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Behaving in severely unmedicated ways today

Int: what is the best scenario for you, do you think?

George: top 4 crash and we win.

Int: no, seriously.

George: you ask me what the best scenario was, that IS my serious answer.

oneshots

☞issue one: the one you take a bullet for is the one pulling the trigger

☞issue two: perceived by the world or perceived by none

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blurbs

n/a

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note: the series take place during a fictional season where the events and results may be similar to that of actual formula one seasons.

Nice to see the community is coming together in the funniest way possible

Recommendations for media about translation, interpreting, and foreign languages

Movies and TV

Quo Vadis, Aida? (2020) The Interpreter (2005) The Last Stage (1948)

Books

Babel: An Arcane History by R.F. Kuang The Centre by Ayesha Manazir Siddiqi Translating Myself and Others by Jhumpa Lahiri The Interpreter by Suki Kim Girl in Translation by Jean Kwok Translation Nation by Héctor Tobar Alphabet of Thorn by Patricia A. McKillip Translation State by Ann Leckie

Other Important Topics and Subjects

La Malinche The Rosetta Stone The Tower of Babel The Adamic Language Esperanto Philology Goethean World Literature

Documentaries and History

The Interpreters: A Historical Perspective The Nuremberg Trials Biblical Translation St. Jerome - patron saint of translators Shu-ilishu's Seal (first depiction of an interpreter)

Fluorescent

• Max Verstappen x driver!reader •

Summary: Motorsport is a dog eat dog world, and you know that better than most. It’s not often you meet someone who understands, who shines a light on all the darkness, but Max might just be the perfect person for it. 8.8k words

Warnings: mentions of alcohol, misogyny (both external and internal, not by Max), mild suggestive content, my only vague knowledge of motorsport in general

The first time you come face to face with Max Verstappen, you already know his name. But when he says your name before you even introduce yourself, you’re a little surprised. Maybe a lot surprised.

“Hi, Max,” you say, scraping yourself back together. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Honestly, you hate that you’re so starstruck by him. Sure, he’s a two time F1 world champion. You respect the hell out of him, partially because you know how hard he’s worked to get there. You’ve been in the Motorsport world nearly as long as he has, just in a different way. In different circles- or ovals, or dirt tracks, in whatever kind of car you can get your hands on, mainly Indycar and endurance racing. You’ve been watching his career from afar, though. He likely only recognizes you from the Red Bull jacket you’re wearing, the company being one of your main sponsors. Which is fine. But then he asks how your last race went, and names the actual event without missing a beat, and you start to wonder.

“It was good,” you say, feeling the grin break out across your face. “That last lap, turn-“

“Turn two!” Max says excitedly, eyes lighting up.

You don’t have time to question the fact that he’s seen at least part of your race before he’s off on a tangent, hands dancing through the air as he talks. In his element, suddenly, lit up bright like he is when he talks to his fellow drivers, in the background on tv broadcasts during race weekends. Max is impressive at all times, but Max talking about racing is bright and electric. He draws you in like a current.

At some point, the two of you sit down at a nearby table, electing to ignore the rest of the guests Red Bull invited for you to sweet talk. At some point, Max flags someone down and asks for drinks- a gin and tonic for him, your favorite for you. At some point, you realize it’s been nearly an hour, the party is winding down, and a person you think is probably Max’s publicist is headed your way.

You nod towards her, brows raised at Max. “I think we might be in trouble.”

Max is halfway through explaining his racing team side project. He turns, hands mid air, and frowns, shaking his head at the woman. She nods in response. He waves a hand in your direction, brows raised, and you hide a laugh behind your hand. He’d rather talk to you than whatever she wants him to do. Probably not saying much, but an honor nonetheless.

She walks closer, and they talk quietly for a few seconds. Max sighs heavily, slumping in his chair before he turns to you. She’s smiling politely at you while he pouts.

“I have to go,” he says.

You nod in understanding. “I probably should, too. I’m sure I’m supposed to be schmoozing some big wig exec and batting my eyelashes. You know.”

He nods solemnly and picks up his glass. You do the same, clinking them together.

“To all the eyelash batting we can handle,” he says, giving you half a grin. “I’ll see you soon.”

“Yeah, see you soon,” you say, even if it isn’t true.

…..

Max Verstappen may be electric, but his car is absolutely on fire. You see it for the first time from across the Red Bull garage in Miami, all sleek lines and navy blue, every part so perfectly engineered. There’s a flurry of activity around it, and you crane your neck to catch glimpses- of the front wing, of the seat, of the steering wheel. You want to see it all, but you don’t dare move any closer.

“He doesn’t bite, you know,” Max says, suddenly at your side.

You blink at him, startled. “Who doesn’t?”

“The car,” he says, with a smile. “Rocky.”

“Your car is a boy,” you state. It’s actually quite unsurprising.

“Yeah. The whole sexy girl name for a car thing was weird,” he shrugs. “So. Rocky.”

You smile softly. “Well, Rocky is a sexy car.”

Max’s smile widens. “Yeah. Come closer.”

He hooks his hand in the crook of your elbow for just a second, just to nudge you closer. You go willingly. The crowd of people in Red Bull attire part like the Red Sea for him. He’s right, it’s even better up close. You lean to peek into the cockpit, at the complicated steering wheel and the footwells.

You squint at the gap between the halo. “You know, Indycars have the aeroscreen. Not sure I could get used to things flying at my face again.”

He nods, eyes lighting up. “I was going to ask you- how do you like that? You drove before they added them too, of course. The halo was an adjustment for us-“

“We were against it, at first,” you say, nodding. “But the safety of it-“

“Sure, sure- doesn’t it get hot? We have a race in Qatar this year-“

And it’s just like the night you met- like a match in grass, off and running like a wildfire. And you realize what the difference is between him and most of the other guys you interact with in this world when you jokingly ask if you can take Rocky out for a spin.

“No,” he says, eyes lit up. “I’m afraid you’d beat me, and then I’d be out of a job.”

He means it, is the thing. You’re sure you wouldn’t beat him, at least not on your first lap in the car. But he thinks that highly of you, of your skill. It makes your stomach twist in the best way.

There are a lot of guys out there who think women don’t have a place in motorsport. But Max, who got half his racing passion from his mother, who used to tweet Susie Wolff, who’s always shown support for the women in the series… Max is different.

“You can sit in it, though,” he says, nodding towards the car.

You tilt your head. “Nah. The first time I sit in one of these cars, I wanna drive it.”

Max laughs, bumps his shoulder against yours. “Yeah. It’s a good moment. Save it for then.”

He asks you for your number before you leave Miami, standing in the hotel lobby waiting for a shuttle to the airport. You save his number and figure he’ll forget he has yours by the time he gets on the plane. But he texts you when he gets back to Monaco, a picture of his two cats, curled up on his lap. In the background, the TV is on, and a Red Bull YouTube video is playing. You know what it is because it’s one you’re featured in, taking one of their show cars for a few laps around a track, showing off for the cameras.

Your new biggest fans, he’s captioned it. Then a second text comes through. I’m still number one, though.

…..

Max calls you for the first time the night after the Indianapolis 500. You almost don’t answer, because you’re bone tired and not looking to speak to anyone, but it’s Max. You swipe to pick up.

“Hello?” You say, sitting up slightly against the headboard.

“Hi,” he says, bright and cheery. Like this is a completely normal occurrence. “How are you feeling?”

You laugh. “Like I just drove 500 miles without power steering.”

He laughs at that, and the noise makes your heart stir. You check the time- it’s nearly 9 pm. Which means-

“Why are you up so early?” You ask, frowning. “Or still up so late? It’s got to be, what-“

“3am,” he answers. “Don’t know. Probably all the Red Bulls I drank after the race.”

You sigh in commiseration. “Been there.”

Max hums. “Congrats, by the way.”

You scoff. “I barely made the top ten.”

“But you did,” he says. “10th from 18th. Impressive.”

“You won Monaco today.”

“Yesterday, technically, so it’s old news.” he says, dismissively. “Besides, you can’t pass there. I would have had to really mess up to lose. I watched your race. It was impressive.”

“You watched?” You ask, sitting up a little straighter, some weird jolt of adrenaline running down your spine.

“Of course,” he says. You hear him muffle a yawn, and you and smile softly. “It was a good race.”

“You sound bored,” you tease.

“You sound like you’re deflecting,” he retorts. “I mean it, you know.”

You sigh, running your finger over the mountains and valleys of the comforter. The TV is playing in the background, something mindless and boring that was supposed to put you to sleep an hour ago. Maybe you can put on a replay of Monaco, fall asleep to the sound of Max winning.

“I know,” you answer him. “I am proud. It’s just. It’s over now.”

The Indy 500 isn’t just a race- it’s a spectacle. They call it the Month of May, with events leading up the race spread over the weeks before it. It’s all been building- the tension, the adrenaline, the electricity. And now, 250 laps later, it’s over. And while many of your competitors will be back in a racecar next week, you won’t. Just a guest driver for the biggest spectacle, left to try and leverage this into a full time seat for next year. It hurts.

He blows out a breath. “Yeah. That’s tough.”

Tough. That’s an understatement, but you’re sure he knows it. He just doesn’t know how to say it. Max has spent his career getting every chance possible. He skipped a whole feeder series. And here you are, stuck clawing for every opportunity to drive a racecar. Two drastically different lives, and yet-

“You didn’t go out to celebrate,” he says.

“Celebrate 10th place?” You ask.

“No,” he says. “Celebrate the end. Even when you’re sad it’s over, you can be happy it happened.”

“‘Max Verstappen, you cheesy motherfucker,” you giggle. “Did you steal that from a motivational sign?”

He laughs right back. “No. I would never. I am a poet, you know. Secret side job.”

You laugh at that- a full laugh that shakes your shoulders and chest. The two of you talk for a little longer, but Max’s pauses get longer and his words softer and rounder. You know he’s falling asleep, so you say goodnight.

You stare at the ceiling for a couple minutes after he hangs up, and then you pick up the phone again. This time, you’re the one to make the call. Max is right- you can celebrate the end. You’re sure someone’s hosting a party, somewhere, whether it’s in celebration or in pity. Besides, a bit of tequila fixes everything.

…..

You spend your time between sponsor appearances and endurance races doing a mix of things- training, asking sponsors, calling race teams, calling your management to see if they’ve heard back from race teams. The whole nine yards. You spend what time you have leftover after that posting bullshit on social media that has your fans- despite your frustrations, you do have fans- highly entertained. You post about gym workouts, about the sand still stuck in your shoes after a video shoot driving a car across dunes for Red Bull, and about a glitch you had while playing iRacing that sent you careening across one of the tracks. An hour after the iRacing tweet, you get a text from Max.

Max: You have a sim?

You: yeah! was a covid thing & I kept it around.

Max: Are you busy Tuesday?

You’re not, so he sets up a private iRacing group, and the two of you add each other on Discord, because, in Max’s words, it’s more fun when you can talk shit. He answers the call, but seems to struggle with something- there’s a lot of static, some typed out expletives in the chat, some of them in Dutch, leaving you to google the meaning. But finally, after a few minutes of microphone feedback-

“— hear me now?” he says, raspy voice spilling through your headphones.

You jump, a bit startled. “Oh, yeah! There you are!”

“There you are,” Max echoes. You swear you can hear the smile in his voice. “Sorry. Technical difficulties.”

“Cat chew the wire?” You ask.

“No, they would never,” Max replies. “This one was all on me. Anyways. Where should we race?”

The two of you pick a level playing ground- a track you’ve both raced at before, Circuit of the Americas. He tells you about one trip to Austin while the race screen loads, something about cowboy hats and boots that were too tight. You hum in sympathy as you fidget with the buttons on your sim steering wheel.

“Nervous?” He asks. When you make a questioning noise, he laughs. “I can hear you messing with the wheel.”

“You’re too perceptive,” you grumble. “But yeah, of course I am. I’m racing Max Verstappen.”

He hums. “And I’m racing you. Good news is, we’re the only ones who’ll see any of it.”

“So I could send you into the wall turn one and you wouldn’t have any proof,” you suggest.

“Sure,” Max answers. You swear his voice drops an octave on the next sentence. “But you won’t.”

The cars appear on the screen before you have a second to reply. You swallow down your words and your nerves and steel yourself for the start, finding you’re more nervous for this than any recent race start you can remember.

When the lights go out, though, it disappears. It’s not about Max anymore, not about his voice in your headphones, not about the way he yelps when he nearly bottles it at the start. It’s about you and the steering wheel in front of you, the -albeit fake- course on the screen. It’s about keeping the rear end of Max’s car in your sights.

Until lap 10, when he speaks up again. “How’s the dirty air?”

You’ve left your mic open. You know he hears your scoff. You roll your eyes a little bit, but you have to focus back on the track for the next turn. “You mean the dirty pixels?”

“That sounds like something different,” he echoes back. “It’s not that kind of game.”

“Should’ve put you in the wall when I had the chance,” you snark, shifting gears, eyes narrowed.

“You wouldn’t, though,” he says, firmly.

It’s a side of him you haven’t seen much, having interacted with him at events before this. He’s confident, sure, but this is different. So open. Easy. You wish you could see his face. Could see the look in his eye, the raised brow, the part of his lips when you-

“Fuck!” He yelps, and you break into laughter as you nudge the nose of your car past his. “Where the fuck did you-“

“Hey, pixel COTA is pretty accurate!” You say, feeling the excitement buzz in your bones.

“How did you-“ he huffs. “I’ve never made a pass work on that turn!”

“I’ll teach you later,” you promise. “After I beat you.”

The Max that everyone talks about would be fuming mad, driving angry, chasing you down. But this Max- your Max, you catch yourself thinking- is anything but. He’s happy. He’s laughing. The love of racing. You know the feeling.

Two laps later, he figures out your trick and passes you back for the lead. You trade off a couple times, but in the end he sees the checkered flag first- of course he does, it’s Max. When you log off it’s nearing midnight, even later for him.

“Past my bedtime,” he says, and you laugh.

“Nothing a little morning Red Bull won’t fix,” you suggest.

“Yeah. Hey,” he says. Then pauses. Like he’s unsure- the first time he’s been unsure all night. “Are you busy the weekend of June 30th?”

The weekend of the Austrian GP. You flip through the calendar on your nearby desk, but you’re pretty sure you’re free.

You fiddle with the paddles again. “No. Are you?”

He laughs. “A little. In Spielberg, you know. Wanna come?”

