Chapter Text
Formula 1 is one of the most luxurious and glamorous sports in the world, perhaps the most expensive. Unlike most sports, there was no social ascent in this category of motorsport; the drivers were already born with a silver spoon in their mouths. The sport traveled around the world on weekends that moved billions of reais, the cheapest tickets were about 3 times more expensive than a simple football game ticket.
The expensive sport exuded a lifestyle that many would never achieve; everything was too expensive, too distant, too unattainable, especially for poor George William Russell born on the outskirts of Kings Lynn, a town with fewer than 50,000 inhabitants.
George grew up passionate about motorsports, watching the races on cozy weekends next to his father, dreaming that one day he would be there. But he never could. The karting lessons were too expensive, and if he wanted to take them, he would have to leave his hometown.
At the age of 6, George Russell discovered that there were things that could not be achieved even with a lot of effort, especially if it involved money — It always did.
He took a few days to get over it, but as time went by, he decided that he would follow the sport one way or another, he would be one of the people there. He began to ponder what he could do; he certainly had no interest in learning to work on cars like a mechanic did, much less with numbers the way a race engineer did.
— How about a journalist? You can travel to all the races, see the cars up close, talk to the drivers... — His mother said.
How had he not thought of that? He could be a journalist! He liked to talk and talk about Formula 1, it was perfect. From that moment on, George Russell charted his own path, what he would do, and how he would achieve all his personal goals until he became a sports journalist.
He made a point of excelling in everything he set out to do, getting the best grades, ranking among the top when not first, and this earned him dozens of opportunities that were not wasted. He was recommended to Oxford by his teachers and after the letter of intent, he managed to get in on the first attempt.
He went thru all the necessary processes and spent the first 5 years investing in his academic career, attending courses, conferences, and lectures, all focused on sports journalism. George William Russell was described as the most insightful and creative man anyone could know.
He started from the bottom, with the grassroots categories. From being a journalist for Formula Ford to higher categories like Formula 2 or MotoGP, his talent was invaluable, and it was only a matter of time before he was hired by a major newspaper, Autosport.
He made his debut in Formula 1 in 2022, alongside big names like Fernando Alonso, Lewis Hamilton, and Max Verstappen. Being a journalist had its ups and downs — more downs than ups, if he were honest. If asked about the main stress of a sports journalist, he would say it was the lack of manners some drivers had toward professionals who were just doing their job.
The year of 2023 was important and almost record-breaking in the history of the category; the Dutchman won 21 of the 22 races scheduled for that year, marking his 10 consecutive victories in history. He might have won all of them if it weren't for the Spanish driver at Ferrari, Carlos Sainz Jr.
Max's ego was thru the roof at the time, and he was indeed an exceptional driver, but he knew it, and George felt a pang of anger at such arrogance. It got on the British nerves, the Dutchman was always smiling with that air of superiority in that unbearably impressive car, certainly everyone had memorized the Dutch national anthem by that point.
Verstappen thot he was better than everyone in that environment, answering some of his colleagues' questions with unnecessary arrogance, or even refusing to answer because he didn't think the response was good enough to deserve his attention.
George was an assistant to the main journalist who asked the questions, but he would get irritated when he refused to answer. He promised himself that when it was his turn, he would ask the right questions, questions that would touch the core and stimulate a reaction without compromising his own integrity.
In the year 2025, George Russell was assigned as the lead journalist, the one who would ask questions to the drivers during the debriefing, he had never been so happy. McLaren had made an exceptional car, the rocket shot down the tracks. It was incredibly fast on the straights and in the curves, maintaining the papaya dominance for a long time.
Red Bull hadn't made such a good car that year, which kept Verstappen on the defensive all the time. He climbed onto the podium a few times, of course, but the difference to the McLaren car was visible. During the debriefing of the Spanish Grand Prix, the chosen groups were Verstappen, Pierre Gasly, and Nico Hulkenberg.
— My question is for Verstappen. — George said without looking at him yet, fiddling with some papers. — We are in the 9th race of the Formula 1 calendar, a lot can still change, despite us moving closer to the title decision being in the hands of the McLaren drivers, do you believe this will be your first year breaking the titles won by Red Bull and how does this papaya dominance make you feel?
