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cressidagrey · 15 days ago

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White Horse - Chapter 40: November 2024 - Part 3

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

Max Verstappen is a World Champion. Isabelle Leclerc is invisible.

She watched her family give up everything for Charles’ career—Arthur’s karting, their father’s savings, even her childhood horse. She understood. She never asked for more.

But Max does. He notices the things no one else does, listens when no one else will, and puts her first in ways she never imagined. With him, she isn’t an afterthought—she’s a choice. And for the first time, she realizes she doesn’t have to be invisible.

Warnings and Notes:

we have now moved on from Charles bashing to bashing his whole family, Discussions of toxic past relationships, talk about loosing a childhood pet, toxic families, mention of the loss of a parent.

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

Max hated leaving.

He always had, but this time felt heavier—closer to the skin. The last triple header of the season loomed in front of him like a mountain, and every part of him wanted to stay exactly where he was: barefoot in their kitchen, the scent of coffee in the air, Belle standing in front of him in one of his old shirts, her belly round and steady between them.

Their son. Almost here.

He rested both hands over the curve of her stomach, thumb brushing the soft cotton stretched over her bump.

"You've got to stay in there a few more weeks," he murmured, voice low. "None of this 'decide to arrive while Papa is in Quatar’ nonsense, okay? Papa needs to win a championship first."

Belle smirked. "You’re talking to her like he’s going to listen."

Max looked up. “He listens to you.”

“Exactly,” Belle said, arching a brow. “And I expect you to come home a four-time World Champion. I didn’t spend eight months building a human just for you to slack off now.”

He huffed a laugh and leaned in to press a kiss to her forehead, then another to her lips—slow and lingering, the kind of kiss that said everything he couldn’t always find the words for. His palm stayed splayed over her belly like it belonged there.

“Four-time World Champion,” he repeated softly. “And then I’m not leaving the house for a month.”

“You say that now,” she murmured, eyes warm. “But he’s going to arrive and you’ll be up at 4 a.m. Googling how to swaddle without making him look like a burrito.”

“I like burritos.”

Belle laughed. “Go win your title, Max.”

He stepped back reluctantly, grabbing his travel bag and checking his phone. Car waiting. The plane. The next race. All of it tugging him away from this quiet morning and the two people he loved most.

Max paused at the door, looked back one more time—Belle leaning in the doorway, barefoot and brave and beautiful, their son tucked safe inside her.

“Stay safe,” he said gently. “Both of you.”

“We’ll be waiting,” she answered, quieter this time.

Max nodded once, the lump in his throat forming fast. He gave her one last look.

“Four-time World Champion,” he said, with a little smile. Then, to her bump: “You better still be in there when I get back.”

And with that, he left. But not without looking over his shoulder. Twice.

***

Belle hadn’t realized how tightly she’d been holding herself together until she exhaled into hot mineral water and felt her shoulders actually drop.

The spa was carved into the hillside like a secret—stone pathways lined with lavender, gentle fountains burbling somewhere in the distance.

Victoria and Sophie were already stretched out in the pool beside her, their hair twisted into matching towel buns, sunglasses perched like crowns. Sophie had insisted on mocktails the moment they arrived, declaring, “You deserve more than sparkling water in a sad glass, Belle. This one has crushed basil. That’s luxury.”

Belle took a sip of hers—something minty and citrusy and faintly magical—and closed her eyes.

She could still feel Emilian shifting gently inside her, but even the baby seemed to understand the sacred stillness of the spa. No kicks. Just slow turns, like the belly equivalent of a lazy backstroke.

“I think I’ve melted,” Belle murmured.

“You’re allowed,” Victoria said, voice soft. “That’s the point.”

They’d booked the suite weeks ago, when Max confirmed he’d be gone for the final triple header. It had been Sophie’s idea—“You’re not staying home alone while eight months pregnant, Belle. I won’t allow it. I will physically abduct you if necessary.”—and Victoria had backed her up by booking a three-bedroom suite with a private plunge pool and an in-room massage therapist named Sandrine who apparently had magical elbows.