You’ve been to races before. You’ve been at one earlier this year. As a guest of Red Bull. Which is different, right? It’s definitely different. Those have been scheduled appearances and promotional opportunities and a publicist reaching out to your publicist. This is… this is Max, inviting you.

“Yeah,” you say, not bothering to hide your grin. He can’t see it anyways. “Sounds like fun.”

“Lovely,” he says. “I’ll text you, then.”

“Cool,” you agree. “Talk soon.”

…..

If the race in Miami was a cool experience, Austria is ten times the excitement. You step off the plane on Wednesday, grab your luggage, and find a man waiting for you with a sign with your name on it. Then there’s a fancy car ride to an even fancier hotel near the track. Max texts halfway through your drive from the airport, asking if you’re in yet. You reassure him that you’re on the way. He apologizes for the long trek from the airport, and you send him back a picture of the glass of wine you’d been handed, and a message that says: endurance driver, remember?

The drive there is beautiful. The racetrack is nestled in the green hills just outside of Spielberg. You gaze out the window the entire time, enamored with the countryside. As you near the hotel, you catch a glimpse of the iconic bull statue, and it makes your smile grow. It’s weekends like these that make you thrilled about racing all over again.

You step out of the car at the hotel and someone is already rushing over to unload your luggage. It feels strange. You stretch a bit, breathe in the fresh air, and when you turn around Max is standing there, waiting, hands in his pockets. He’s smiling, too. You can’t help but smile back.

He greets you with a hug and a kiss brushed against each cheek- how European of him, you think. His cheeks are flushed rosy pink, from sun or something else, you’re not sure. His hair glitters golden in the sunlight. It’s only been a little over a month since you last saw him, but he looks different- more tan, maybe. You ask what he’s been up to.

“Had a week off,” he tells you a few seconds later, “between Canada and here. Spent a lot of it on a boat.”

“Fancy,” you tease. “I was in New York. Watkins Glen.”

“I saw the race,” he says. Your heart flutters when you look up at him, at the eagerness in his gaze. “Bullshit move that other team pulled in the last stint.”

You let out a stream of air through pursed lips. “Mhm. But we’d have lost it anyways.”

Max shakes his head. “Not if you’d been behind the wheel at the end.”

You laugh, shake your head at him, and turn to grab your bags. They’re gone. You blink, perplexed.

“They’ve taken them up to your room for you,” Max explains, nudging your side. “I know you’d probably like to get settled in, but would you want to get dinner after? With me, I mean?”

When you turn back to look at him, you’re a little bit surprised. Max Verstappen looks nervous. He’s rocking back and forth from one foot to the other, hands shoved in his pockets. Like he’s unsure. You’ve never known him to be unsure. You’ve watched him make calculated move after calculated move on the track and off it, too. It’s your first sign that he feels it too- the butterflies in your gut, swirling up into your chest, threatening to choke up your throat.

“That would be really nice,” you say, softly.

The grin that breaks across his face is infectious.

Max is still nervous in the lobby an hour later, still hesitant when he offers you his arm and walks you towards the hotel restaurant. But one gin and tonic and a couple appetizers later, he’s the Max you’ve come to recognize again- lit up, bright, electric. He’s animated and funny and his cheeks are even redder than before.

By the time the entrees show up- which look delicious, of course- he’s different. Easy, you think again. Like when the two of you raced against each other. His guard is down. He’s open- it shows on his face. This is the Max not many people get to see. The biting comebacks and confident remarks are gone, replaced with such a genuine curiosity it nearly knocks you breathless.

“What’s your goal, for racing?” He asks, softly.

He’s moved his chair halfway around the round table, just to be a little closer to you. So the two of you can talk quietly and be heard. So he can nudge his shoulder against yours when you say something funny.

You smile. “I’ve got a lot of them.”

“What’s next?” He asks. “Besides stealing Rocky from me.”

“That’s actually why I’m here this weekend, you know.”

“I do, I’m one step ahead of you,” he says, pointing at your nearly empty second glass of wine. “You’d never drive drunk.”

“I’m not drunk!” You squeak, though you wonder if the looseness of your syllables gives you away a little bit.

“Tipsy, then.”

“Sure.”

“Your next goal,” he reminds you. “After Rocky.”

You hum, shoving a bit of pasta around on your plate. “Trying to get a permanent seat in Indycar next year.”

He nods. “Instead of just for the 500 and a couple extra races here and there.”

“Yeah,” you nod.

“Is it hard?” He asks. Your gaze flickers up to meet his, and he chews on his lower lip. “I mean. You are a good driver. Very good. They should be flocking to you, of course.”

“I’m a good driver, for a woman,” you say, softly. Max’s brows furrow. “That’s what someone said in a meeting last week. For a woman.”

Max sinks lower in his seat. You rub your thumb against the silky fabric of the tablecloth. Suddenly, you feel out of place. It’s nothing Max did. It’s just a reminder of how he’s at the top of his game, at the top of your shared sport, while you fight tooth and nail for every opportunity. Max has overcome his own hardships to get there, you know it. But it doesn’t take the sting away from yours.

“I did the feeder series, but there just wasn’t a seat available to make the jump,” you explain. “So for a bit it’s just been all about getting drive time whenever I possibly can.”

“I know some of the other drivers, you know. I would offer to try and pull some strings,” he says, “but I get the feeling you wouldn’t like that.”

You smile at him, because despite it all, he really does get you. “I would not.”

He nods. You nod back.

And then you sigh. “Sorry. I brought down the mood.”

He shakes his head. “I asked. Because I wanted to know.”

Still, you change the subject. He lets you. The ease seeps back in. You forget that the two of you are drivers- for a while, it’s just you and Max in that warm, comfortable bubble. And maybe that means more than he really knows.

You order another drink after dinner- Max switches to water but insists he’s fine to hang out, just needs to not be hungover the next day. You venture out onto the open patio behind the hotel. Down the hill, you can see the racetrack, lit up in the dark night. The Bull, the logo you share with Max, seems to float above it, silhouetted. You kick your heels off, pull your feet up onto the chair. Max sinks down next to you, dragging his chair closer.

If it was easy on the sim and even easier at dinner, here, it’s like you’ve known him forever. The night chill makes you shiver. He slips his jacket off, drapes it over your shoulders. You lean into him, your head against his upper arm, bridging the gap. He sighs happily.

“What’s your goal?” You ask. “Just gonna drive F1 cars until you’re old and grey?”

His responding laugh shakes his shoulders. “God, no.”

He tells you, then, what his plan is. All the other things he wants to get the chance to do. He tells you about that crash, Silverstone, 2021. How he’d seen others crash but never understood until that moment- that there is more to life than Formula 1, that even though he’d worked his whole life to get there, there was more he wanted to do after it. You’re amazed that someone who’s two championships in, barreling headfirst towards a third, still wants more. When you tell him that, he laughs again.

“I also just want to retire and play iRacing and let myself get fat and old,” he says.

“And spend more time on the boat,” you suggest.

He hums. “Maybe. If I could spend it with the right people. Person. You know.”

You wonder, for a fleeting moment, if he means you. If you could fit into that puzzle. If he really is feeling it the way you are. But the moment feels so nice, so comfortable, that you’d hate to say the wrong thing and ruin it.

“Sounds perfect,” you say.

You nearly fall asleep there, leaning on him. But he laughs when your head starts to slip, walks you up to your room, carrying your heels for you like a real gentleman. He kisses your cheeks again, bids you goodnight. He has to be at the track early tomorrow. You wonder, really, how much you’ll actually see of him the rest of the weekend before you leave for home. But maybe tonight will be enough to hold you over.

You spend most of the rest of the weekend being wined and dined by Red Bull hospitality, which is honestly hilarious to you, considering that they already pay you- though you suppose it’s a different marketing branch, different budgets. You watch the practices with eager eyes, taking in one from the viewing area and one from down in the garage. There’s something electric about watching them zip around on track, something adrenaline spiking about the quiet of the garage until the cars come rolling back in.

Max has a team dinner that night, but he texts you when he’s done, and asks if you’re still up. You’re at the pool for a late night swim, the only person still daring to even be in the water. He joins you ten minutes later, not dressed for a swim. You grin up at him from the edge of the water, your arms on the pavement.

“How’s the car feel?” You ask.

He grins. “Feels good.”

He must be right- qualifying goes well for him. He puts it on pole. You celebrate after with salads and electrolyte drinks. It’s nice to go to a race with no obligations, no media duties. To enjoy motorsport for the love of motorsport. Watching Max, cheering for Max, makes it all the more fun.

You find out just before the race starts that your pass will get you pretty much anywhere, so you sneak into the grandstands, up at the highest level, to watch the start. It brings you back to the very beginning. Suddenly, you’re a wide eyed little kid again, sitting in the grass at the Indy 500, feeling your bones rattle as the cars roared by. At that moment, part of the crowd at the largest sporting event in the world, you knew you wanted to be behind the wheel. In this moment, you know you’ll never be satisfied watching from the sidelines.

You tell Max that, after the race, after he wins and gets his trophy and gets doused in champagne. And he nods in understanding, squeezes you into his chest, tucks his chin atop your head.

“Hold onto that feeling,” he reminds you. “That’s how you’re going to beat them all.”

Your flight leaves late the next afternoon. In the morning, Max knocks on your door with one more trick up his sleeve. You slip into the passenger seat of yet another fancy car and head down the road from the hotel, driving around the outskirts of the racetrack. The circus is already packing up to leave town, equipment being loaded onto trucks. Max pulls into a parking lot- a karting track covered with Red Bull logos. You start to laugh.

He’s apparently booked the whole place out for the morning- it’s just the two of you and a couple staff members. He helps you pick a kart, because “they’re not all equal, of course,” and sends you off to get suited up and put on a helmet. You meet him on the track, buzzing already.

“You ready?” He asks, patting the top of your helmet.

“Are you ready to eat my dust, Verstappen?” You taunt.

Even behind the helmet, you can tell he’s smiling.

It’s been a while since you’ve been in a vehicle this small, but you adjust pretty quickly. The two of you do a warm up lap and then line up at the start, tiny engines raring to go. And the track is new to you, but when the lights go green, it almost feels like muscle memory. Two laps in and you’ve found the racing line. 5 laps in and you start to challenge Max. By lap 10 of 20, you’ve taken over the lead.

When you see the checkered flag first and skid to a stop shortly after the line, you can already hear him laughing. He climbs out of his kart and walks over to slap the side of your helmet affectionately. You can see his crinkled eyes where he’s flipped the helmet visor up.

“Again?” He asks.

You nod, feeling that rumble deep in your chest. “Again.”

You could stay forever, but Max drags you out of the kart around lunchtime, both of you grinning ear to ear. In the year so far, you’ve done a handful of endurance races, a NASCAR race on a dirt track, and competed in the Indy 500, and yet this is what’s brought that thunder back to your bones. You know Max feels it too. Racing for the joy of it. For the fun of it. Just to prove you can still do it. No obligations, just speed and pavement and rubber.

“Let’s call it the Bull Shit Cup,” Max suggests, over sandwiches at some restaurant just a few minutes away from the track. “Make it an annual thing.”

“Okay,” you agree. “You owe me a trophy for it, then. I won, fair and square, even though I could have pushed you off in turn one, and nobody would’ve known.”

“You could’ve,” he agrees. “But you wouldn’t.”

He looks at you with a smirk, blue eyes through long thick lashes, and you hate to admit that he’s right. You would never. You like him too much to send him careening into a wall just to win a race. You care for him too much. Your stomach twists.

You think about kissing him, in the car, before he drops you off at the airport. His hand is on your knee, where it’d fallen when he stopped to listen after telling you an animated story full of hand gestures. It’s probably meant to be a signal, him touching you like this. But you chicken out when he pulls up to the curb. Probably for the best, anyways.

Then Max leans over, cups your cheek in his hand, and presses a soft, sweet kiss to your cheek. Just one. Very not European. Different from the others. His hand stays put, thumb brushing against your skin. You take a breath, try to steady yourself.

“Thanks for having me,” you say. “It was really fun.”

“Thanks for coming,” Max says back.

“I’d invite you to my next race,” you say, quietly. “But I think you’ll be in Qatar that weekend. Or still recovering.”

Max pouts. “Yeah. I think you’re right.”

You sigh. “Well. It’s okay. I’ll see you soon, I’m sure. At some event, or something.”

“Right,” Max agrees. “We’ll find something.”

The flight home leaves you exhausted and empty feeling. You do your best to shake it off, but you worry missing Max is the type of feeling that sticks around.

yourusername: danke Austria, danke redbullracing, and danke maxverstappen1

maxverstappen1 You’re welcome back anytime

redbullracing thanks for being a good luck charm!

liked by maxverstappen1

…..

There’s a gala in New York, one that’s full of people with important names with deep pockets. You end up there, nursing a glass of awful wine, trying to flatter your way into the important conversations. You’re mildly successful a couple times, and manage to make some good connections. Your publicist will be proud. You just hope one of them works out how you’d like.

You’re up at the bar, trying to decide what else to order, when someone says your name. You recognize the voice, but it’s the tone, too. Everyone else who’s said your name tonight has had expectations for you. The way Max says it is different, though you can’t quite put your finger on how it’s different. You just know.

Max smiles at you when you turn to him. His hand falls to your lower back, smoothing over the black silk of your dress as he leans over the bar. He orders a gin and tonic for himself, and a very expensive sounding glass of wine that he hands off to you. You take a sip and smile, relieved when it tastes good.

“This old man ordered a drink for me,” you tell him, whispering conspiratorially. “It was awful, but I had to finish it.”

Max scowls, his eyes scanning the room like he’ll be able to spot the man in question. “Old men usually do have bad taste.”

“I suppose that explains why he was talking to me,” you laugh.

Max doesn’t laugh. “No, I think that may be where he got it right.”

Max keeps his hand on your lower back and leads you through the crowd. You let him. After a night full of trying to make a name for yourself, you’re quite ready to let someone else be in control for a few minutes. You don’t even question where he’s taking you until you end up on the rooftop, the glittering lights of New York City spread out across the open space in front of you. There’s a small garden, a few chairs, a sparkling blue pool, and absolutely no other humans to be seen.

“Oh, wow,” you say, quietly. “Are we supposed to be up here?”

Max shrugs, makes his way over to a patio chair, and sits down. “Don’t know. All I know is I couldn’t be there much longer.”

You nod in agreement and sit down next to him, kicking off your heels. He smiles and sheds his suit jacket, taking a long sip of his gin and tonic. He toes off his dress shoes, too. Then he sighs dramatically.