George felt the blue eyes burn under his skin, the Dutchman was uncomfortable, but unlike the other questions, he couldn't refuse to answer since it involved something bigger, George was challenging him and that didn't go unnoticed.
Verstappen didn't quite remember that journalist; he was tall, his skin was well cared for, and he dressed very well. The disdainful expression was masked by impeccable professionalism — George Russell was on his badge — that English accent he could learn to hate, but most importantly, he worked for the largest British motorsport newspaper.
Max tightened his grip on the microphone and analyzed it, thinking about the answer. George didn't seem like an ordinary journalist; he was very well-dressed, very well-groomed, it seemed like he wanted to be seen, like he wanted to stand out among all those idiots.
— I think nothing is decided yet, as you said, we are still in the 9th race and there are 24, it's not even half. And I don't feel anything special about it, all this, all these races become nothing when I get home and spend time with my daughter.
Everyone was impressed; usually, Max would give a monosyllabic response, it seemed like he was trying to explain himself too much, even Max found his own behavior strange. George gave a tender smile that Max judged to be false, and from that moment on, he couldn't focus on anything else but how George had manipulated him into responding in a susceptible manner.
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Days after the incident, he was surprised by hundreds of notifications in his name; an important newspaper had published an article about him.
— "Lack of Red Bull dominance leaves Max unconcerned about winning the fifth title." I literally didn't say that.
— You implied it. — The professional who handled Max's public relations said.
— Implying doesn't mean anything!!!
— Of course it does, Max, who are you trying to fool?
Max huffed in anger, he usually didn't care about this kind of thing, not for others to see.
— You just don't need to be swayed by everything they try to say, you can just be the man who is arrogant and doesn't answer questions, you already know how to do that.
A few weeks later, Formula 1 made its presence felt in Belgium; it would be the 13th race, more than half of the races on the calendar, and Max Verstappen hadn't won anything since Suzuka. In fact, in 13 races, he had only won in Suzuka.
Once again, Max was there, on that white couch, tired, irritated. He was drinking the energy drink from the large can without paying much attention to the journalists organizing themselves, but when he noticed him, it was as if a spark ignited his senses while adrenaline quickly coursed thru his neurotransmitters, putting him on high alert.
He was wearing a baby blue shirt, cream pants, and a pair of brown Adidas Gazelle sneakers, with a coat draped over his shoulders; he looked like a shareholder, someone really important. The sunglasses hung on his shirt while his hair was beautifully tousled, their eyes met, but the British journalist looked away as if Max didn't deserve that exchange.
He crumpled the empty can and threw it in the nearest trash bin, crossing his arms due to his bad mood, avoiding looking at him. When the press conference began, Max glanced at Russell every minute, hoping he would ask a question.
— Max, do you think the choice of tires was decisive today? — The reporter asked.
Max sighed.
— It always is.
— Max, and about the fight with McLaren, do you think you have a car to keep up?
— Let's see, who knows.
— Verstappen. — The voice sounded with unmistakable elegance, Russell. — You have been a bit reactive these weeks, this is noticeable from your responses in the press conferences, do you believe this has to do with the frustration over the car's performance, Horner's scandal, or the feeling that the championship is slipping thru your fingers?
A buzz began in the room, the other two drivers exchanged glances while the reporters whispered softly, Max and George stared at each other as if the room belonged to just them, the Brit had a calm expression, hiding a provocative smile beneath, while Max couldn't control his own emotions, pressing his tongue against his cheek.
— I like how you perceive things. — he said ironically. — But I really didn't expect McLaren's dominance this year. Anyway, I don't intend to stay in this sport for much longer. I don't want to collect trophies, win 8 or 10 titles like many out there. Beside, my retirement is closer than you think; Formula 1 isn't everything.
He dropped the microphone and there was a small annoying sound echoing thru the room, George looked at him satisfied and inside he felt like prey, he did exactly what the British bastard had ordered.
— Thank you, everyone, one last question for Gabriel Bortoleto to wrap things up! — The organizing committee member spoke somewhat nervously.
Max Verstappen was watching George from a distance, seeing him tell the assistant who was there with him to organize a few things while he finished writing some notes in the notebook he always carried with him.
