LAS VEGAS
RACE DAY
"Hate will keep you alive where love fails"
― Mark Lawrence, Prince of Thorns
In hatred was where he found determination. The bets placed and the odds calculated were all against him, but Max seemed unshaken when he walked into the paddock that day.
The Red bull driver was ever so confident of his win in that race. He knew exactly what to do, and in his head he could mentalize all the curves and nuances of the racetrack. He could visualize the cars behind him and the full duration of the race as if it was happening before him. In that way, he manifested the future, seeing himself rising on that podium with a first place trophy in his hands. In his mind there was nothing but a cold vacancy where there used to be thoughts of Charles. Like a machine programmed to win, nothing else occupied his mind aside from victory.
Despite his confidence, It seemed like not even his own team believed in him. When he entered the pits he wasn't greeted with the same enthusiasm as he usually was. Instead, the ones who did dare to approach him did so with a sense of pity. There he could read their minds, he could listen to their thoughts that spoke, "He won't be able to win this one, it's basically impossible. It's over for him before it even started, why would we all even bother?"
Without any words said to any of his mechanics or engineers, Max carried himself into his car's cockpit with the same dangerous silence as the one of the Netherlands Grand Prix where he had purposefully crashed into Carlos. There was an anger to him, but his mind was calm with a confidence that he'd achieve his plan, one which he had so perfectly crafted in order to win that race. He knew there was nothing that could possibly stop him from being the first in crossing the finish line that day.
Having delivered a perfect qualifying lap the previous day, Max started the race at pole position. And upon the start of the race, the blond's reaction speed to the starting lights of the track was with precise perfection. His car was the first to dart off the starting line and into the race, leading the pack of cars with an easy mastery taken from his years of experience in the sport.
As much as Charles attempted to keep his focus on the racing, his efforts were to no avail. Starting behind the two Red Bulls after a not so great qualifying on his end did nothing to ease the state of his emotional well-being. Seeing Max in first place worked as a constant reminder that this is what the man cared the most about in the world, not him. He'd gladly leave Charles in the dust to claim another trophy. Reality was a hard pill to swallow but even if Charles ended third, the Championship would be in his hands, all he had to do was to hold his position. And with that goal in mind he was able to put on a performance.
This race would be his last without a World title and seeing the happiness exuding from everyone who'd claimed him as the chosen one would make it all worth it. The energy in the garage had been electric and while the man was unable to share their pure joy, it did manage to put a small smile on his face and give him the push that he needed to win. He wasn't winning for himself, it was for everyone who loved and was devoted to Ferrari. It wasn't their fault that Charles had allowed his feelings to reign over the one thing he had always dreamed about.
Before the tenth lap had even been completed, Charles was up to second place having passed Checo without much difficulty but still leaving him a good distance behind Max. The win could go to Max but it would mean nothing— leaving Charles as the championship winner.
While the Ferrari driver could have let himself relax and focus on maintaining his pole position, he instead pushed his car to begin closing some of the gap between them. If Max wanted to leave him behind, Charles wasn't about to make it easy on him.
Closing the gap to Max Verstappen was no easy task and any driver on the grid could contest it, the act itself was something that most didn't attempt— aware of Max's talent and surrendering to it, opting for second. If there was one driver who had the capacity for it however, it would be Charles Leclerc. Charles knew Max's racing style down to a T, having driven alongside him all his life gave him the advantage that others didn't and if anyone could find a sliver of a slip up to overtake, it was him. Charles knew exactly when to push on the race line and when to divert himself enough from it that he'd have split second advantages that brought him closer and closer to Max.
It was around the 40th lap that Charles truly managed to cut the gap between him and the Red Bull car of Max. There was less than a second in between them and it was almost like Charles could reach for the car ahead of him with his own hands.
What he didn't expect was for Max to part ways and give him the gap on a silver platter, basically saying: here's your win, take it.
Coming from the Red Bull driver, Charles knew it was no accident and for a moment he believed that the man had come to the realization that all the accusations from the night before had been unfairly casted upon him. Max wanted Charles to secure his first championship on a race win, he was sure of it. The win was in Charles' hands no matter his placement in the top three and if Max didn't have a chance at it, he wanted to believe he at least wanted Charles to take it all home as a form of making amends.
Seizing the opportunity, Charles dove straight into it with no hesitation and right as he could picture himself leading the race straight to Ferrari victory there was a push and then a crash.