Now, Belle was reclining like a Roman goddess, belly buoyant in the water, and trying not to cry from the sheer relief of being surrounded by women who didn’t expect her to be anyone but herself.

“You feeling okay?” Sophie asked, watching her from over the rim of her cucumber-infused drink. “No twinges? No weird contractions we’re ignoring in the name of ambience?”

“No weird contractions,” Belle promised. “He’s just floating in there. Bossing me around telepathically.”

“He gets that from you,” Victoria muttered.

Belle snorted. “He gets the bossing around from Max. He gives very serious lectures to my belly every morning.”

“I’d pay to see that,” Sophie said. “Actually, I’d pay to record that and use it as blackmail.”

“He tells him to stay in until after Abu Dhabi,” Belle added, smiling softly. “Then he’s allowed to do whatever he wants.”

Victoria smirked. “Including arriving during a Red Bull debrief.”

Sophie waved a hand. “That’s what GP is for.”

They all laughed. It echoed lightly in the tiled dome above them, the kind of soft, echoing joy that Belle didn’t realize she’d been craving.

Later, there would be massages and almond croissants and an extended debate over which cream worked the best against stretchmarks. Victoria would read from a terrible smutty novel she insisted was “literary,” and Sophie would fall asleep mid-foot mask with a glass of elderflower cordial still in hand.

But for now, they just floated.

“I know I’ve said it,” Belle murmured, “but thank you. For this.”

Sophie opened one eye and gave her a look. “We’re your family. This is what we do.”

Victoria smiled without moving. “Besides, we get to say we were at the spa when the Verstappen baby was almost born.”

“Almost,” Belle warned. “He’s staying in until Max gets home.”

“We’ll keep him distracted,” Sophie said, reaching out to tap a finger against Belle’s belly. “Spa treatments for everyone. Even the baby.”

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Belle Verstappen

Max: How’s my girl?

Belle: Emilian is currently using my bladder as a trampoline. I sneezed earlier and almost cried. Also Victoria caught me trying to bend over to get my slippers and made a noise like I was committing a crime.

Max: That’s because you were You're not supposed to bend. You’re supposed to command slippers with authority now.

Belle: Okay, Your Highness. Next time I’ll summon them with a royal wave.

Max: Good. How are you though? Really.

Belle: Floating. Literally and emotionally. Spa is beautiful. Victoria is currently reading a murder mystery and muttering insults in Italian. I haven’t worn real pants in 48 hours. It’s heaven.

Max: Send photo?

Belle: [[Image: Belle’s legs floating in a mineral pool, a mocktail perched on the stone edge. Her bump just visible above the water. Caption: “Still inside. Still demanding snacks. No signs of racing out early.”]]

Max: ❤️ Stay that way. Both of you. And tell him I said no arriving until after Abu Dhabi.

Belle: He kicked when I read that. Unclear if agreement or rebellion.

Max: Rebellion = Leclerc blood Agreement = Verstappen discipline I’ll take either, as long as she stays in until I’m back.

Belle: You’re winning this weekend. I’ve decided. Spa goddess intuition.

Max: Your intuition is undefeated.

Belle: I know. Now go be brilliant. And please don’t swear at your engineer on live TV.

Max: No promises. Miss you.

Belle: Miss you more. We’ll be watching. Come home with a trophy.

Max: I’ll come home with a title and cookies for backup. Tell Emilian to behave for a few more days. Now go float. I love you.

Belle: I love you. Go be legendary.

***

Max had never been the kind of driver who got flustered before a race weekend.

Focused? Always.

Sharp-edged? Definitely.

But never flustered.

This weekend was different.

It wasn’t the circus that was Las Vegas—though that alone would’ve been enough to make him roll his eyes at the entire American side of the calendar. It wasn’t even the fact that he was closing in on his fourth world title. He’d done this before. The pressure didn’t scare him anymore.

The city didn’t know how to whisper—everything pulsed and shimmered and demanded attention. The lights buzzed, the fans roared, the schedule was relentless. And yet, somehow, the loudest thing in Max’s world was the near-constant silence of a phone that hadn’t buzzed.

