Wrath & Protest [Max Verstappen]

[t h r e e .]

The Australian Grand Prix began in chaos. The drastic changes to the specs of each car caused so many drivers to become overwhelmed. Much of the midfield had trouble maneuvering around, leaving the top 3 teams well ahead of the pack, and Max in a safe place. He had qualified fourth, behind Bottas and in front of Leclerc, holding a reliable pace that pleased his engineers during the race. These chances were enough to make Max eager for a podium.

It didn't upset him when he finished in the same place, though. Seeing Hamilton, Vettel, and Bottas up on that stage was almost normal, and winning with a Red Bull car was more or less a blessing nowadays. He was only a little disappointed, and swore to himself he'd improve somehow in the upcoming weeks.

The chequered flag continued to wave as he exited his car. “It was just another day on the job,” he tried reassuring himself, “There is nothing to worry about if I just keep performing at my best.”

His inner monologue was interrupted by an explosion of chattering journalists passing right by him and toward the farther side of the grid. Maybe there was an especially interesting fight on track amongst the midfield - those things usually happened in the beginning of the year. Everyone wanted to begin fiercely with good feelings, but once that was taken away, it was totally expected to act sour for the rest of the week. Magazines loved to eat that stuff up.

He was caught staring by a reporter who didn’t hesitate to offer Max the microphone for a quick post-race interview. There was the usual set of questions, “Are you happy with how you finished?” “Any goals you want to achieve while it’s still early?” “What improvements do you think you’ll see throughout the season?”

It wasn't a hassle to answer these anymore. He had heard these same questions over and over and easing himself into autopilot was just second nature now. “I think I did alright this race,” “I'd like to gain a few podiums,” “We're always improving so we'll see.”

“How do you feel about Rosalie, your underclassman?”

Max blinked, “Hm?”

“She's earned points at her first race as the first female driver in years - How do you feel about that as a former Toro Rosso driver?”

“She… She what?”

Holy shit. Quickly, Max got a hold of himself and continued, “Oh, uhh.. Well, you know, she still has a long way to go, and earning points is always a good thing. So she should enjoy it but… Not get comfortable.”

“Why?”

“It's never a good thing to be cocky.”

“Sage advice! Thank you, Max.”

As the reporter walked away, Max's thoughts went wild. Earning points in a Toro Rosso as a new recruit, all this media attention, being female… Everyone grouping together far back into the grid must have meant she was there. What place did she finish in? How far was she from him during the race?

He stormed over there and the journalists began hounding him. He snaked around them, bumping shoulders, gently pushing them out of the way, until he saw her in the middle of that crowd.

Rosalie's shoulders were stiff. She struggled to maintain that smile of hers as her eyes trained on the ground. The answers she gave came out in stutters, her volume relying solely on the microphone so she could be heard. Max tapped on her shoulder, perhaps partly to save her the trouble of embarrassing herself, perhaps partly to save himself from second-hand embarrassment.

She turned toward him in an instant, and gratefully, she said hello in a way that reminded him of a schoolgirl. He gave her a nod in acknowledgement and a quick apology for crashing her interview, trying his hardest to ignore the cameras. Before she could say anything else, Max went straight to the point of his visit, “What place did you finish?”

She beamed, “P8.”

“...Wow. Congratulations,” he said through his teeth, offering one of the most awkward thumbs up he had ever done in his lifetime.

P8. She was only a place behind her teammate, Kvyat, and it struck a chill down his spine knowing she had to overtake three cars to get where she was. Christ, what happened to the midfield? Surely Daniel would have gotten P6 in the Renault, but what about Haas, the main rival? They did so well in 2018; what happened? Was it possible that Grosjean or Magnussen crashed out? Grosjean - possibly - but Magnussen would have made sure to kick someone else off the track before letting himself DNF. Perhaps Toro Rosso themselves improved the developments in their car!

Though it wasn't an overwhelming sense of doom, it spooked him to think that this girl could possibly take his or Pierre's seats in the upcoming seasons.

He took a deep breath through his nose. God dammit, why was he here? Why did he have to make a scene over something that was so unimportant? His father had instilled paranoia in him, and now as the season started, Max couldn't shake the feeling off. His dad's intense glare, the threat of disappointment… It all stirred a storm within him somehow. Max thought he had left that life behind - the one that he lived for his father - but look at him now, taking his stress out on this girl that probably shouldn't be in the sport in the first place.

Max tried to chuckle it off, “You did great. Keep it up.”

Rosalie's face lit up as he walked away. The press was losing their shit, probably thinking to write it as one of the most heartwarming moments of the year. He supposed it was better than anything else.