Chapter Text
The first time George Russell realized he despised Max Verstappen, it wasn’t after a wheel-to-wheel fight. It wasn’t even after a podium where Max smirked through the Dutch anthem and George had to force his jaw to unclench. The rivalry didn’t begin with fireworks. It started with something smaller, pettier—an offhand remark George Russell should have let roll off his back.
It was 2018 back in their Formula 2 overlap, a cramped media room, the kind where the folding chairs groaned and the microphones never quite picked up half the words. George was still shiny with the polish of a aspiring f1 junior driver, answering a question with measured poise. He believed in looking the part, in saying the right things. Sponsors liked composure.
Max Verstappen, half-listening with his elbows slouched on the table, muttered into the mic, “Do you rehearse that in the mirror, or does it come naturally?”
The room laughed.
George smiled through the sting, jaw locked. That was the first strike.
By 2022, Max was world champion. Red Bull’s golden boy. George was the newcomer at Mercedes, starched shirt and tight smile, trying to keep a legacy afloat while Lewis Hamilton fought tooth and nail beside him.
They orbited each other like twin storms.
Every time Max breezed through the paddock with that careless swagger, George felt his lungs tighten.
Every time Max dismissed a question with a shrug and a grin, George’s teeth ached from grinding.
Every time Max won, George thought: if the world were fair, that would be me.
Whenever George spoke in interviews—calm, deliberate, with the air of someone who thought carefully about how words landed—Max cut him down with careless bluntness.
“George, you’ve said patience is key for Mercedes to recover—” a journalist began.
“Patience doesn’t win races,” Max interrupted, leaning back in his chair.
Reporters laughed. Cameras flashed. George’s lips stretched into a smile that felt like glass about to shatter.
On track, the animosity was sharper.
Baku 2023, lap 14. George defended into Turn 3, his car practically skating on the inside line. Max lunged anyway, and their wheels kissed with a screech that made George’s heart lurch.
Max’s radio: “What an idiot.”
George’s radio: a tight, bitter laugh. “He left the position open.”
After the race, Max hunted him down. No cameras this time, just shadows in the narrow space between motorhomes.
“You’re lucky I didn’t put you in the wall,” Max said, eyes like stormclouds.
George didn’t flinch. “You tried.”
Max’s lips curved into something that wasn’t a smile. “Be careful, Russell”
George’s pulse thundered, but his face didn’t crack. “ You too, Verstappen. You’re not as untouchable as you think.”
Podium ceremonies turned into battlegrounds of silence.
Barcelona: George in P2, Max in P1. The Dutch anthem blared while George stared out at the crowd, refusing to look left. Max smirked like he knew. When the champagne sprayed, George aimed his bottle with surgical precision. It hit Max square in the chest.
Max raised a brow. Sprayed back. Harder.
The crowd loved it. The cameras loved it. George hated every second.
There were moments, fleeting and treacherous, when George caught himself admiring Max.
Like Monza, when Max’s car snapped loose through Ascari. Any mortal driver would have been in the barriers. But Max wrestled the Red Bull straight again, a brutal dance of instinct and defiance. George, following close behind, felt his stomach twist with something uncomfortably like awe.
He shouldn’t be able to do that.
The next lap, Max pulled away, and the feeling curdled back into hate.
Singapore brought another chapter. A long, sweaty press conference under harsh fluorescent lights.
“George, what did you learn fighting Max today?” a reporter asked.
George gave his diplomatic smile. “That strategy pays off, even if the result isn’t what you want.”
Max cut in, dry as sandpaper. “Or maybe that strategizing just made you slower.”
The room laughed. George’s chest burned.
“Better slow than reckless.” he shot back.
Las Vegas was the breaking point.
The strip lit up like daylight, neon bleeding across the tarmac. George lined up P3, Max P2. His blood buzzed with adrenaline. He saw a gap into Turn 1 and lunged.
Contact. Wheels scraping, sparks flying. The Mercedes jolted under his grip, but he held it. Max pulled ahead anyway.
Post-race, George was cornered before he reached the Mercedes garage. Max—sweat dripping, chest heaving—blocked his path.
“You don’t learn, do you?”
George’s control snapped. “Maybe I just don’t care about bowing to you.”
Max’s jaw ticked. He stepped closer, heat rolling off him.
George’s heart kicked hard against his ribs. He refused to back away.
For a breath, they stood like that—two storms ready to collide—before Max huffed a humorless laugh and brushed past.
George exhaled only when the footsteps faded.
By season’s end, the rivalry was legend.
Journalists framed it as the new cold war of Formula 1: Verstappen, reigning king of ruthlessness, and Russell, the polished knight with a hidden blade. Every glare across a press room, every clipped quote, every on-track scuffle was fuel.
And George told himself he hated Max Verstappen.
He told himself every time Max’s name was mentioned. Every time his face flashed on a screen. Every time their cars danced dangerously close at 300 kilometers an hour. Every overtake, a declaration of war. The paddock buzzed with it, cameras drinking in every glare and every word that dripped with venom towards him.