He kept it in his pocket, always. Not even on the table during engineering meetings—in his hand. At media duties, it lived face-down in his lap. On the pit wall, it stayed tucked inside his fireproofs, just in case.

He’d checked it three times during breakfast, five times during the driver briefing, and once mid-interview when he thought he felt it vibrate—phantom text syndrome, Lando had called it, which was rich coming from someone who barely remembered to charge his phone.

Every time it vibrated, his heart jumped three steps ahead, even when it was just Victoria texting a picture of Belle half-submerged in a mineral pool, cheeks flushed with laughter and mocktails.

“She’s fine,” Victoria’s caption said. “Now focus on the stupid track, Verstappen.”

But he couldn’t not check.

Belle was in the Provence with his mother and sister, nestled somewhere in a spa that promised prenatal massages and absolute peace. She was thirty-six weeks and some change. And while the doctors had said everything looked good, and Belle had promised to call the second anything changed, Max felt permanently braced for the moment something did.

She texted him photos. Of her croissants. Her bump floating in a pool. A picture of his mother and sister arguing over who had better foot scrubs.

“Everything’s fine. Baby’s still baking.” “Go win your silly night race.” “Tell GP I said hi. Don’t crash.”

But Max read them like lifelines.

The garage felt distant this week, like he was operating just slightly outside of himself. His times were sharp. His runs, clean. He was doing everything right. But his head was somewhere else—always a beat behind, listening for a phone vibration he could feel before it even happened.

He’d looked at the nursery one more time before flying out—stood in the doorway, hand on the edge of the crib they built together, the swaddle Belle picked folded over the side.

His son was almost here.

He should be completely focused. It was the final sprint. One more race. His fourth title hung just within reach. But all he could think about was how Belle had looked when he left—barefoot, radiant, wrapped in a robe and holding her bump like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He hadn’t realized how much of his focus had shifted until they did the track walk and he found himself mentally calculating:

If something happened and Belle went into labor now, how fast could he get from Las Vegas to Monaco? Would Red Bull let him leave mid-weekend? Would Christian argue? Would he care?

He scrolled to the photo she’d sent that morning: Belle in oversized sunglasses, feet up, belly prominent, holding a drink with a tiny paper umbrella in it while Victoria glared at someone in the background. Sophie was half out of frame, laughing.

He stared at it longer than he’d admit.

“Still no update?” GP asked knowingly.

“She’s fine,” Max said, because he knew she was. Because Sophie was there. Victoria would start a fight with time itself if Belle so much as looked faint. Still—he glanced down again, thumbing the side of his phone.

“I just… I want to be there. When it happens.”

GP softened. “You will be.”

Max nodded and tried to turn his focus back to the car, the data, the track ahead.

***

Orange blossom diffused lazily through the air, mingling with the buttery remnants of pain au chocolat and lemon tarts, half-eaten and now going cold on a porcelain tray that leaned precariously on the edge of the coffee table. One flute of champagne sat abandoned. The others had long since been drained and refilled with sparkling water or nerves.

There were three sets of slippers lined up by the balcony door—white, soft, spa-issued, perfectly untouched. The kind of detail no one had the bandwidth to appreciate tonight. Not when the television glowed quietly in the corner. Not when the clock ticked past 2 a.m. local time. Not when this was happening.

And in the center of it all: one extremely pregnant woman curled on the couch, a pale blue throw blanket tucked under her belly, her spine bracketed protectively on either side by two women who had declared war on stress and were now losing valiantly to nerves.

The lights were low. The air hummed with tension. And on screen, Max Verstappen was about to win his fourth world title. By finishing fifth.

Sophie paced like a general. She had given up trying to pretend she could sit still somewhere around Lap 31, and now looped tight circuits around the coffee table, muttering things like “Why is Lando closing the gap again?” and “What kind of tire call was that?” and “If his pit stop cost him this, I swear to God I will hex the strategy team with rose quartz and bad espresso.”