“Tell me about it,” you say, letting your shoulders drop. “I’ve been called sweetheart and had my shoulders touched far too many times tonight.”

Max blinks. “I could tell you were getting uncomfortable.”

You don’t really have time to process that- to process that he was watching, that he cared enough to notice, that he maybe came over to save you from it all. All thoughts about that go out the window when he starts to loosen the buttons on the collar of his shirt. The bow tie he had on falls to the ground, atop his jacket. The cuff bracelet he’s wearing follows. He leans forward, elbows on his knees. He’s so close you think you could count his eyelashes. You take a sip of your wine.

“I didn’t think you were going to be here,” you tell him. “My publicist said…”

He smirks and blinks a couple times, lashes tangling together. “You asked your publicist if I would be here?”

You swallow and shrug. “Maybe. It’s nice to have a familiar face.”

His smirk grows. “Tell me about it. I asked my publicist, too. If you’d be here, i mean.”

You turn farther towards him, your legs falling over the edge of the chair. His hand brushes against your bare knee. The strap on your dress slips down your shoulder, and you watch the way his gaze traces your bare skin. Then he looks over your shoulder, towards the pool.

“Maybe we should cool off,” he suggests. “Take a swim.”

“I don’t have a swimsuit,” you tell him, thinking back to the bag you’d packed and if there was anything in it that could substitute.

He shrugs, his finger tracing a featherlight circle against your knee. “We can go in our underwear. I won’t tell if you won’t.”

You’re about to tell him you’re not wearing a bra when you hear the rooftop door swing open. The smirk slips off his face, melting into frustration. His hand fully rests on your knee, now, thumb and pointer finger pressing into the inside of your thigh.

“Max?” Someone calls out. His publicist, you think.

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah. I’m here.”

“Yeah,” she calls back. “But you should be downstairs.”

He lets out a long, heavy sigh. You do the same and push yourself up to sit, slipping your shoes back on as he starts to gather his things. He tugs the dress shoes on with a wince, pulls the jacket on and straightens the lapels. The buttons on his shirt and the bow tie are next, his fingers soft and pale in the night light. You want to feel them on your skin again.

He stands. You do the same. The bracelet is sitting on the chair, glinting gold, and you grab it and then hold it out to him. He smiles softly and takes a couple steps to close the distance.

“I’m sorry we didn’t have more time,” he says. His cheeks are red as he takes the bracelet and turns it in his hand.

“We’re busy people,” you tell him.

He nods, but the frown stays etched on his face. You shiver when his hand trails up your shoulder and slides the strap of your dress back into place, and a trail of goosebumps follow his touch. He reaches up, then, and tucks a stray piece of hair behind your ear, too.

“Max!” The woman calls from the doorway. He groans.

“You should go,” you tell him, even though you want him to stay.

He nods, and then he grabs your wrist. Before you can even realize what he’s doing, the bracelet is around your arm instead. Your breath catches in your chest, your heartbeat kicking up a notch. His cheeks are redder, now, but the smile is back on his lips.

“Hang onto this,” he says. “Until I see you again.”

You nod, holding yourself taught so you don’t lean up to kiss him. He disappears a second later, and you’re left to down the last of your glass of wine, wondering if he’d wanted to kiss you, too.

When you return to the party, you find it’s easier to talk to the important people with the weight of his bracelet on your wrist, and the weight of his gaze on you every time you find him in the crowd.

maxverstappen1: Champions 🙌

yourusername huge congrats, Max! ❤️💙 & well done to the whole team

liked by maxverstappen1

…..

Vegas is glitz and glamor and bright blinding lights. Max hates the whole spectacle with every fiber of his being and never forgets to remind you of that fact. You listen attentively to his complaints over the phone in the week leading up to the race. You get it. He wants to race, that’s all. Not be presented like some celebrity, even if he is one.

Then the race happens and he has a good time, and his opinion seems to change.

You’ve spent your weekend in Vegas, watching from the sidelines and trying not to seem bitter in all the promo content they have you do. At least some of it involves driving a rally car around in the Nevada desert- not a bad bonus. Max texts you and tells you the day after that he saw some of the footage, that you looked badass. Despite being in the same city as him, despite being two floors down in the same hotel, you don’t talk to him in person until after he’s crossed the finish line in first place in the earliest hours of Sunday.

It’s a fleeting moment. You’re still in the garage by the time he gets back from the podium. He’s soaked in champagne, lit up like a neon sign. He makes his way through a crowd of Red Bull employees, thanking everyone. You stick to the sidelines, to the walls, not wanting to get in the way. It’s his race, his celebration.

But he spots you and beelines for you, hand already outstretched in your direction. You grab on, eagerly, let him pull you into orbit, into a half hug, face crushed against his chest. He smells like car- like engine exhaust and gasoline and adrenaline. You grin up at him. He stares down at you, eyes wide. The atmosphere feels thick. Like you could cut the tension with a knife- suddenly, you understand that saying in a way you never have before. The garage is filled with activity, but there the two of you are, a fixed point in the middle of the chaos. He’s staring, still, like he doesn’t know what to say but he can’t look away.

You’re wearing his bracelet. His fingers trace over the metal where it hangs on your wrist, but he doesn’t make a move to take it back. He just smiles and presses his thumb into the gap on the underside, skin against skin.

Someone tugs at his elbow and calls his name, loudly.

“I have to go,” he says.

You laugh. “I know.”

When he gets pulled away and lets your hand drop, you swear you feel an actual spark.

You slip away, then, to head back to your room. You have dinner and watch the race recap- there’s a lot you miss, standing in the garage. When you check your phone, you have a barrage of missed notifications bearing his name.

He’s out at a club and asking you to join. You don’t know how to explain how much is riding on your public image right now- sponsors, fundings, support. It’s a part of motorsport he wouldn’t really understand, at least not at the level you do. But he’s kind when you say you can’t, asks if he can stop by, and shows up quickly after you say yes, even if it is late. Nobody sleeps in Vegas. You may as well add yourself to that list.

He’s a little tipsy when you open the door to your hotel room- he has every right to be. He’s holding himself taught, but when he sees you in the entryway he loosens up, gaze going soft.

“Hi,” he says, quietly.

“Congrats,” you tell him. “It was a good race.”

“I… I don’t want to talk about racing,” he admits. “I just wanted you.”

You blink at him, silhouetted by the fluorescent hotel hallway light. There’s a bull on his jacket, on the shoulder, tiny, but it’s there. A constant reminder of the thing that ties the two of you together. You step aside to let him in, let the door swing closed behind him. The air crackles around you, goosebumps rising on your arms. He runs a hand through his hair, his other hand falling to his hip.

“Tell me you feel it too,” he asks, almost begs.

You kiss him as a reply- you lean in and up, wrap your arms around his neck, hold on for dear life when he kisses you back. He’s warm and he tastes like gin and he still smells like the racetrack, like melted rubber that even a shower can’t scrub away. You like it that way. He won the race, but he just wants you. You let him back you towards the bed as you fiddle with the zipper on his jacket.

“I feel it,” you say, when he breaks away for a second, gasping for air. “Fuck, Max-“

He hums, dipping down to mouth at your jaw, your neck, your pulse point. “I know.”

His skin is hot on yours, hotter still the more the two of you get undressed. He gets you laid out on the bed beneath him, takes you apart with skilled precision the way he drives his precious car. But things get heated, and the composure slips away. He gets more open, eyelids fluttering as he gives in to you, too, as you wrap around him and pull him in. Your Max appears, the bravado of a race day melting away, leaving everything you love about him in its place.

Afterwards, he kisses you just to kiss you, holding you in his arms in the bed. You’re both freshly showered, teeth brushed, and he seems to have no plans to go anywhere. You’re happy, even if it might make the morning awkward, even if he needs to leave early the next day for Abu Dhabi.

You realize, then, that you never congratulated him on his championship, other than the comment on the instagram post you know he didn’t even write. But he didn’t want to talk about racing, so you don’t say anything. You just rest your head on his bare chest, his arms banded tight around your middle. You can hear the soft thud of his heartbeat. Steady, now. You wonder if his heart had kicked up a notch earlier, when yours did, if they beat in sync for just a moment.

“Do you ever get scared?” You ask, drawing a nonsense shape on his skin, just under his collarbone. “Or are you numb to it?”

He hums. “Not often, but. There’s this moment. Right before the lights go out. Where it hits me, what I’m doing, how absolutely stupid I am to put myself in that car.”

You nod in understanding. “I’ve had that. How do you get past it?”

He laughs, shrugs. “I don’t. But then the lights go out and I drive anyways.”

He traces shapes across your skin while you listen to his soft breaths.

“I was scared tonight, too,” he tells you, while you rub your eyes and he twists his fingers with yours. “When I knocked on your door. So I think sometimes being scared means you’re doing something good.”

“Me too,” you admit.

Then you lean up to kiss him again, and what little fear that was left melts away when he kisses you back. You can feel the smile on his lips. He leaves in the morning with a toothpaste tinged kiss to your lips and a promise to talk soon. You try to convince yourself he’s telling the truth.

yourusername viva Las Vegas!

maxverstappen1 🕺

liked by yourusername

…..

You wait for him to reach out and try not to be upset when it doesn’t happen right away. His schedule must be insane. He’s probably jet lagged and exhausted and being thrown into the next race weekend far too quickly for his liking. You get it.

When he finally calls, three days after you wake up with him, you pick up on the second ring.

“Hi,” you say.

He lets out a soft sigh. “Hi. I’m sorry I had to leave so quickly. And that it took so long to call.”

You’re a bit relieved that he’s jumping right into it. Not shying away, not pretending like it didn’t happen. You’ve been trying not to think too much about it- your bare skin against his, the way the rise and fall of his chest feels against your cheek. It’s stuck in your head, though.

“It’s okay,” you say, quietly. “You’re a busy man.”

“Not too busy for you,” he says, the words stilted. Like he’s not sure how to get his point across. “I want to spend more time with you.”

You want it too, but. “Max…”

He sighs. “I know. I know things are not simple.”

You laugh. “That’s an understatement.”

“But look at us,” he says.

You reach up, press your finger to the mark he left on your collarbone a few days before, just to feel the ache.

“Has anything you’ve ever done been simple?” He asks.

You blink, suddenly a bit taken aback. He’s got a point, you suppose. From the very beginning, you’ve been fighting an uphill battle, swimming against the current. And yet, you wouldn’t trade it for the world.

“I live by this sort of motto,” you tell him. “That the best day of your life is right on the other side of the hardest thing you’ve ever done.”

You think of Max, of all the stories you’ve heard about him. Of anger running deep in his bones. Of fighting for everything he’s ever wanted and still being hungry for more. You know the feeling all too well. You've had your fair share of your own races gone wrong, of angry debriefs with the team, or wanting to hurl your helmet at the wall and say fuck it all. You’re a bit envious that he could give in to the feeling. You don’t hold it against him, though.

“Yeah,” he says. You can hear the smile in his voice. “Yeah.”

“How about you call me when you’re done in Abu Dhabi,” you suggest. “And we’ll figure it all out.”

He hums. “How about you tell me where you want to go and I book a couple plane tickets.”

Your heart twists in your chest. “I… My schedule is about to get a little crazy.”

“It’s the off season,” he points out. “You’re supposed to be on vacation.”

“I know.” You pinch the bridge of your nose. “I have a good reason. I have meetings and some interviews and some travel-“

“Oh my god,” Max says, quietly. “You got a seat.”

“Shh!” You say, though you can’t fight the grin that slips across your lips. “God I hope you’re alone- I’m really not supposed to talk about it-“

“-I called you, of course I’m alone-“

“-Oh, are you going to ask what I’m wearing?” You tease.

“You’re trying to change the subject,” he says.

You sigh and nod, even though he can’t see you. “It’s like the lights are about to go out and I’m realizing how crazy I am. But on a bigger scale.”

He sighs in response. “I wish I was there with you.”

“You have a race to win,” you tell him. “You know. Good things on the other side of hard days. I’ll be okay.”

“I know you will,” he says. So sure of it. Like he’s known it for years, like he’s known you for a lifetime. Kindred souls, matching sparks in your chests. “And as soon as you’re ready, you call me and tell me everything.”

“Okay,” you agree.

“And then you tell me where you want to go,” he adds. “And we book the tickets. To celebrate the end of the waiting.”

You could cry. You don’t, but you could.

“I think I’d go anywhere with you,” you tell him.

“Okay,” he says. Now you can really hear the smile in his voice. “I’ve never been to anywhere, but I hear the weather is lovely.”

“Now you’re deflecting,” you tease.

“Mhm,” he agrees. “I’m saving all the sappy shit for when I can say it to your face.”

…..

You spend a week in mid-December on a beach with Max, with nothing but the sun and him to worry about. He holds true to what he said on the phone. He picks you up from the airport, drives to the hotel with his hand laced with yours. And then, in the safety of the hotel room balcony, looking out over the ocean in the dark of the night, he pulls you close.

“I’m proud of you,” he says. “I’ve been amazed by you since the day we met. And I know it won’t be easy, but I’ll go anywhere with you, too, if you let me.”

He’s being vulnerable. You can feel his heart racing under your hand, pounding at his ribcage. So you lean up, press your lips to his cheek in a very not European way.

“Nothing good is ever easy,” you say.

He smiles, and you swear it’s bright enough to light up the night sky. And then he kisses you and lights you up from the inside, too.

For the rest of the trip, the two of you leave your phones on do not disturb, leave the TV in your hotel room turned off, leave the outside world, the fast paced shit, behind. For a few days, it’s just him.

You’ve known him for nearly a year, known of him for far more than that. And the two of you are nowhere near done yet- the finish line is still miles ahead. But you find that there’s something in Max that you didn’t know you were missing the entire time- he has that spark, too. The hunger to just keep driving. To push past the moment of fear and find the good on the other side. He’s been one of your biggest supporters since the day you met- since he complimented your driving.

“Now that the season’s over,” you say to him one night at dinner, over the rim of your cocktail glass. “Can I drive Rocky?”

He laughs and hooks his foot around your ankle under the table. “Sure. But only if you let me drive yours.”

You suppose it’s a fair trade.

a/n: fun fact! the karting track with the Red Bull theming really does exist near the track in Austria. so. new travel bucket list item added. anyways. hop you enjoyed! if you made it this far, ty so much for reading!!

