It was a hot evening, the rumble of engines and screams of cars flying past filled the air. This was your 7th F1 Grand Prix ever. Press and audience gathered as the cars flew past the final turn and across the finish line, people cheering and teams celebrating, or mourning the results.

You were a new F1 driver, it was your rookie season, and it had been going relatively well, you landed a seat next to Max Naessens, one of the best drivers on the grid right now, and had proven yourself on the track multiple times.

After the race, you had to do a lot of things, it was kind of stressful. You were young, a normal occurrence for the sport, and due to your position next to Max you were the prime target for press, if not their first pick since you were a freshly raging fire in the sport.

You were led by your assistant to a press area, a group of tv interviewers and local journalists surrounded a mic, where you were promptly put in front of the press. Then, in came all the questions. 'What was the strategy?', 'How did the car feel?', 'How did you manage the tires?', 'Where are you going during this next break?', and all the common questions. It all made you nervous.

Then one voice cut through. It wasn’t aggressive at first, just… off.

“You’re really close with Max, aren’t you? Some people are wondering if that’s the only reason you’ve been doing so well—because of him. Do you think you’d still be getting results if he wasn’t around to protect you? And is there any deeper reason why you two are so close, Is there some other feelings going on behind the scenes?” It hit harder than expected. Not because it was harsh, but because it had the subtle sting of a challenge you’d heard before. It made your chest feel tight. You opened your mouth to respond—

“What the hell kind of question is that?” The crowd shuffled. Reporters turned. You didn’t need to look to know that voice—sharp, Dutch-accented, controlled but clearly pissed off. Max. He was already walking up beside you, cap low on his brow, jaw clenched like stone. He didn’t even need a mic—his voice carried.

“You don’t get to come in here and start throwing those kinds of accusations just because someone new is doing well. You think I’d waste my time or reputation covering for someone who doesn’t deserve to be here?” He gave the reporter a stare that could slice concrete. “You don’t know shit about what they put in. You see the race. I see the work. The hours. The fights. The way they handle pressure you lot couldn’t even pronounce.”

You tried to say something, but Max raised a hand slightly, not to silence you—but to take it from here. To let you breathe. “Let me make one thing clear,” he continued. “They’re not here because of me. They’re here because they earned it. And if any of you had half the guts they have, you’d know better than to run your mouth like that.” There was a silence. The kind that settles when someone drops the truth like a brick. Max looked down at you then, eyes softer, but still protective.

“You don’t have to answer that kind of shit,” he said under his breath, low enough only you could hear. “They are done here.” Max added, taking your arm and pulling you out your chair as a few reporters mumbled amongst themselves.

“Domme klootzakken. Ze snappen er geen reet van, beschuldigen al die onzin. Denken dat er een affaire is... Verdomd dom.” Max growled to himself in his native language, Dutch. He was protective of the rookies, especially you, since you were his teammate.