Victoria, by contrast, hadn’t moved in twenty minutes. She sat on the far end of the couch, one knee pulled up to her chest, her face lit silver-blue by the TV screen, eyes narrowed like she could mentally will the race forward by sheer force of judgment.

And Belle? Belle was… calm.

Not the peaceful kind of calm. Not even the detached, dissociative kind that sometimes crept in after too little sleep and too much adrenaline. No—this was something deeper. Something stranger. A low, unshakable stillness in her chest.

It wasn’t that she wasn’t nervous. Her heart was beating too fast, her hands were clammy, and her back ached in a way that suggested Emilian was getting impatient with the current layout of her internal organs. But she wasn’t panicked.

Because deep down—somewhere between the part of her that had watched Max kiss her belly every morning before coffee and the part of her that had memorized every sector of every street circuit this year—she knew.

He’d done it. He was doing it.

Of course he was.

Max Verstappen didn’t always win with a photo finish.

Sometimes, he won by refusing to break. By being relentless. Strategic. Inevitable.

By finishing fifth while fending off Lando Norris with DRS flapping and brake temps flaring and still muttering about tire degradation like he wasn’t about to cross the line and make history.

“Do you think he knows yet?” Victoria asked suddenly, her voice hoarse.

She was still holding her mocktail like it might whisper answers if she stared hard enough.

“They’ll tell him the second he crosses the line,” Belle murmured. Her hand rested over her bump, fingers moving in slow circles. Emilian had been quiet for the last five minutes. Not asleep, not kicking.

Just still.

Like he, too, was listening.

On screen, the final lap ticked into being.

Max: P5.

Lando: P6, hovering.

The screen switched to onboard. Max’s gloves. The Red Bull logo. The lights of Vegas screaming past.

Then the radio crackled.

GP’s voice, low and steady, coming through the world feed: “That’s it, Max. You’ve done it. Four-time World Champion. Incredible job, mate.”

There was a beat of silence in the room.

Then Victoria made a small, broken sound. Not a sob. Just the kind of exhale you make when something inside you lets go at last.

Sophie sat down hard beside Belle, like her knees had buckled under the weight of hope.

And Belle?

Belle smiled.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t a cheer. She didn’t cry. She didn’t laugh. She just smiled—slow and quiet and full of something soft and infinite.

Because he had done it.

Not with a last-lap overtake or a dazzling sprint to the line, but with precision. With control. With that relentless, calculating precision that made him who he was. Her Max.

He’d crossed the line in fifth place—and secured a legacy.

And in a quiet suite in the south of France, Belle pressed her hand to her belly and whispered, “He did it.”

Emilian kicked once, sharp and certain. Like he agreed.

***

Max Verstappen had done a lot of things in a Formula 1 car. He’d made miracles look casual. He’d held off world champions and dissected entire races with tyre management alone. He’d carved out wins from chaos, won titles with dominance, and sometimes just brute-forced his way through every failure thrown at him.

He’d done it all. And now— Four.

Four world championships. Four in a row. He should’ve felt… something explosive.

But crossing the line that night, lights flashing over the Vegas strip, the chequered flag waving as the car hummed beneath him like it knew—it didn’t hit like a firework. It didn’t even hit like champagne.

It hit quiet. Heavy. Like gravity realigning.

They were yelling in the garage. He could see Christian halfway up the pit wall, someone throwing a headset in the air, mechanics hugging each other with wide, sweaty grins. But in Max’s ears, it was just one voice.

“That’s it, Max. You’ve done it. Four-time World Champion. Incredible job, mate. That was a hell of a drive. Congratulations, mate.”

GP’s voice was calm, like always. Solid. The sound of home when everything else was noise.

Max exhaled, his gloved hands loose on the wheel. He swallowed hard, and smiled. “Thanks, GP,” he said, and meant it. “We did it again.”

But there was more. Something that had been sitting in his chest all weekend.

He was about to become a father. Not eventually. Not one day. Soon. The suitcase was already packed. Belle had written out a “call if contractions start” list and slipped it into his race bag like it was just another tyre compound.

So he said it. Lightly. Casually. But meaning every word.