Taglist: @4-mula1 @celestialams @struggling-with-delia @lovekt @i-wish-this-was-me @forzalando @iloveyou3000morgan @callsign-scully @arian-directioner @racingheartsposts @sakuramxchii @mynamejeff5 @c-losur3 @casperlikej @the-navistar-carol @everyonesluvah @jsjcue @ggaslyp1 @si1ver06 @nicole01-23 @andruuu28 @coffeehurricanes

crossed out urls are ones I was unable to tag! to be added or removed from this list, just drop me an ask/message!

Really niche but Croatian folk-gothic Miku!

croatian miku!! 🇭🇷

Croatian "gaser" hatsune miku <3

wanted to draw her in a pretty traditional dress but this feels more authentic

Croatian Miku! 🇭🇷

Lots of fun trying to figure out what my own people look like lol

brazil miku

my favourite genre of post-race Charles Leclerc win is Charles finding Arthur at the barrier, seeing Arthur looking at him with such joy in his eyes and then Charles messing up his hair

celebrity worship is the root and all evil except for the men me and my tumblrina girls choose to fixate on. theyre different and they dont count

REBLOG IF THIS RELATES TO YOU:

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me: i have no beef with carlos these days, the man has been peaceful, wish he had a podium in monza, we appreciate the best effort given to defend—

f1: here is why sainz deserves credit for charles’ monza win

Do-Over

Logan Sargeant x Andretti!Reader

Summary: Logan drowns his sorrows after being dropped by Williams and passes out in 2024 … he wakes up slightly hungover and very much in 2022 (aka the time travel fix-it fic)

Logan’s hands are shaking.

He’s staring at the email on his phone, reading it over for the third time, hoping the words will somehow rearrange themselves into something different. But they don’t. The screen doesn’t lie, and neither does the cold, detached tone of James Vowles.

Logan, I’m sorry to inform you that Williams Racing has decided to terminate your contract effective immediately. Your performance this season has not met the team’s expectations, and the decision has been made to move forward without you for the remaining races. We believe this is in the best interest of the team as a whole. You’ll find the details of the termination and the necessary steps moving forward in the attached document.

His eyes blur, and he forces himself to blink, trying to hold it together. He knows what this means — his F1 career, the thing he’s worked for his entire life, is over. And it’s not ending with a bang, but with a fucking email.

A knock on the door snaps him back to the present. He looks up, swallowing hard as James walks in without waiting for permission, just like he always does.

“Logan,” James begins, his voice calm, almost clinical. “We need to talk.”

“I got the email,” Logan mutters, shoving his phone into his pocket. “Is this really how it’s going to end?”

James’s face is unreadable. “We’ve discussed this at length. The crashes, the lack of progress … it’s just not working out. The engineers and mechanics are frustrated. We’ve been more than patient.”

Logan feels a wave of anger rising in his chest, but he pushes it down. He knows it won’t help. “So that’s it? Nine races left, and you’re just … dropping me?”

“It’s not an easy decision,” James replies, crossing his arms. “But we have to think about the team. We can’t afford any more setbacks.”

“Setbacks,” Logan echoes, almost laughing at the absurdity of it. “That’s all I am to you? A setback?”

James hesitates, his expression softening for just a moment. “Logan, you’re talented, but this sport is ruthless. You know that.”

“Don’t,” Logan snaps, his voice sharp. “Don’t try to soften the blow now. You could’ve at least told me in person, before sending the damn email.”

James sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I know it seems cold, but this is the reality of Formula 1. You’ll land on your feet. You’ve got potential.”

“Potential,” Logan mutters under his breath. “That’s not going to get me back in a car, is it?”

There’s a tense silence, the weight of the situation pressing down on both of them. Logan feels like the walls are closing in, the air in the room growing thicker with each passing second.

“I’m sorry,” James says finally, and for the first time, he sounds genuine. “I really am.”

“Yeah,” Logan replies, his voice hollow. “Me too.”

James lingers for a moment, as if searching for something else to say, but there’s nothing that can fix this. Nothing that can make it right. Finally, he nods and leaves, closing the door quietly behind him.

Logan stands there, staring at the door, his mind racing. This can’t be happening. It feels like some kind of nightmare, one he can’t wake up from. But the harsh reality is setting in. It’s over. All those years, all that effort, and it’s over just like that.

He sinks down onto the couch, his head in his hands. His chest feels tight, like he can’t get a full breath. He needs to get out of here, but he has no idea where to go. Where do you go when your dreams have just been crushed?

His gaze falls on the bottle of whiskey sitting on the small kitchen counter. He bought it a few years ago, intending to open it after a win that never came. The irony isn’t lost on him.

Logan pushes himself up and walks over to the kitchen, grabbing the bottle and a glass. He hesitates for a moment, then shrugs and puts the glass back. What’s the point of pretending there’s any dignity left in this?

He twists the cap off the bottle and takes a long drink, the burn of the alcohol offering a brief distraction from the pain gnawing at his insides. He leans against the counter, staring out the window at the darkening sky. How the hell did it come to this?

He’s replaying every mistake, every missed opportunity, every race where he could’ve done better. It’s a torturous cycle, one that he can’t escape. He takes another drink, then another, hoping to drown out the thoughts, to numb the ache in his chest.

But it doesn’t work. The alcohol just makes it worse, amplifying the guilt and the regret. He feels like a failure. No, he is a failure. The team didn’t even have the decency to let him finish the season. That’s how little they think of him.

The room starts to blur around the edges as the whiskey takes effect, but he doesn’t stop. He can’t stop. He’s spiraling, and he knows it, but he doesn’t care. This is the only way he knows how to cope, the only way to forget, even if it’s just for a little while.

Hours pass, or maybe minutes — he’s lost track of time. The bottle is nearly empty now, and he’s slumped on the floor, leaning against the kitchen cabinets. His phone buzzes in his pocket, but he ignores it. He doesn’t want to talk to anyone. What’s the point?

The apartment is silent except for the occasional sound of cars passing by outside. It’s eerie, this quiet, and it makes the emptiness inside him feel even more profound.

Finally, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. The screen is cracked from a previous fall — one of many — but it still works. There are messages from friends, from his family, but he doesn’t open them. He knows what they’ll say. They’ll be supportive, encouraging, but it won’t change anything. They can’t fix this.

Instead, he opens his camera roll and scrolls through the photos. Pictures of him in the car, of the team, of moments that once meant everything to him. Now they’re just reminders of what he’s lost.

He stops on a photo of himself, taken just after he signed with Williams. He looks so damn happy, so full of hope. He barely recognizes that person now.

“What a joke,” he mutters to himself, his voice slurred. “What a fucking joke.”

He takes one last drink from the bottle, then tosses it aside, not caring as it rolls across the floor. He feels the darkness closing in, pulling him under, and for once, he doesn’t fight it. He lets it take him, lets it drown out the pain, the regret, the fear.

And as he finally drifts into unconsciousness, the last thought that crosses his mind is that maybe — just maybe — he deserves this.

***

Logan wakes with a start, his head pounding, the taste of stale whiskey thick on his tongue. He groans, squeezing his eyes shut against the assault of the light streaming through the windows. His whole body feels like it’s been put through a blender — sore, achy, heavy. But it’s not just the hangover, it’s the weight of everything, of what happened yesterday.

He takes a deep breath, bracing himself as he sits up, his hands pressing into the bed beneath him. Except, the texture’s wrong. It’s not the rough fabric of his apartment’s couch or even the smooth, cool sheets he’s used to.

Logan’s eyes snap open, and he looks around, confusion crashing over him like a cold wave. He’s not in his apartment. The walls are different — cleaner, the color a familiar light blue he hasn’t seen in years. The bed is narrow, uncomfortable, with plain white sheets. There’s a desk pushed against the far wall, a locker in the corner with his name printed on it in block letters.

This isn’t his apartment. This is … his driver’s room. The one he used when he was driving for Carlin in Formula 2.

“What the hell …” Logan mutters, running a hand through his hair, trying to make sense of it. He must still be drunk. Or maybe he’s dreaming. But no — he can feel the dull ache in his temples, the dryness in his throat, the uncomfortable press of the mattress beneath him. This is too real to be a dream.

But it doesn’t make any sense. The last thing he remembers is passing out in his apartment after finishing nearly a whole bottle of whiskey. He was a mess. He is a mess. But here he is, waking up in a place he hasn’t seen since 2022, a place that shouldn’t exist in his present reality.

Panic starts to set in. He fumbles for his phone, which is miraculously still in his pocket. The screen lights up, showing the date and time.

September 10th, 2022.

His heart stops. That’s impossible. It’s been two years. Two years since this date. His mind races, trying to piece together what the hell is happening, but nothing fits. He’s not in 2024 anymore. Somehow, he’s back in 2022.

It’s the only explanation, but it’s insane. None of this is possible. It’s not even like those vague dreams where everything’s familiar but distant. This is his life two years ago, down to the worn fabric of the team jacket hanging on the back of the door.

Before he can spiral any further, there’s a sharp knock at the door. Logan barely has time to react before it swings open, and Gary Catt, his manager, strides in with his usual briskness, already talking before the door is fully open.

“Logan, I just got off the phone with Jost Capito,” Gary says, his voice all business, not noticing Logan’s stunned expression. “Williams wants you. They want to lock you in for next season. It’s the best possible scenario. This is it, Logan — this is what we’ve been working toward.”

Logan feels like he’s been hit by a freight train. This conversation — he remembers it. It happened. Gary, standing in this very room, telling him the exact same thing, with the exact same excitement in his voice. The memory is vivid because it changed everything. It was the start of his F1 career. And also … the start of everything that led to that email.

“Logan?” Gary’s voice cuts through the fog in Logan’s mind, pulling him back to the present. “Are you even listening? This is huge, mate. You’re going to be in F1.”

Logan’s throat is dry, his mind racing with possibilities, with consequences. He remembers how he felt the first time he heard these words — pure elation, followed by a rush of nerves. But now, with the knowledge of what’s to come, all he feels is dread.

This is his chance to change things. To make sure it doesn’t end the way it did yesterday. He’s been given a do-over, a second chance, and he can’t afford to mess it up.

Logan takes a deep breath, forcing himself to stay calm. “Gary,” he says, his voice rough from sleep and the alcohol, “I don’t think I should take the offer.”

Gary stops mid-stride, turning to face Logan with a look of utter disbelief. “What did you just say?”

“I don’t think I should take the offer,” Logan repeats, more firmly this time, even though his heart is pounding in his chest. “It’s too soon.”

“Too soon?” Gary looks at him like he’s just sprouted another head. “Logan, this is Williams. It’s F1. There is no such thing as ‘too soon’ when an opportunity like this comes around. What are you talking about?”

Logan stands up, pacing the small room, trying to gather his thoughts. How does he explain this without sounding completely insane? He can’t tell Gary what he knows — what he’s seen, what’s happened. But he also can’t go down the same path again. Not when he knows where it leads.

“I just … I don’t think I’m ready,” Logan says, finally turning to face Gary. “If I rush into F1 now, it could end badly. I need more time. More experience.”

Gary’s expression shifts from disbelief to concern. “Logan, listen to yourself. You’ve been preparing for this your whole life. You’re as ready as anyone can be. If you pass this up, there’s no guarantee another chance like it will come along. You know that.”

Logan shakes his head. “I know it sounds crazy, but … I have a feeling that if I take this now, it’ll be a mistake. A big one. I’ll end up in a situation where I’m not able to deliver, where the pressure is too much. And that’s not good for anyone — me, the team, my career.”

Gary is silent for a long moment, studying Logan with an intensity that makes him squirm. “Where’s this coming from? You were over the moon about this before. What changed?”

Logan hesitates, searching for the right words. “I just … I’ve been thinking a lot about the future. About what I want my career to look like. And I don’t want to be one of those drivers who gets rushed into F1 and then crashes out because they weren’t ready. I want to do it right. I want to be fully prepared.”

“You don’t get to be fully prepared in this sport,” Gary says, his voice dropping to a more serious tone. “This is Formula 1. It’s sink or swim, and you know that. You’re not going to get a better opportunity than this, Logan.”

Logan feels a knot of frustration tightening in his chest. He knows Gary is right, in a way. This is F1. It’s not supposed to be easy. But he also knows that if he takes this offer, if he goes down the same road, it’ll end in disaster.

“I get that,” Logan says, his voice firm. “But I’ve made up my mind. I’m not going to take the seat. Not this time.”

Gary stares at him, his expression a mixture of shock and confusion. “Logan, this could be career suicide. You understand that, right?”

Logan nods, swallowing hard. “I do. But I’d rather take that risk than go into something I know I’m not ready for and crash out in a blaze of failure. I can’t do that. I won’t.”

Gary runs a hand over his face, clearly struggling to comprehend what’s happening. “This isn’t like you. You’re not one to back down from a challenge. Why are you doing this?”

Because I know how it ends, Logan thinks, but he doesn’t say it out loud. Instead, he takes a deep breath and says, “Because I want to do this right. I want to have a long career in F1, not a short one that ends in disappointment. And to do that, I need to be smart about the choices I make now.”

Gary lets out a slow breath, clearly conflicted. “This is … I don’t even know what to say, Logan. You’re turning down a seat in F1. That’s not something you do lightly.”

“I’m not doing it lightly,” Logan assures him, though his heart is racing. “I’ve thought about this a lot, and it’s the right decision for me.”

There’s a long silence as Gary processes this. Logan can almost see the gears turning in his head, the calculations, the weighing of options. He knows how hard this must be for Gary to accept — hell, it’s hard for Logan to accept, and he’s the one making the decision. But he has to stick to his guns. He has to believe that this is the right choice.

Finally, Gary lets out a resigned sigh. “Alright, Logan. If this is really what you want, I’ll back you. But you need to understand the risks. This could close doors for you. Big ones.”

Logan nods, his stomach twisting with anxiety. “I know. But I also know that if I take this now, it could end up closing even more doors in the long run.”

Gary studies him for a long moment, then gives a slow nod. “Alright. I’ll let Jost know. But don’t expect him to be happy about it.”

Logan feels a mixture of relief and dread. “I won’t. But thanks, Gary. I know this isn’t easy.”

Gary gives him a tight smile, still clearly grappling with the decision. “No, it’s not. But you’re the one driving the car, Logan. Just make sure you know what you’re doing.”

Logan nods, watching as Gary turns and leaves the room, the door closing softly behind him. He stands there for a moment, taking in the silence, the surrealness of what just happened. He’s just turned down a seat in F1. The one thing he thought he wanted more than anything. But as the anxiety ebbs, a new feeling takes its place — determination.