That man was dangerous, and he knew it, but he simply couldn't stop looking at him, staying close to him, as if George's body were a magnet for Max.
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When Max arrived in Monaco that night, he opened the door and saw Kelly, the mother of his daughter, sitting on the couch scrolling thru her phone.
— Where's Lily?
— Sleeping. — He said without taking his eyes off the phone. — Don't go there, it took her a while to fall asleep, I don't want her to wake up.
Max sighed wearily and went to the bathroom, turned on the shower, and after taking off all his clothes, felt the hot water touch his tense body. He had been under a lot of stress lately, a non-dominant car, the ridiculous smile on Norris's face, a fake girlfriend, and a stupid British reporter; maybe he had a magnet for insufferable Brits.
He stayed under the water for a few minutes, and when he came out, he put on something comfortable and lay down on the bed where Kelly was already sleeping. He wondered if continuing that made sense, his public relations team would say something like: "Of course, Max, have you gone crazy?" But they didn't see what was really happening.
When dawn broke, Max went to the kitchen, smiling at the sight of his little daughter in the high chair, picked her up, and gave her a tight hug.
— Not now, Max. She is going to eat!
Max gave his daughter a few kisses on the cheek and reluctantly put her back in the high chair. He watched his daughter babble, opening her mouth every time Kelly brought the rubber-coated spoon toward her.
— Where's the P?
— She's at her dad's house, it's his week, forgot?
— I thought you had swapped.
— Yeah, but we didn't. He wanted to take her to the grandmother's birthday party, and I had to let him.
— I understand.
On the television program, a sports news broadcast was playing, where the Monegasque presenters were discussing and calling the last press conference Max had attended a tantrum.
"If he had a dominant car, he wouldn't be complaining like this; in the past years, he didn't complain."
"And I'll add, I believe that if he loses the title this year, it's quite possible that he will start reviewing other categories and speak poorly of Formula 1, especially considering the huge change that the 2026 regulations will bring."
"Let's see, now you can see the main highlights of football."
The television was turned off by Max himself; he ran his hands over his face, trying to physically rid himself of all that frustration. He picked up his phone and called Tom, one of the employes who handled his public relations.
— What's the name of that journalist? That British one?
"Good morning, Max, are you talking about Russell?" The one from Autosport?
— The one with the neat blue eyes. I want to know about him.
"Max..."
— He's screwing me over, he wants to ruin my career.
"Why do you care so much about him? Many people have already said things about you, even worse, but with him it's different, why is that?"
— Did you see the way he looks at me? The way he asks things, he has something against me, anything, damn it!
"Max, take a day off from all this, you don't need to do those ads tomorrow, we can reschedule, but you can't stay like this, it's madness, he's a biased journalist like any other, we've dealt with this before."
— No, no, there must be something you can do, stop him from being at my press conference, something!
"Max, he is a reporter for Autosport."
— He can be a reporter for any crap, I don't care.
"We can't do anything, Max. Not about him, we can do something about you, you can de-stress, go talk to a psychologist, something to help yourself."
— Damn, aren't you listening to me, can't you see what he's doing?!
"You're letting yourself get carried away, man! Look, stop by the clinic today, I'll let you know the time-"
Max hung up the call angrily, heading to the room where his simulator and computer were. He opened social media thru the browser and started searching for George Russell, easily finding the public profile on Instagram.
From the posts, George lived a busy life; he was active on social media and always showed things from his daily life. Highlights included tennis, padel, trips, fine dining restaurants, among other activities. The photos were always very well thot out, and even the casual ones looked perfect.
He liked to show off his well-built physique, he liked to flaunt his neatly styled hair, his carefully thought-out outfits, and his love for work, a love for destroying Max's life. In the recently posted stories, there was a link to an article published about Max in an Autosport post.
"End of career for four-time Formula 1 world champion? Max Verstappen claims imminent retirement."
— What the hell…
Max clicked on the link and the first thing he noticed was "By George W. Russell" in the footer. He didn't even read what the article was about, sent the link to Tom, and in the conversation, opened the old link to the first piece after the press conference with Russell's question.
"Red Bull's lack of dominance leaves Max Verstappen unconcerned"
— By George W. Russell. — Max didn't blink. — Son of a bitch...SON OF A BITCH!