Smoke and ash. That's all that the driver could register.
With a few seconds to himself, Charles stayed painstakingly numb in the seat of his car, the front of it smoking and his head pounding from the collision, unable to push his body to move— having exhausted himself mentally and now physically. Heartbreak. That was the first thing he could feel. It came before the physical pain and long before the disappointment he knew everyone rooting for him was experiencing. Max had done it on purpose. Winning meant so much to him that the possibility of Charles taking the championship from him was worth risking him entirely.
A blood curdling scream left his mouth once his senses all returned to him, followed by sobs and smashes against the steering wheel. He had known Max left the gap on purpose and was naive enough to believe it was a peace treaty, it was him saying that he wanted Charles as much as Charles wanted him. He had let his emotions and delusions win out and was paying the price. Minutes passed and Charles remained in the car, radio calls rushing in that he could not answer.
The crowds screamed and the pits of both teams became euphoric. On one hand, Red Bull seemed to celebrate a near impossible win, Max had managed to achieve what none of them had thought possible. They were going to the final Grand Prix with a chance to win the championship, something they had thought lost up until a minute prior. The Max Verstappen they knew and adored was back.
On the other hand, the Ferrari team panicked, in shock. Some of their mechanics hurriedly planned out ways to somehow magically put Charles's car back in the race, others swore slurs in italian against the Red Bulls, but most stared silently at the screen that broadcasted the race in disbelief that the dream that they had thought so near became once again a distant reach.
Ferrari engineers raced to the FIA building to request a review, to ask for a disqualification of Max Verstappen, to somehow save their championship that same day. However, all that was given in their favor was a ten second penalty to Max, which under a few laps became nothing but a hurdle that he quickly overcame to take the race win at the end.
In the aftermath of the crash, Charles took his time getting out and once he did he was unable to face the once adoring crowds who were sure to hate him now. Only he would mess up a title that was one moment away from belonging to him. He wasn't their chosen one and this would prove it to them.
You're so unlucky, you're the very personification of unlucky.
Keeping his helmet on even as he entered the garage, he was met with a concerned team and questions, as well as anger directed at Red Bull. There was a lot of that. It seemed that for a moment the world found a common enemy and it was the person that Charles had placed his heart on. Truly unlucky.
It wasn't until his mother laid a hand on his shoulder, making her way past all of Ferrari and the intrusive cameras trying to capture her son's weakest moments, that Charles took off his helmet and buried his face into the crook of her neck, sobbing as she ran her hands through his hair and said nothing. In that moment of intimacy, his team worked together to form a wall around them—blocking the world from encroaching any further. There was still a race to come, and if the man needed a moment to deal with the devastation, then they would do everything in their power to give it to him before preparing him for the final race—hope still lingered, and they weren't ready to give up. Not by a long shot.
The concept that sports are a metaphor to warfare is not new; However, sometimes that concept becomes clearer than water, and this was one of them.
Like in a battlefield, the two teams stood in complete hatred for each other. Where weapons could have been used to inflict harm on the other, cars and racing took place. The sense of "us against them" reigned stronger than ever that day, a war that had built up through the season and had finally reached its prime.
In the face of conflict Max rose on top of his car like a war general screaming his victory. The Red Bull mechanics and engineers screamed along with him in awe of his strategic overturn that made the impossible possible —they were once again on the run for the championship.
After being deemed almost dead on a battlefield, Max had thought that the war was lost and that the love he had felt for his rival had caused it. However, in a turn of willpower, he had managed to ignore the pain that dragged him down in order to unleash a final blow on his enemy. At least, that's how Max and the rest of his team saw it. A battle between two sides of a coin that could never possibly mingle, it would always be one or the other, yet, always together.
That night, Max celebrated his win with pure ecstasy, which, much like a drug, quickly faded away when he returned to his hotel room. There, he was finally forced to face the reality of what happened when he saw the news about Charles's loss on a local news outlet—the photo of his cries into his mother's shoulders.
Max's heart seemed to not beat at that moment, as if under a proper examination table he'd have been deemed dead, a zombie. The only thing keeping him alive was a feeling he had relentlessly tried to avoid — he still felt everything for Charles and he hated himself for it.
How could he be so stupid to still care about someone who had done him so wrong?
That was a thought that went both ways.
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Next week comes the final chapters of Adrenaline!
Chapter 32 and 33!
Thanks for reading up to here and for all the support!