This time, things are going to be different. He’s going to do it right, even if it means making the hard choices. Logan takes a deep breath, feeling a strange sense of calm settle over him. This is his second chance, and he’s not going to waste it.

***

The 2023 F2 season ends in a flurry of champagne, confetti, and flashing cameras. Logan stands on the top step of the podium, the P1 trophy clutched in his hands, a grin splitting his face. He’s done it. He’s proved to everyone — most of all to himself — that he was ready. This time, he didn’t rush, didn’t let the pressure consume him. And it’s paid off. He’s the Formula 2 Drivers’ Champion.

But as the celebration winds down and reality sets in, Logan faces a new challenge. Despite his victory, the F1 grid is full, and F2 champions can’t return to the series. He could take a reserve role, bide his time, wait for a seat to open up. But that’s not what he wants. He’s not willing to spend another year on the sidelines, waiting for an opportunity that may never come.

So when the offer from IndyCar comes, Logan doesn’t hesitate. He’s heard the stories — about the speed, the fierce competition, the thrill of racing on ovals. It’s not Formula 1, but it’s still racing at the highest level. And right now, that’s what he needs.

The decision surprises everyone. The media buzzes with speculation, but Logan remains focused. He knows what he’s doing. This is a new path, one that he’s chosen for himself, not because it was expected of him. He’s determined to make it work.

A few weeks later, Logan finds himself in the heart of Indianapolis, standing outside the office of Mario Andretti. The legendary name still carries a weight of history and reverence, even in this new world of racing. It feels surreal, like stepping into a different era of motorsport.

Inside the office, Mario is all business. The contract is laid out on the table between them, a simple piece of paper that represents Logan’s future. Mario goes over the details with the kind of thoroughness that only comes from years of experience, but Logan can barely focus. His mind is racing, thoughts darting between the past season, the unknown future, and the thrill of what he’s about to embark on.

“Everything looks good?” Mario asks, breaking Logan from his thoughts.

Logan blinks, then nods, forcing himself to concentrate. “Yeah, it’s perfect.”

Mario slides the pen across the table. “Then let’s make it official.”

Logan takes the pen, feeling the weight of the moment as he signs his name at the bottom of the contract. It’s done. He’s an IndyCar driver now.

Mario nods in approval, leaning back in his chair with a satisfied smile. “Welcome to the team, Logan. We’re excited to have you.”

“Thank you,” Logan says, meaning it. This is a new beginning, and he’s ready for it.

They shake hands, and Mario stands, motioning towards the door. “I’d love to chat more, but I’ve got to head out. My granddaughter’s picking me up for lunch.”

Logan heads out of the office, his mind still reeling from the whirlwind of emotions. He’s so caught up in his thoughts that he doesn’t notice the person rounding the corner until it’s too late. They collide, and Logan’s first instinct is to reach out, steadying the person as they stumble backward.

“Whoa, I’m so sorry,” he blurts out, his hands gripping her arms as he helps her regain her balance.

“It’s okay,” you reply, laughing softly as you look up at him. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

Logan’s breath catches in his throat as he looks down at you, the apology dying on his lips. You’re beautiful — stunning, even — with eyes that seem to sparkle with life and a smile that’s warm and inviting. For a moment, all he can do is stare, struck by how perfect you seem, like someone who’s stepped straight out of a dream.

“You alright?” You ask, tilting your head slightly as you study him.

Logan snaps out of it, quickly releasing his hold on you and stepping back. “Yeah, sorry again. I didn’t see you there.”

The door to Mario’s office opens, and the man himself steps out, his eyes narrowing slightly as he takes in the scene. “Everything okay out here?”

You turn to your grandfather, smiling brightly. “Just a little bump, Grandpa. Nothing to worry about.”

Mario’s expression softens as he looks at you, the sternness replaced by affection. “Good. I don’t want anyone getting hurt before lunch.”

You laugh, the sound light and carefree, and Logan finds himself smiling along, despite the awkwardness of the situation.

“Logan,” Mario says, turning to him, “I’d like you to meet my granddaughter.”

Logan’s heart skips a beat. This is Mario’s granddaughter? Of course, she is. It makes sense now, the confidence in your stance, the way you carry yourself. You’re part of a racing dynasty, just like Mario.

“Logan Sargeant,” Mario continues, introducing him to you. “He’s going to be racing with us next season.”

You offer him your hand, your smile never faltering. “It’s nice to meet you, Logan. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Logan takes your hand, feeling a jolt of electricity as your fingers brush against his. “Uh, yeah. Nice to meet you too.”

You glance at Mario, then back at Logan. “We’re heading out for lunch. You should join us.”

Logan’s mind goes blank for a second, and all he can do is blink at you, trying to process what you just said. “Lunch? With you and … Mr. Andretti?”

You laugh again, and Logan thinks it might be the best sound he has ever heard. “Yeah, with us. Unless you have somewhere else you need to be?”

“No, no,” Logan stammers, trying to regain some composure. “I’d love to join you.”

Mario claps Logan on the shoulder, his laughter booming through the hallway. “Looks like you’ve made an impression already, kid. Come on, let’s get out of here before the press catches wind of this.”

Logan nods, still somewhat dazed as he follows you and Mario out of the building. His mind is a whirlwind of thoughts — about the contract he just signed, the new chapter he’s stepping into, and now, about you. He can’t quite believe his luck. Not only is he starting a new adventure in IndyCar, but he’s also just met someone who, in the span of a few minutes, has completely captivated him.

As they walk to Mario’s car, Logan steals glances at you, trying to be subtle but failing miserably. You seem so at ease, chatting with your grandfather, your laughter punctuating the conversation. There’s a lightness about you, a warmth that’s infectious, and Logan finds himself drawn to it, to you.

“Logan,” you say, turning to him as you reach the car. “So, what made you decide to join IndyCar? It’s not every day an F2 champion makes that leap.”

Logan pauses, caught off guard by the directness of your question. “Well, uh,” he begins, trying to find the right words, “I guess I just wanted something different. F1 wasn’t an option, and I didn’t want to sit around waiting for a seat to open up. IndyCar seemed like the right challenge. Something new, but still competitive.”

You nod, clearly intrigued. “That makes sense. It’s a bold move, but I think it’ll pay off.”

“Bold,” Logan repeats, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It is,” you assure him, your eyes sparkling. “I admire people who take risks. Especially when they’re as calculated as yours seems to be.”

Mario clears his throat, a knowing grin on his face as he watches the two of you. “Alright, kids, enough shop talk. Let’s get some food.”

You and Logan exchange a smile before sliding into the back seat of the car. The conversation flows easily, despite Logan’s initial nerves. You ask him about his time in F2, what it was like racing on the different tracks, how he handled the pressure. Logan finds himself opening up more than he expected, the words coming easily under your encouraging gaze.

Mario chimes in every now and then, adding his own insights, but it’s clear he’s content to let the two of you do most of the talking. He watches with an amused glint in his eye, as if he’s already figured out something that Logan is just beginning to realize.

By the time you reach the restaurant, Logan feels like he’s known you for much longer than the short time you’ve actually spent together. There’s an ease between you that he’s rarely felt with anyone else, a connection that seems to have sparked almost instantly.

Inside the restaurant, Mario insists on taking the head of the table, leaving you and Logan to sit across from each other. As you settle in, you continue to ask Logan questions, but now they’re more personal — what does he do outside of racing? What’s his favorite movie? Does he have any hidden talents?

Logan answers as best he can, though he’s still reeling a bit from how quickly this day has turned into something he never expected. He’s just signed with IndyCar, but more than that, he’s sitting across from someone who makes his heart race faster than any car ever could.

“You’ve got a good head on your shoulders, Logan,” Mario says suddenly, breaking into the conversation. “I’ve seen a lot of young drivers come and go, but you … you’ve got something special. Just keep your focus, and you’ll go far.”

“Thank you, Mr. Andretti,” Logan says, his voice sincere. “That means a lot, coming from you.”

“Call me Mario,” he replies with a wave of his hand. “We’re family now, after all.”

Logan smiles, feeling a warmth spread through him at the word “family.” It’s strange, how quickly things have shifted, how he’s gone from a solitary driver trying to make his way in the world to someone who might actually belong here, in this new place, with these new people.

As the lunch continues, Logan finds himself growing more comfortable, the initial awkwardness fading away. You keep the conversation lively, sharing stories about your grandfather, about your own life, and Logan can’t help but be drawn to your passion, your intelligence, your warmth. It’s clear that you’re not just Mario Andretti’s granddaughter — you’re your own person, with your own dreams and ambitions.

Eventually, the meal winds down, and Mario excuses himself to take a phone call, leaving you and Logan alone at the table. The silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable, but charged, filled with the unspoken things neither of you have quite put into words yet.

“So,” you say, leaning forward slightly, a teasing smile on your lips, “what do you think of Indy so far?”

Logan grins, feeling a boldness he didn’t expect. “Well, it just got a whole lot more interesting.”

You laugh, your eyes twinkling with amusement. “I’m glad to hear it. I have a feeling you’re going to fit in just fine here.”

“Yeah,” Logan says, his voice softening as he looks at you, really looks at you. “I think I am too.”

You hold his gaze, the connection between you growing stronger with each passing second. For a moment, the world outside seems to fade away, leaving just the two of you, caught in this moment that feels almost like fate.

Before the silence can stretch too long, Mario returns, his phone call finished. He glances between the two of you, his eyes twinkling with a knowing look that makes Logan’s ears burn. “Ready to head out?”

You nod, standing up and giving Logan one last, lingering smile. “It was nice meeting you, Logan. I’m sure we’ll see each other around.”

Logan stands as well, feeling a mix of excitement and nerves. “Definitely. I’m looking forward to it.”

As you and Mario head out of the restaurant, Logan lingers for a moment, watching you go. He can’t quite believe what just happened, but one thing is certain — his life just got a lot more complicated, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

As he walks out into the bright sunlight, Logan can’t stop the smile that spreads across his face. He’s taken a leap into the unknown, and it feels like the start of something incredible.

***

The roar of the crowd is deafening, vibrating through the very core of the Speedway as Logan crosses the finish line first. It’s the 107th running of the Indianapolis 500, and he’s just won it. The realization hits him like a tidal wave, almost knocking the breath out of him. He’s an Indy 500 champion. In his rookie season, no less.

The engine growls as he coasts to a stop, and for a moment, all he can do is sit there, hands trembling on the steering wheel. His heart pounds in his chest, adrenaline coursing through his veins, and he lets out a breathless laugh, disbelief and elation mingling into something indescribable.

“Logan Sargeant wins the Indy 500!” The announcer’s voice echoes through the speakers, barely audible over the cheers of the crowd. He hears it, but it still feels surreal, like something out of a dream.

The pit crew rushes over, the celebration already in full swing as they haul him out of the car. He’s immediately surrounded by a sea of people — team members, media, officials — everyone wanting a piece of this historic moment. But through it all, there’s one thing on his mind. One person.

You.

He’s searching the crowd, trying to spot you among the chaos. His vision is blurred with sweat and tears, but then he sees you — pushing your way through the throng of people, a look of pure joy on your face. You’re clapping, laughing, your eyes shining with pride, and all Logan can think is how he needs to get to you.

But first, there’s tradition to uphold.

One of the crew hands him the iconic bottle of milk, the symbol of victory. Logan takes it, still in a daze, and tilts it back, taking a long swig. The cold liquid is refreshing, cutting through the heat of the moment, and he can’t help but laugh as he lowers the bottle, milk dripping down his chin.

Without hesitation, he lifts the bottle above his head and pours the rest over himself. The milk runs down his face, soaking into his race suit, and the crowd goes wild, the noise level somehow reaching new heights. He feels on top of the world — unstoppable, invincible.

And then he spots you again, closer now, just on the edge of the crowd. Logan doesn’t think, doesn’t pause to consider anything else. He just moves, pushing through the throng of people until he’s standing right in front of you.

You’re smiling up at him, eyes bright with something that makes his heart race faster than it did on the final lap. Before he can stop himself, Logan reaches out, pulls you in, and kisses you.

It’s the kind of kiss that’s been building for months — the culmination of all the moments, all the glances, all the unspoken words between you. You taste like the victory he’s just claimed, like the adrenaline that’s still pumping through his veins, like everything he’s been chasing since he first set foot in this world.

When you finally pull back, you’re both breathless, milk dripping from Logan’s face and onto yours. You laugh, and the sound is the sweetest thing he’s ever heard.

“You’re lucky I’m not lactose intolerant,” you tease, licking the milk from his lips with a grin that’s both playful and suggestive. “But honestly? It’d be worth it even if I was.”

Logan laughs, a deep, full-bodied sound that comes from a place of pure, unfiltered happiness. He feels like he’s floating, like nothing in the world could possibly bring him down from this high. Not now, not ever.

“Best win of my life,” he says, his voice rough with emotion, still holding you close, as if afraid that letting go might make this moment disappear.

You tilt your head, still smiling up at him with those eyes that have captivated him from the start. “I’d hope so,” you say softly. “You just won the Indy 500.”

He shakes his head, a playful grin on his face. “No, I mean this.” He gestures between the two of you, the words hanging in the air, heavy with meaning.

For a second, you just stare at him, the noise of the crowd fading into the background, the world narrowing down to just the two of you. And then you’re laughing, throwing your arms around his neck, pulling him into another kiss.

This one is softer, sweeter — less about the heat of the moment and more about the connection between you, the way everything just seems to fit when you’re together. Logan loses himself in it, in you, in this moment that feels like the culmination of everything he’s ever wanted.

When you finally break apart, the noise of the crowd floods back in, the celebration continuing around you. But it doesn’t matter. Nothing else matters except the way you’re looking at him, like he’s the only person in the world.

“Come on,” you say, tugging him towards the podium. “You’ve got a trophy to collect.”

Logan follows, still holding onto your hand, not willing to let you go just yet. The team is waiting, cheering him on, and as they hoist him up onto their shoulders, Logan realizes that this — this moment, this feeling — is what he’s been racing for all along.

Standing on the podium, the trophy in his hands, Logan looks out at the sea of faces, at the fans cheering his name, at the team celebrating their victory. But his eyes find you in the crowd, and that’s where they stay.

You’re smiling up at him, and Logan knows, deep down, that this is just the beginning. The beginning of something incredible, something he never saw coming but can’t imagine living without.

