Wrath & Protest [Max Verstappen]

[e l e v e n.]

The Red Bull team gave all four of their drivers the password to its Instagram account only for today. Pierre and Kvyat were the first to film themselves doing the tour, giving audiences a virtual track walk as one last goodbye before taking another week’s break. Max dug Bahrain a lot; it was a fun circuit, well, as long as he didn’t crash out on it. How peculiar it was that it took at least 20 minutes to walk around the thing, while in a proper car, it took only a little over a minute.

He sat outside of his garage in a plastic chair, legs crossed and elbow propped on one of its arms so he could hold his head in his hand. The dawning sun made the place look a bit romantic, but Max never thought of himself as the romantic type. The sky’s orange tints that melted into inky purples to baby blues never did it for him, though when he saw Rosalie Burnouf practically dyed in those colors, he felt his heart quiver. He would have preferred his first reaction to be a cringe, or at least a scowl, but he ended up even more glued to his seat than before. The grin plastered on her face somehow radiated brighter than the morning rays that reflected gold off the asphalt. Rosalie, that girl… She looked…

She looked pretty.

Her hair had been tied up into a short ponytail so that she could secure under her team cap properly atop her head. She came running to Max, phone ready in her hand, and when she finally met him she greeted him with delight, “Good morning!”

Max had no right to treat her like an enemy off-track. Everything she did she did with good intentions, he could see that much, but her lack of awareness troubled him. Ever since their first interaction she had been treating him as an idol, maybe even a friend. He deliberated over whether or not he felt comfortable just playing along.

“Hey,” he replied, “Ready to go?”

“Mmhm. Are Daniil and Pierre finished?”

“Yeah.”

“Sorry for stealing you away from your teammate.”

“Don't worry about it. I trust that Pierre's strong enough to survive a few minutes with Daniil.”

“That's a relief!”

She laughed very easily, he noted. “Um, you don't mind if we use your phone to film, do you? My battery is a bit low.”

“Of course not!” she shook her head, “You have to help me navigate Instagram, though…”

“You don't have one of your own?”

“No.”

“You remind me of Vettel. He's nowhere on social media.”

Rosalie produced her cell phone from her pocket and unlocked it for Max to set it up. It only took a minute, and soon enough they were in Red Bull's account. Crazy how technology worked - in just a few taps Max could post whatever he wanted in his team’s Instagram.

“We're in.”

She looked over his shoulder and gaped at the screen. “Can I see?”

“Sure,” he obliged. She took the device from him and swiftly typed her own name in the search bar. He huffed, “I didn't know you were that type of person.”

“Aren't you curious about what people are saying sometimes?”

“You learn to avoid it after competing for a while.”

Clearly she didn't understand, so she continued her search and scrolled through the posts. Most of them were fancy photographs of her and her car, news from fanpages, and videos of her racing. The light in her eyes indicated that she was pleased, though as she scrolled deeper, she paused. Her smile faded, she froze.