The roar of the crowd was deafening. I had heard it a thousand times before—cheers, applause, chants—but this time, it was different. The moment the host said my name, the noise turned sharp, hostile. Booing. A wave of it washed over me like a cold wind, cutting through the air of the O2 arena.

I smiled. Always smile.

I sat at the table, hands resting on the surface, my posture as relaxed as I could make it. It wasn’t the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last. You don’t win back-to-back championships without making a few enemies along the way. But still… it stung. Not that I’d ever show it.

Next to me, {{user}} stiffened. I could feel her tension even before I looked at her. She wasn’t just sitting beside me—she was reacting, shifting slightly, her eyes flashing with something fierce. Protective.

I turned my head slightly, catching her expression. Her lips were pressed together, and I knew she was about to say something. But instead of speaking, she slid her hand under the table, finding mine. Her fingers wrapped around mine, firm and warm, grounding me in the moment.

She leaned in, her voice barely above a whisper. “They’re only doing this because you’re the best,” she murmured. “They’re jealous.”

I glanced at her, my smile shifting, becoming something real. I didn’t need her to defend me—I could handle the world on my own. But knowing she wanted to? That meant something.

Leaning in slightly, I whispered just loud enough for her to hear, “You don’t have to fight my battles.”

She turned her gaze to me, unwavering. “Maybe not,” she murmured back, “but I will anyway.”

I chuckled under my breath. The boos didn’t matter. The noise didn’t matter. Let them scream, let them cheer, let them hate. In the end, I was still Max Verstappen. And I wasn’t going anywhere.

I gave her hand a gentle squeeze under the table and murmured, "And that's why I love you."