As the anthem plays and the confetti rains down, Logan lifts the trophy high, his heart full to bursting. He’s done it — he’s won the Indy 500. But more than that, he’s found something, someone, who makes all of it mean so much more.

And as he looks down at you, standing there with that bright, beautiful smile, Logan knows that he’s not just a champion. He’s the luckiest guy in the world.

***

The soft hum of the office fills the silence as Logan sits across from Mario, the weight of the moment pressing down on him. The past year has been a whirlwind — plenty of IndyCar wins, that unforgettable victory at the Indy 500, and the life he’s built with you by his side. It’s been everything he didn’t know he needed, but now, as he sits in Mario’s office, there’s an air of something significant, something life-altering in the way Mario looks at him.

Mario clears his throat, leaning forward on his desk, hands clasped. “Logan,” he begins, voice steady, serious. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking — planning, actually — and I need to talk to you about something important.”

Logan’s heart skips a beat, the weight of Mario’s words sinking in. He nods, leaning forward slightly, feeling the anticipation coil tight in his chest. “What is it?” He asks, voice steady despite the flurry of nerves.

Mario takes a deep breath, then looks Logan squarely in the eye. “We’re buying Haas F1 Team. The deal’s already in motion, and we’ll be restructuring everything from the ground up to make our entrance into Formula 1 in 2026.”

The words hang in the air, heavy with implication. Logan’s breath catches in his throat, and for a moment, he’s not sure if he’s heard Mario correctly. “Formula 1?” He echoes, almost disbelieving. His mind races, a thousand thoughts colliding at once. “You’re serious?”

“As serious as it gets,” Mario replies, his expression unwavering. “I’ve wanted this for a long time, Logan. And now, with everything coming together, it’s finally happening. But here’s the thing-” he pauses, his gaze locking onto Logan’s with an intensity that leaves no room for doubt, “I can’t think of anyone better suited to lead this team as our driver than you.”

The words hit Logan like a freight train. He stares at Mario, unable to speak, his heart thudding wildly in his chest. Formula 1 has always been the dream, the pinnacle of everything he’s worked for. The chance he thought he’d lost — twice, if he counts the strange twist of fate that had brought him here in the first place.

“Logan, I know this is a lot to take in,” Mario continues, his tone softer now, understanding. “But I believe in you. You’ve proven yourself time and time again, in F2, in IndyCar — hell, you won the Indy 500 in your first season. And I know you still have that fire for F1. This is your shot, kid. And I want you to take it.”

Logan feels the lump in his throat as Mario’s words sink in. The room seems to close in around him, the gravity of the moment pressing down like a physical weight. He’s had a lot of success in IndyCar, more than he ever imagined, and it brought him you — his reason to smile, his anchor in the storm. But Formula 1? That’s the dream he’s never fully let go of, even when he tried to convince himself otherwise.

He swallows hard, forcing the words out past the emotion threatening to choke him. “I-I don’t know what to say,” he admits, his voice thick. “I mean, this is … I didn’t think I’d ever get another chance like this.”

Mario smiles, the kind of smile that’s equal parts pride and encouragement. “I know it’s a lot, Logan. And it’s not an easy decision, especially considering everything you’ve built here in IndyCar. But I have no doubt in my mind that you’re the right person for this. You’ve got what it takes to succeed in F1, and I’m not just talking about talent. You’ve got heart, determination, and the ability to learn from your mistakes. That’s what makes a champion.”

Logan’s mind races, the possibilities spinning out in front of him. He thinks about everything he’s worked for, everything he’s achieved. And then he thinks about you — how you’ve been there with him through it all, supporting him, believing in him even when he doubted himself.

He takes a deep breath, his decision already forming in his mind, solidifying with each passing second. “Okay,” he says, meeting Mario’s gaze head-on. “I’ll do it. I want this, Mario. I want to prove to myself that I can do it right this time.”

Mario’s grin widens, and he stands up, offering Logan his hand. “Welcome to Andretti F1 Team. We’re going to do great things together.”

Logan shakes his hand, the reality of it all starting to settle in. He’s going to be a Formula 1 driver again. It’s terrifying, exhilarating, everything he’s ever wanted all over again. As he stands there, absorbing the magnitude of what’s just happened, he feels a strange mix of emotions — elation, fear, anticipation, and something else that he can’t quite name.

Mario walks him to the door, still talking about the next steps, the plans they have for the team, but Logan’s mind is half-focused on something else, someone else. As the door swings open, the conversation comes to a halt. The sight that greets them both brings a grin to Mario’s face and a burst of laughter from Logan.

You’re standing there, your ear pressed to the door, looking guilty as hell when you realize you’ve been caught. You straighten up quickly, trying to play it off, but the blush spreading across your cheeks gives you away.

“Eavesdropping, huh?” Logan teases, crossing his arms and raising an eyebrow. There’s a lightness in his voice that wasn’t there moments ago, the news already settling into a place of excitement rather than apprehension.

You bite your lip, trying to suppress a smile, but failing miserably. “I, um … I might have been curious,” you admit, your eyes twinkling with mischief.

Mario chuckles, shaking his head. “Looks like we’ve got a new team spy, Logan. Better watch out.”

Logan can’t help the grin that spreads across his face. He steps out of the office, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you close. “You know, you didn’t have to spy,” he says, his voice dropping to a softer tone. “I would’ve told you everything.”

You look up at him, your smile fading slightly as something more serious takes its place in your eyes. “I just … I wanted to know if it was good news,” you say quietly. “I know how much F1 means to you.”

Logan feels his heart clench at your words, at the sincerity in your voice. You’ve always understood him, always known what drives him, what keeps him going. He cups your cheek, his thumb brushing lightly over your skin. “It’s great news,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m getting a second shot at F1, and I’m not going to mess it up this time.”

Your smile returns, bright and full of the same determination he feels. “I know you won’t,” you say confidently. “You’re going to do amazing things, Logie. And I’ll be right there with you.”

Logan’s chest tightens with emotion, the intensity of the moment overwhelming him. He leans down, pressing his forehead to yours. “I’m so lucky to have you,” he murmurs, his voice thick with gratitude. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

You laugh softly, the sound like music to his ears. “Good thing you won’t have to find out,” you reply, your tone teasing but laced with affection.

Logan’s heart swells, and before he can stop himself, he lifts you off your feet, spinning you around in a circle. You yelp in surprise, then burst into laughter, the sound filling the hallway.

He sets you down gently, your laughter fading into a soft smile as you look up at him. There’s a moment of quiet, the world around you fading away as the reality of what’s happening sinks in. Logan leans in, capturing your lips in a kiss that’s both tender and passionate, a promise of what’s to come.

When you finally pull back, breathless and smiling, Logan feels a sense of calm settle over him. Everything is falling into place, and for the first time in a long while, he feels like he’s exactly where he’s meant to be.

With you by his side, he knows he can face whatever comes next.

“Ready to take on the world?” You ask, your voice light but your eyes serious.

Logan grins, squeezing your hand. “As long as I’ve got you, I’m ready for anything.”

And with that, he leads you down the hallway, the future stretching out before him, bright and full of promise.

***

The sun is barely up, casting long shadows across the Albert Park Circuit, but the air is already alive with anticipation. It’s the first day of preseason testing for the 2026 Formula 1 season, and the paddock is buzzing with the usual mix of excitement and nerves.

Teams are unpacking crates, engineers are huddled over laptops, and the unmistakable scent of burning rubber is already in the air. But for Logan, walking through the paddock with you on his arm, it feels like stepping into a dream — one he’s worked too damn hard to make a reality.

He adjusts the collar of his Andretti jacket, the weight of the moment not lost on him. This is it. His second chance — though, thanks to the bizarre twist of fate, no one else knows it’s his second. Everyone around him sees a rookie, an American hopeful making his debut with Andretti’s new F1 team. But Logan knows better. He’s here with experience that no one can fathom, and he’s determined not to waste it.

As you walk beside him, your hand resting lightly on his arm, he can’t help but steal a glance at you. There’s a brightness in your eyes, a mix of pride and excitement that mirrors his own. “You okay?” He asks, squeezing your hand gently.

You look up at him and smile, the kind of smile that makes his heart do a little flip. “I’m more than okay,” you reply. “I’m with you, and we’re about to watch you live your dream. What could be better than that?”

Logan grins, feeling a warmth spread through his chest. You’ve been his rock through everything — the highs, the lows, the strange, unexplainable journey that brought him back here. He’s never been more certain that you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

As you make your way through the paddock, heads turn. It’s not just because Logan is here with the legendary Andretti team, but because of the woman at his side. He catches a few curious glances, some surprised, others appreciative, and he can’t blame them. You’re a sight to behold, and he’s proud to be walking in with you.

But then, out of the corner of his eye, Logan spots a familiar face. Oscar Piastri, decked out in McLaren colors, is standing near the entrance to the pit lane, chatting with a few team members. It’s been years since they last spoke properly — back when they were both climbing the ranks in the junior series, fighting tooth and nail for every inch of track.

They were close once, but life pulled them in different directions — Oscar to McLaren, Logan to IndyCar. And now, here they are, both in Formula 1, albeit on different paths.

Logan feels a wave of nostalgia, and before he can overthink it, he’s steering you in Oscar’s direction. As you approach, Oscar looks up, and for a split second, there’s a flicker of surprise in his eyes before it melts into a wide, genuine smile.

“Logan Sargeant,” Oscar says, his Australian accent as thick as ever. He steps forward, hand outstretched, and Logan takes it, shaking firmly. “I’ll be damned. You actually made it.”

Logan chuckles, the sound more relaxed than he feels. “Yeah, I guess I did. It’s been a long road, but here I am.”

Oscar’s smile widens, his grip on Logan’s hand lingering for just a moment longer. “It’s good to see you, mate. I was wondering when you’d show up in F1. Figured you were having too much fun in IndyCar to come back.”

“There was a lot to love about IndyCar,” Logan admits, glancing at you with a fond smile. “But F1 was always the dream, you know? Couldn’t pass up a chance like this.”

Oscar nods, understanding clear in his expression. “I get it. And with Andretti, no less. That’s a hell of a team to start with. You’re going to shake things up around here, I can tell.”

Logan shrugs, trying to play it cool even as his heart pounds with the reality of it all. “That’s the plan. But enough about me. How’s life at McLaren? You guys ready to give us a run for our money?”

Oscar laughs, the sound light and easy. “Always. McLaren’s been working their asses off, and I’m feeling good about this season. But don’t think I’ll go easy on you just because we’re old friends.”

Logan grins, feeling the competitive spark that’s always driven him reignite. “I wouldn’t expect anything less. Besides, it’s been a while since we’ve gone wheel-to-wheel. I’m looking forward to it.”

Oscar’s gaze shifts to you, his curiosity evident. “And who’s this?” He asks, his tone polite but genuinely interested.

Logan’s grin softens as he looks at you. “This is my better half,” he says, his voice filled with affection. “She’s the one who keeps me sane.”

You smile at Oscar, offering your hand. “It’s great to finally meet you, Oscar. Logan’s told me a lot about you.”

Oscar shakes your hand, his smile warm and welcoming. “All good things, I hope.”

“Mostly,” you tease, throwing Logan a playful glance.

Logan laughs, feeling a lightness in his chest he hasn’t felt in a while. It’s good to be here, good to be surrounded by the familiar banter and camaraderie that he’s missed. He knows the road ahead is going to be tough — F1 is nothing if not ruthless — but with you by his side and old friends welcoming him back, he feels more ready than ever to face whatever comes his way.

Oscar steps back, his gaze shifting between the two of you. “Well, I’d better let you guys get settled in. But hey, we should catch up properly later. Maybe grab a drink after testing?”

Logan nods, appreciating the offer. “Definitely. It’s been too long.”

As Oscar walks away, Logan watches him for a moment, the memories of their shared past mingling with the excitement of the present. It’s surreal, being here again, but this time with the weight of everything he’s learned, everything he’s fought for.

You tug gently on his arm, pulling him out of his thoughts. “What are you thinking about?” You ask, your voice soft and curious.

Logan smiles down at you, squeezing your hand. “Just how different things are now,” he admits. “But in a good way. I’ve got a second shot at this, and I’m not going to waste it.”

You nod, your eyes shining with the same determination he feels. “And I’ll be right there with you, every step of the way.”

Logan feels a swell of emotion, gratitude, and love that he can’t quite put into words. Instead, he leans down, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

The two of you continue walking, the sounds of the paddock fading into the background as you focus on each other. The day ahead is full of unknowns — testing, strategy meetings, the inevitable pressure of proving himself — but with you by his side, Logan feels ready for anything.

As you make your way to the Andretti garage, the team members greet Logan with nods and smiles, and he can see the mix of curiosity and expectation in their eyes. They’re all in this together, building something new, something that has the potential to be great. And Logan is determined to be the driver they need, the one who can lead them to success.

You squeeze his hand, drawing his attention back to you. “You’re going to do amazing, Logan. I can feel it.”

He smiles, the confidence in your voice bolstering his own. “Thanks. I’m just glad you’re here with me.”

“Always,” you reply, your gaze unwavering.

As the day progresses, Logan finds himself falling into the rhythm of the paddock. The familiar sounds of engines roaring to life, the chatter of engineers discussing data, the focused intensity that permeates every corner — it’s like he never left. But this time, there’s a new layer to it all, a sense of belonging that he didn’t fully grasp the first time around.

He exchanges nods and brief conversations with other drivers as they pass by, some offering congratulations, others sizing him up as the new competition. It’s all part of the game, the unspoken dance of respect and rivalry that defines the sport. But through it all, Logan keeps you close, your presence grounding him in the midst of the chaos.

As the day draws to a close, Logan finds himself back in the garage, the car stripped down and the team poring over the data from the day’s sessions. He’s tired, the kind of exhaustion that comes from both physical exertion and mental focus, but it’s the good kind of tired — the kind that tells him he’s exactly where he needs to be.

You’re standing nearby, chatting with one of the engineers, your laughter mingling with the sounds of the garage. Logan watches you for a moment, a smile tugging at his lips. You’ve always had a way of fitting in, of making everyone around you feel at ease, and he’s grateful for that — for you.

As if sensing his gaze, you look over at him and smile, that familiar warmth in your eyes. You make your way over to him, and when you reach him, Logan pulls you into his arms, holding you close. The noise of the garage fades into the background, leaving just the two of you in this moment.

“You did great today,” you say.

Logan holds you a little tighter, resting his chin on the top of your head. “I couldn’t have done it without you,” he murmurs.

