointed. She wasn't an eye-catcher at all, and it was probably valid to assume that she wasn't trying to portray herself as such, too.

Nonetheless, he was sure that this would stir up the press big-time.

"What do you think, Max?" another employee leaned in closer, "It's been forever since a woman was given a seat."

Max smirked and shoved his hands into his pockets, speaking with an air of pomposity, "As long as she doesn't get in my way, there shouldn't be a problem."

Everyone laughed with him in that moment, but as they continued to stare at the grid's new addition in awe, Max looked on with nothing but silent skepticism. A woman? Oh, please. She was merely a girl, one that was way too optimistic and naive. In the dog-eat-dog world of Formula One, that gentle aura couldn't get her anywhere, especially if Max Verstappen shared the track with her.

It was foolish to think that she could last the two years on her contract, but whatever. She was in a Toro Rosso. Max was in no position to lose sleep over someone like her.

***

The cool autumn months arrived in no time at all. March came as everyone expected, with drivers occupying their garages, administrators looking over the new rules and regulations in their offices, engineers doing their weekend rituals... And of course there were the press conferences. Sports magazines, blogs, and newspaper columns flooded the event like there was no tomorrow, and unfortunately, Max was called to be there. He sat still, arms crossed over the table, prepared for some of the most boring 40 minutes of his day. Usually he didn't mind it; it was part of the job, after all. But he didn't share this table with just any other driver, no, he shared it with her. The girl. The new driver for Toro Rosso. And it wasn't like he had anything against her, really, but she was the center of all the media coverage. That meant he would have to sit here for two-thirds of an hour doing nothing as every question was directed at her. Max fiddled with his thumbs as he listened to the interviewer's inquiries. He was placed at the far left of the table, the girl immediately to his right, Vettel, then Hulkenberg.

"Rosalie, let's start with you," the reporter began. Rosalie... Ah, dammit, Max forgot to introduce himself to her before the conference started. He didn't even know her name before coming here. He looked up to take a glance at her and found nothing new. She looked as plain as she did in her profile picture on the Formula One website: she had no makeup, a simple hairstyle, and a passive smile that honestly kind of irked Max. He could tell immediately that she was a sort of daydreamer, drifting off to some imaginary world when she should be focusing on the matter at hand. Her head was actually down before they called her name.

Rosalie. It was such a gentle name, too. So extremely girly.

"Rosalie, what's it like being the first female to be driving competitively in Formula One after two decades?"

Max noticed her hands begin to crumple her shirt behind the table. She wrung her fingers together, and after a half second of contemplating the question, she answered in a wavering voice, "It's such an honor to be driving for the sport. The Red Bull program gave me so many opportunities to prove myself, and so here I am in a position I never thought I'd be in. Like everyone else here I performed my best in order to get where I am. I just hope the other drivers won't treat me differently, and I trust that they're going to take me seriously on the track."

Was that an American accent spilling from her mouth? Her being female was one thing, but an American? He would have at least expected her to sign with Haas, the American team, instead of Toro Rosso, yet here she was, driving under the Stars and Stripes as a potential Red Bull candidate.

She mentioned that she performed her best. But the last he heard, she did okay at most during free practice and placed eleventh during Qualis.

Vettel snickered, "Of course."

Rosalie jumped a little at the German's interjection, turning her full attention toward him. He looked her straight in the eye and continued, "Those guys are going to race you into the ground!"

Hulkenberg nodded, "You can count on that."

Max chuckled with the rest of the people in the room. God, this girl was never going to make it. She spooked easily and looked to be constantly nervous. He couldn't imagine those dainty, trembling fingers gripping the steering wheel of an F1 car going 200 miles per hour.

He almost expected her to break down on the spot, but her eyes glistened, and her smile widened. She was starstruck as she spoke, "I expect great things from you, then."

Max scoffed. Yes, but at the expense of your dignity, he thought.

The journalist appeared to be satisfied with that exchange, "Thank you, Miss Burnouf. Now onto Sebastian..."

Rosalie Burnouf. The name rang a tiny little bell in the back of Max's mind, but its sound wasn't loud enough for him to linger on it.