You pull back slightly, just enough to look up at him, your eyes filled with a mix of pride and affection. “You’re the one out there driving, Logan. But I’m glad I can be here for you.”

He smiles, leaning down to press a soft kiss to your lips. “It means everything to me that you are,” he whispers.

For a moment, the chaos of the garage and the world outside fades, leaving just the two of you standing together, ready to face whatever comes next. Logan knows the road ahead won’t be easy, but with you by his side, he’s more than ready to take on the challenge.

***

The media room is buzzing with the usual pre-race energy, a mix of nerves and excitement crackling in the air as the drivers settle in behind the table. Logan’s seated between Oscar and Charles, the bright lights overhead casting sharp shadows across their faces. The backdrop behind them, plastered with sponsor logos and the official F1 emblem, feels almost like a stage, the press in front of them the audience waiting for their performance.

Logan shifts in his seat, glancing down at the bottled water in front of him. The press conference has been the usual mix of questions so far — how the cars are handling, expectations for the season, the general camaraderie between the drivers. But there’s an undercurrent, a sense that something more pointed is coming.

A journalist from the back finally stands, her voice clear and direct as she catches Logan’s attention. “Logan,” she begins, holding her recorder up, “there’s been some observation that every time you see James Vowles, your expression seems to … change. Almost like you’re not too thrilled to be around him. Any comment on that?”

There’s a moment of silence in the room, a collective breath held. Logan feels the gaze of every person on him, including the drivers beside him. He lets out a quiet laugh, trying to play it cool, but he can’t help the way his mind flashes back to the last time he’d faced Vowles, the man’s condescending tone, the cold dismissal that had sent him spiraling.

Oscar shifts beside him, giving him a sideways glance, probably wondering where this is going. Logan catches the edge of his own reflection in the shiny surface of the table and forces his expression into something neutral, even though the old bitterness is clawing its way up from the pit of his stomach.

“Bad vibes,” Logan says finally, his voice carrying just enough humor to keep it light, though there’s an unmistakable edge to it. “That’s what my girlfriend would say. He just … gives off bad vibes.”

There’s a ripple of laughter through the room, the tension breaking slightly. But the journalist isn’t done yet. “Bad vibes? Care to elaborate on that?”

Logan shrugs, trying to brush it off with a casualness he doesn’t quite feel. “You know, it’s one of those things. Sometimes you just don’t click with someone, right? It’s nothing serious.”

Charles, on his other side, leans into his mic, flashing a grin. “You’re not going to make us all paranoid about our vibes now, are you?”

The room laughs again, and Logan takes the opportunity to sip his water, hoping the moment will pass. But he can feel the weight of the past pressing against him, the memories of how it all went down before he’d found himself in this second chance. He knows better than anyone that this sport is a game of perceptions, of how you carry yourself, and he can’t afford to let the past taint his future.

Another journalist jumps in, steering the conversation toward safer waters — questions about the new car, how he’s adjusting to the Andretti team. Logan answers on autopilot, the usual lines about feeling confident, about how the team has been amazing. But in the back of his mind, he’s still thinking about that flash of disgust he couldn’t hide, the way his skin prickled when he saw Vowles earlier that day.

When the press conference finally wraps up, and the drivers are ushered out of the room, Oscar hangs back, falling into step beside Logan as they head toward the paddock. “So,” Oscar starts, keeping his voice low, “bad vibes, huh?”

Logan lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, a half-smile tugging at his lips. “You know how it is,” he says, trying to keep it light, though he knows Oscar can see right through him.

Oscar just nods, not pushing any further, and Logan’s grateful for that. They walk in silence for a moment, the din of the paddock growing louder as they approach, engineers and team members bustling around them.

“Honestly, mate,” Oscar says after a beat, “if anyone’s going to bring some good vibes into F1, it’s you. I’m glad you’re here.”

Logan glances over, and there’s sincerity in Oscar’s expression that makes Logan’s chest tighten, the weight of everything he’s carried with him lightening just a bit. “Thanks, Oscar. That means a lot.”

They reach the Andretti motorhome, where you’re waiting for Logan, your eyes lighting up the moment you spot him. He feels a warmth spread through him at the sight, a reminder of what really matters.

You push off the wall you’d been leaning against, falling into step beside him. “So, how’d it go in there?”

Logan smirks, wrapping an arm around your shoulders as they walk. “Let’s just say my reputation for honesty might have gotten a bit more solidified.”

You tilt your head up at him, a teasing glint in your eyes. “That bad, huh?”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Not bad, just … honest.”

You glance at Oscar, who’s still walking beside you, and give him a knowing look. “He always has to make things interesting, doesn’t he?”

Oscar grins, nodding in agreement. “Never a dull moment with this one.”

As you make your way back into the motorhome, Logan feels the tension of the day starting to ebb away. The familiar scent of coffee and fuel, the low hum of conversations around him, and the comforting presence of you by his side — it all feels right. Despite everything, he knows this is where he belongs.

Once inside, the motorhome offers a brief respite from the chaotic energy outside. The team is prepping for final checks, and Logan knows he should be focusing on the task ahead, but there’s something nagging at him, a need to explain himself, to make sure you understand.

You catch the way his brows furrow slightly, the way his grip on your shoulder tightens for a moment before he lets go. “What’s up?”

He hesitates, running a hand through his hair, looking for the right words. “I just … I don’t want to come off like I’m carrying a grudge or anything. That comment about Vowles — it probably sounded harsher than I meant it.”

You step closer, your hand finding his, grounding him. “Logan, it’s okay. Everyone has people they don’t vibe with. It doesn’t mean anything more than that.”

He nods, the tightness in his chest loosening as he looks into your eyes, seeing the unwavering support there. “You always know what to say, don’t you?”

You smile, squeezing his hand. “It’s a gift. Plus, you make it easy.”

Oscar clears his throat, and both of you look over to see him trying not to grin. “I’m going to leave you two to it. Just don’t forget we have a race to focus on.”

Logan laughs, shaking his head as Oscar heads out. “Yeah, yeah, we’ll be right out.”

When Oscar’s gone, Logan turns back to you, his expression softening. “Thanks for being here. Really.”

You lean up, pressing a quick kiss to his lips. “Always.”

As you both make your way out to the garage, the sounds of the team preparing for the weekend reach your ears, and Logan feels that familiar rush of adrenaline, the anticipation of what’s to come. The memory of the press conference, of Vowles, fades into the background. What matters now is the race ahead, the chance to prove himself once again, and the knowledge that whatever happens, you’re right there with him.

He glances over at you as they approach the car, and you catch him staring, raising an eyebrow in question. “What?”

Logan just smiles, shaking his head. “Nothing. Just thinking about how lucky I am.”

You roll your eyes, though there’s a smile playing on your lips. “You better believe it, Sargeant. Now, go out there and show them what you’ve got.”

He nods, feeling more centered than he has all day. With a final squeeze of your hand, he steps into the garage, ready to take on whatever comes next, knowing that no matter what happens on the track, he’s already won in the ways that truly matter.

***

The roar of the engines reverberates through the paddock, a constant hum that thrums in Logan’s chest as he steps into the Andretti garage. It’s yet another race weekend, and the energy is electric, a mix of anticipation and nerves hanging in the air.

The team is buzzing around him, mechanics fine-tuning the car, engineers buried in data, but Logan’s focus is on the familiar figure leaning casually against the back wall, arms crossed, watching the hustle with an almost serene smile.

Logan stops in his tracks, eyebrows raising in surprise. It’s not that Mario isn’t around — he’s a constant presence in the team, always keeping an eye on things — but he usually doesn’t show up this early in the weekend, and certainly not with that look on his face.

It’s a smile Logan recognizes all too well, a mix of pride and mischief that means only one thing: Mario knows something that everyone else doesn’t, and it’s going to shake things up.

Logan weaves his way through the garage, sidestepping the organized chaos until he’s standing in front of Mario. “You look like you’re up to something,” Logan says, crossing his arms to mirror the older man’s posture. “What’s going on?”

Mario’s smile widens just a fraction, his eyes glinting with a secret. “Now, what makes you think I’m up to anything, kid?”

Logan chuckles, shaking his head. “Because I know that look. You’ve got news.”

Mario doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, he pushes off the wall and motions for Logan to follow him to a quieter corner of the garage, away from the prying eyes and ears of the rest of the team. Logan follows, his curiosity piqued. Whatever Mario’s about to tell him, it’s big.

When they’re sufficiently out of earshot, Mario leans in slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “You remember how I told you a while back that we were working on something big for the team?”

Logan nods, his interest fully captured. “Yeah. What’s up?”

Mario’s smile turns almost wicked. “Well, it seems that James Vowles and Williams think they’re going to secure Adrian Newey for next season.”

Logan’s eyes widen slightly. Newey is a legend in the sport, the kind of designer who can turn a good team into a championship-winning one. If Williams were to get him, it would be a game-changer. “Wait, you said they think they’re going to get him?”

“Exactly.” Mario’s grin is practically gleeful now. “What they don’t know is that Adrian’s already in talks with us. In fact, we’re just about ready to sign the deal.”

Logan lets out a low whistle, the magnitude of the news sinking in. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious. By this time next week, Adrian Newey will be working for Andretti.”

Logan can’t help the wide smile that spreads across his face. This is huge, a move that will send shockwaves through the paddock. With Newey on board, Andretti’s chances of becoming a front-runner in F1 just skyrocketed. “I can’t believe it,” Logan says, shaking his head in disbelief. “That’s going to change everything.”

Mario nods, satisfaction evident in his expression. “It’s a big deal, no doubt about it. But we’ve still got work to do. We can’t get complacent, not with what’s at stake. But this … this is a big step in the right direction.”

Logan’s mind is already racing ahead, thinking about what this means for the team, for his own career. The idea of driving a car designed by Newey is almost surreal. “When are you going to announce it?”

“Not until everything’s signed and sealed,” Mario replies. “But once it’s done, we’ll make sure the whole world knows. And Williams … well, they’re in for a nasty surprise.”

Logan laughs, the sound coming out more exhilarated than he intended. The idea of one-upping Vowles, especially after everything that’s happened between them, is deeply satisfying. “I can’t wait to see the look on Vowles’ face when he finds out.”

Mario pats Logan on the shoulder, the gesture filled with a camaraderie that Logan has come to cherish. “Neither can I, kid. Neither can I.”

As they walk back towards the main part of the garage, Logan’s mind is still reeling from the news. He’s been focused on the present, on making sure he performs at his best every time he’s out on the track, but this … this opens up a whole new realm of possibilities. With Newey on board, there’s no telling what they can achieve.

When you spot him from across the garage, the look on his face must give away that something’s up because you immediately make your way over, your expression curious. “What’s going on?” You ask as soon as you’re close enough.

Logan glances around, making sure no one is within earshot, and then leans in, his voice low. “Mario just dropped a bombshell. Andretti’s about to sign Adrian Newey.”

Your eyes widen in shock, and Logan watches as a grin spreads across your face, mirroring his own excitement. “No way. That’s … huge!”

“I know,” Logan says, still barely able to believe it himself. “This changes everything.”

You reach out, placing a hand on his arm, your voice filled with pride. “You’re going to be driving a car designed by Newey. Do you realize how amazing that is?”

Logan nods, the reality of it finally sinking in. “Yeah, I do. It’s … I can’t even put it into words.”

You laugh, shaking your head in disbelief. “You don’t have to. I can see it on your face.”

For a moment, Logan just stands there, soaking it all in. The garage is still bustling around them, the team oblivious to the monumental news that’s just been dropped in their laps. But Logan knows that soon enough, everything is going to change. This is the kind of move that can define a career, that can take a team from being contenders to being champions.

But more than that, it’s a chance for redemption. A chance to prove to everyone — including himself — that he belongs here, that he’s capable of more than anyone ever gave him credit for. The past is behind him now, and with you by his side, and Newey in the garage, the future looks brighter than ever.

Logan glances over at you, seeing the pride and excitement in your eyes, and feels a surge of gratitude. For the second chance he’s been given, for the team that believes in him, and for you, the person who’s been there through it all.

“We’re going to do something amazing, you know that?” Logan says, his voice filled with conviction.

You nod, your smile soft but full of certainty. “I know. And I can’t wait to see it.”

Neither can Logan.

***

Logan’s heart is still pounding from the rush of the race as he stands on the podium, feeling the weight of the Miami sun on his shoulders. The crowd roars below him, a sea of red, white, and blue as far as the eye can see, their energy pulsing through his veins. He can hardly believe it. A podium at his home race, in front of a crowd that feels like family, is something he’d dreamed about since he was a kid.

He turns, looking out over the crowd, his eyes scanning for you. You’re there, as you always are, standing with the Andretti team, your smile brighter than the sun. The mechanics are cheering, patting each other on the back, but Logan only has eyes for you. It’s like everything else falls away — the noise, the cameras, the pressure of the season — all of it fades into the background. All that matters is the way you’re looking at him, like he’s your entire world.

He takes a deep breath, the realization of what he’s about to do washing over him. His hands shake, just slightly, as he reaches up and touches the chain around his neck, feeling the weight of the ring that’s been hidden there for weeks, waiting for this moment.

Without another thought, he drops to one knee, right there on the podium. The world seems to stop as he looks up at you, the crowd going silent in his mind. He hears the sharp intake of breath from the Andretti crew, sees the shock on your face as you register what’s happening.

“Hey,” he says, his voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through him. “I … I don’t know if I can put into words what you mean to me. You’ve been with me through everything — the wins, the losses, the crazy twists and turns. And I can’t imagine going through any of it without you by my side.” He pauses, the weight of the moment sinking in. “So I guess what I’m trying to say is … will you marry me?”

Your eyes widen, and for a second, you’re frozen in place, staring at him in disbelief. Then, as if breaking free from a spell, you laugh, a sound that’s pure joy, and nod vigorously. The next thing Logan knows, you’re being lifted onto the podium by the mechanics, tears of happiness streaming down your face as you launch yourself into his arms.

“Yes,” you say, your voice trembling with emotion. “Yes, of course, I will!”

The crowd erupts into cheers, the noise deafening as Logan slides the ring onto your finger. He pulls you close, his lips finding yours in a kiss that tastes like victory, love, and everything good in the world. The mechanics are going wild, chanting your names, and someone — Logan thinks it might be Mario — pops open a bottle of champagne, spraying it over everyone.

It’s chaotic, it’s perfect, and it’s a moment that Logan knows he’ll remember for the rest of his life. As he holds you close, feeling the warmth of your body against his, he realizes that this — right here, with you in his arms, and his home crowd cheering around him — is the true victory. The rest is just a bonus.

He pulls back slightly, just enough to look into your eyes. “You know,” he says, his voice low so only you can hear, “I always knew I was lucky. But this … this is something else entirely.”

You smile, the kind of smile that makes his heart skip a beat, and lean in to kiss him again. “We’re both lucky, Logan,” you whisper against his lips. “And this is just the beginning.”

***

The paddock is buzzing with activity, the hum of engines and the chatter of mechanics creating a familiar symphony that Logan finds oddly comforting. It’s the start of another race weekend, but this one feels different. There’s an undercurrent of excitement in the air, a mix of nerves and anticipation that has nothing to do with the cars or the track.

Logan slips away from the Andretti garage, his eyes scanning the bustling paddock as he makes his way toward the Williams garage. He’s done his best to stay clear of them ever since re-entering Formula 1, but today is different. Today, he has a reason to be there — a reason that brings a small, almost mischievous smile to his lips.

The Williams garage is a flurry of motion, mechanics and engineers huddled over laptops, surrounded by toolboxes and tires. The sight brings a wave of nostalgia crashing over Logan, but he quickly pushes it aside. He isn’t here for a trip down memory lane.

Spotting Alex Albon near the back, Logan weaves through the chaos, his steps light and easy despite the tension he can feel crawling up his spine. Alex is engrossed in a conversation with his race engineer, but when Logan steps up, he looks up in surprise.

“Logan!” Alex greets, his face splitting into a wide grin. “What are you doing here? Slumming it with the backmarkers?”

“Something like that,” Logan replies, his tone light as he pulls a small, cream-colored envelope from his jacket pocket. He hands it to Alex, who takes it with a curious tilt of his head. “Figured I should deliver this in person.”

Alex flips the envelope over, his eyes widening slightly as he reads the names printed in elegant script on the front — his and Lily’s. He breaks into a grin, already understanding what it is before he even opens it.

“No way,” Alex says, pulling out the invitation and quickly scanning the details. “You’re really doing it, huh? Getting hitched?”

Logan chuckles, feeling a warmth spread through his chest at the thought. “Yeah, we are. And we’d love for you and Lily to be there.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Alex replies, his grin softening into something more sincere. “Congrats, man. You two are great together.”

Logan nods, grateful for the genuine well-wishes. He’s about to say something else when a flicker of movement catches his eye. Glancing up, he sees James Vowles standing a few feet away, his expression unreadable as he watches the exchange between Logan and Alex.

For a brief moment, the past rushes back — the frustration, the disappointment, the sense of being discarded like a broken part. Logan feels a familiar pang of bitterness, but he quickly tamps it down. He isn’t that person anymore. He’s moved on, and he’s got better things — better people — in his life now.

Still, he can’t help himself.

He meets James’ gaze head-on, his smile shifting into something a bit more pointed, more deliberate. “Oh, James?” He says, his voice carrying just enough to be heard over the noise of the garage. “Seems like your invitation must’ve gotten lost in the mail. Real shame.”

James’ eyes narrow slightly, his jaw tightening, but he doesn’t respond. The tension between them is almost tangible, thickening the air around them. Logan holds his gaze for a moment longer, then shrugs exaggeratingly before turning his attention back to Alex.

“Anyway, hope to see you there,” Logan says, clapping Alex on the shoulder before stepping back. “Tell Lily we’re looking forward to it.”

“Will do,” Alex replies, still smiling but with a touch of unease as he glances between Logan and James.

Logan doesn’t linger. He turns on his heel and strides back through the garage, the small, satisfied grin still tugging at his lips. He can feel James’ eyes boring into his back, but he doesn’t care. Let him stew, Logan thinks. He’s got more important things on his mind.

As he exits the garage and steps back into the sun-drenched paddock, Logan takes a deep breath, feeling lighter, freer. The thought of the wedding, of you waiting for him back in the Andretti garage, fills him with a sense of contentment that he never thought he’d find in the world of Formula 1.

He spots you before you see him, standing with Mario and a few other Andretti team members, animatedly talking about something. Your laughter rings out over the noise of the paddock, and Logan feels his heart swell with affection.

It’s funny how things work out, he thinks. How life has a way of surprising you, of turning things around when you least expect it. He’s come a long way from that lost, angry kid who thought he’d never get a second chance. And now, here he is, standing on the cusp of a future that’s brighter than anything he could have imagined.

He picks up his pace, eager to get back to you, to tell you about the exchange with Alex and the little jab he couldn’t resist throwing at James. But as he draws closer, you turn and catch sight of him, your face lighting up in a way that makes his breath catch in his throat.

“Hey, you,” you call out, stepping away from the group to meet him halfway. “Did you get it done?”

Logan nods, a grin spreading across his face. “Yeah, I did. Alex and Lily are in.”

“And Vowles?” You ask, a knowing glint in your eyes.

Logan chuckles, slipping an arm around your waist as he leans in to press a quick kiss to your lips. “Let’s just say … he didn’t make the cut.”

You laugh, the sound pure and full of joy, and it’s the best thing Logan’s heard all day. “Good. You don’t need that kind of negativity at our wedding.”

“No, I don’t,” Logan agrees, feeling a rush of relief that you’re by his side, making even the most awkward encounters bearable. “And anyway, we’ve got more than enough people who actually care about us.”

You nod, your expression softening as you look up at him. “Yeah, we do. And I can’t wait to celebrate with them — with you.”

Logan feels a warmth spread through him, the same warmth he’s felt ever since the day he realized just how much you meant to him. It’s a feeling that never gets old, no matter how many podiums or victories he racks up. Because at the end of the day, it’s moments like this — simple, shared moments with you — that matter the most.

As the two of you head back toward the Andretti garage, Logan can’t help but think about how far he’s come. From the chaos of that first season in Formula 1, the heartbreak of being dropped, to the wild success of his time in IndyCar, and now, back in the sport he loves, with you by his side.

He knows there will be more challenges ahead — there always are in this world. But for now, he’s content to focus on the here and now, on the love he’s found and the life he’s building with you.

And as you walk together through the paddock, the sun casting long shadows on the ground, Logan can’t help but feel like the luckiest guy in the world. Not because of the cars, or the fame, or even the victories, but because of you — because you’re the one thing in his life that makes all the twists and turns worth it.

And he wouldn’t trade that for anything.

***

The roar of the crowd is deafening, a wall of sound that crashes against Logan as he stands on top of the podium. His hands grip the trophy tightly, the cold metal grounding him as the reality of it all sinks in. He’s done it. Logan Sargeant, the kid from Florida who almost lost everything, is now the World Drivers’ Champion.

The first American to do so since Mario Andretti himself.

He’s fought hard for this moment, clawed his way back from the brink of obscurity, and now here he is, at the pinnacle of motorsport. The champagne sprays around him, but all Logan can focus on is the sight of you, beaming up at him from the edge of the podium. You’re standing beside Mario, who’s wearing a grin as wide as Logan’s ever seen. You’re bouncing on the balls of your feet, hands clasped together, eyes sparkling with a mix of pride and joy.

He barely registers the other drivers beside him, the interviews, or the flashes of cameras. Everything narrows to you and the overwhelming sense of accomplishment swelling in his chest. You’ve been there through it all, from the moment he took that leap of faith into IndyCar, to the sleepless nights before his first season back in Formula 1. Every high and every low has led to this, and you’ve never wavered.

Logan can’t help the way his gaze shifts slightly to the left, where James Vowles stands at the edge of the crowd, arms crossed, lips pressed into a thin line. There’s a tightness to his expression, a bitterness that Logan recognizes all too well.

But as much as he’d love to revel in that small victory, he finds that he doesn’t care. Not really. The vindication is sweet, sure, but it pales in comparison to the sight of you and the emotions radiating from you like the warmest of suns.

You notice him looking at you, and you blow him a kiss, laughing when he pretends to catch it, holding it to his chest. There’s no place he’d rather be than right here, right now, with you by his side.

The ceremony starts to wrap up, and as the photographers move in closer for shots, Logan can see Mario nudging you forward. You’re waving your hands at your grandfather, as if to say no, you’re fine where you are, but Mario’s having none of it. The mechanics and team members part to let you through, and Logan watches with an ever-growing smile as you finally make your way up onto the podium.

When you reach him, Logan pulls you into his arms without hesitation, lifting you off your feet as the crowd goes wild. He spins you around, feeling the way you cling to him, your laughter ringing out in his ear.

“You did it,” you say when he finally sets you down, your voice thick with emotion.

“No,” Logan corrects, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “We did it.”

You roll your eyes playfully, but there’s no hiding the way your eyes glisten. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And you love me for it,” Logan teases, leaning in to press his forehead against yours.

“Yeah,” you whisper, “I really do.”

The moment is interrupted by Mario clearing his throat, and Logan turns to see him holding a bottle of champagne, a wicked glint in his eyes. “Now, are we celebrating or what?”

Logan laughs, grabbing the bottle and popping the cork, spraying the contents over you and Mario, who both shout in surprise. The rest of the team quickly follows suit, and soon, the podium is a chaotic mess of laughter, champagne, and pure, unfiltered joy.

As the celebrations continue around him, Logan takes a step back, watching the scene unfold. His heart swells with a sense of contentment he’s never felt before. He’s always been driven, always had his eyes set on the next goal, the next race, the next win. But standing here, with you by his side, he realizes that he’s found something even more important than all of that.

He’s found a home.

A family.

And he’s never letting go.

The night carries on in a blur of congratulatory hugs, media obligations, and team celebrations. But as the crowd starts to thin and the energy begins to mellow, Logan finds himself sitting on the edge of the podium, his legs dangling off the side. The cool night air brushes against his skin, the sounds of the city in the distance providing a soft backdrop to the dwindling celebrations.

You find him there, sitting in silence, and without a word, you join him. You lean into his side, and he wraps an arm around you, pulling you close.

“It’s still sinking in,” Logan admits after a while. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this feeling.”

You tilt your head up to look at him, your eyes filled with warmth. “You’ve earned it, Logan. Every single bit of it. Don’t ever doubt that.”

He nods, resting his chin on top of your head. “It just feels … surreal. Like I’m living in a dream.”

“Well, if this is a dream,” you say, a mischievous smile playing on your lips, “then it’s one I never want to wake up from.”

Logan chuckles softly, his heart swelling with affection. “You and me both.”

The two of you sit there in comfortable silence, watching as the final remnants of the celebration begin to fade. The stadium lights dim, and the night sky takes over, a blanket of stars twinkling above you. It’s peaceful, a stark contrast to the chaos of the day, and Logan can’t help but feel grateful for this quiet moment with you.

“I used to think winning was everything,” Logan says after a while, his voice barely above a whisper. “That nothing else mattered as long as I crossed the finish line first.”

“And now?” You ask, your tone gentle, inviting him to continue.

“Now I know that it’s not just about the win,” Logan replies, his gaze fixed on the horizon. “It’s about the journey. The people who stand by you, who lift you up when you’re down, who make the victories sweeter and the losses bearable. It’s about finding something worth fighting for, and never letting go of it.”

You smile, your fingers intertwining with his. “Sounds like you’ve learned a lot.”

Logan nods, turning his head to look at you. “I have. And it’s all because of you.”

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “I think you’re giving me too much credit.”

“Not at all,” Logan says, his voice firm. “You’ve been my rock, my anchor. I wouldn’t be here without you.”

You look at him, your eyes shining with unshed tears. “Logan …”

“I mean it,” he says, his voice gentle yet unwavering. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

You don’t respond with words; instead, you lean in, capturing his lips in a soft, lingering kiss. It’s a kiss filled with promises, with unspoken words, and with a love that has grown stronger with every challenge, every victory, every moment shared.

When you finally pull away, Logan rests his forehead against yours, his eyes closed, his heart full. “I love you,” he whispers, the words carrying the weight of all he feels.

“I love you too,” you reply, your voice just as soft, just as full of emotion.

The world fades away as the two of you sit there, wrapped up in each other. Logan knows that there will be more challenges ahead, more races to win, more obstacles to overcome. But as long as he has you by his side, he knows that he can face anything.

Because, in the end, it’s not just about the racing. It’s about the people who make it all worthwhile.

And for Logan Sargeant, that person is you.

As the night deepens and the city quiets, Logan realizes that this is just the beginning. The beginning of a new chapter, a new journey, with you right beside him. And whatever the future holds, he knows one thing for certain:

He’s exactly where he’s meant to be.

And with you, he’s already won.

the chokehold this 8 second clip has on me needs to be studied [ austrian gp 2022]

max is coming out of that debrief with blood on his hands dude

papaya rules... fuck ass team. imagine redbull was like energy drink rules. or ferrari was like horse rules

"Does it concern you that you may not race in Baku?"

"No, it doesn't matter. I've spoken to the stewards so many times by now and I still do not understand the rules. they never consistently penalise"

ELOEL, Kevin

🍁There’s a quiet strength in just existing. It’s easy to overlook, especially when everything feels awful, but simply getting through each day is a huge accomplishment. You might not always see it, but just by being here, you’re adding something uniquely important to the world. It’s not about doing something extraordinary or being the best; it’s about continuing on, even when things are tough. Your presence matters, and it has a positive impact in ways you might not notice, but others do. Give yourself credit for the small victories, the moments when you keep going despite it all. Those moments show just how strong you are, even if it doesn’t feel that way. Hang on to that thought, because it’s a truth worth holding onto as you face whatever comes your way.🍁

this was weirdly well timed????? thank you?????

Bonus sketch:

Sketches while relistening to tma with a friend lol

at this rate both ferrari's and red bull's strategy is just going to be "charles leclerc inshallah"

for the monaco gp next year instead of the regular commentators can we have like ten retired drivers on a yacht with copious amounts of alcohol instead? like imagine jenson feeding nico multiple rounds of tequila shots and convincing him to drop brocedes lore so fucking insane it makes lewis' spidey senses tingle live on air. meanwhile, seb is trying to stop kimi from falling off said yacht every five seconds and mahk webbah is trying to either rope everyone into karaoke or is gushing about his adoptive son oscar. david is calling every driver who fucks their car into a wall a cunt and mika is on facetime with his husband and sipping a mai-tai in the hot tub and a least one of them is puking off the side of the boat in the end

i love when i'm in the car at night and i look out the window and the moon is following me. it's so romantic. we've been doing this since i was a child