“Also—now that you’ve seen me win four of these things—you wanna be the baby’s godfather?”

There was silence.

Then the unmistakable choke of someone next to GP losing a battle with their energy drink.

“…What?”

Max grinned, still guiding the car through the circuit’s winding cooldown path like he hadn’t just lobbed a life-altering question into the comms. “You heard me. You’ve been there for everything. Belle and I talked about it. We want it to be you. If you want it.”

More silence.

Max imagined GP blinking behind the mic. Adjusting the headset like he always did when he didn’t know what to say. He waited.

“You okay?” Max asked, teasing. “You’re being awfully quiet for a guy who yells at me every other weekend.”

“I—” A pause. Then, GP’s voice, low and rough: “Are you asking me this on a cooldown lap, Max?”

Max laughed under his breath. “Yeah. Because I figured you’d be too emotional to say no.”

“I’m not emotional.” Another pause. “I’m stunned. That’s different.”

Max smiled again—smaller, this time. Softer. The kind of smile he only gave to the people who really knew him.

“So? Will you?”

He could hear the breath GP took before answering. Could picture him sitting in the chaos of the pit wall, surrounded by celebration and disbelief, trying to gather the words.

And then: “Yeah. Yeah, of course I will.”

There it was.

Max’s chest tightened. Not the adrenaline kind. Not the race high. Something else. Older. Deeper.

“Thanks,” he said. Quietly. No jokes. No smile. Just that.

Because GP had been there when Max was just the sharp-edged teenager with too much talent and not enough patience.

He’d been there for every win, every meltdown, every comeback.

And now he was going to be there for this.

***

Gianpiero Lambiase had been on the pit wall for hundreds of races.

He’d coached rookies and champions. He’d called strategy in the rain at Suzuka, through chaos in Monaco, across engine failures, red flags, and desperate last-lap passes. He’d kept his voice steady through everything from Max Verstappen’s first win to his third world title.

And now—his fourth.

Four. Consecutive. Titles.

GP let out a slow breath as Max crossed the line, the chequered flag falling in a glittering confetti storm of Las Vegas lights. The garage around him erupted — engineers shouting, hugging, slapping each other on the back. Christian was already halfway over the pit wall. Helmut looked smug. Even the normally stoic mechanics were laughing.

And GP… just smiled.

“That’s it, Max. You’ve done it. Four-time World Champion. Incredible job, mate.” His voice came out calm, even as the emotion tightened his throat. “That was a hell of a drive. Congratulations, mate.”

There was static.

Then: “Thanks, GP,” Max’s voice came in, light with disbelief, as though he couldn’t quite process it yet either. “We did it again.”

GP nodded silently, watching the live feed flicker across the screens.

Then Max added, utterly deadpan:

“Also — now that you’ve seen me win four of these things — you wanna be the baby’s godfather?”

GP blinked.

The engineer next to him choked on his energy drink.

“…What?”

“You heard me,” Max said, still cruising around the lap like they were discussing tyre deg. “You’ve been here for every big moment of my career. Belle and I talked about it. It’s you. If you want it.”

GP opened his mouth. No words came out.

“You okay?” Max teased. “You’re being awfully quiet for a guy who yells at me every other weekend.”

“I—” GP cleared his throat. “Are you asking me this on a cooldown lap, Max?”

“Yeah, because I figured you’d be too emotional to say no.”

“I’m not emotional,” GP muttered, adjusting his headset even though it didn’t need adjusting. “I’m stunned. That’s different.”

There was a pause.

Then Max, softly: “So? Will you?”

And that—damn it—did get him.

Because this was the kid who used to barrel into corners with no patience and all instinct. The kid who’d grown up in the garage, not asking for anything, not expecting much except results. And now he was asking GP to be part of his family.

“Yeah,” GP said, finally. Quiet, but firm. “Yeah, of course I will.”

There was a pause. And then—

“Thanks.”

Not “cool.” Not “nice.” Not “cheers.”

Just thanks — heavy with everything Max hadn’t said.

GP looked up at the celebration around him — the champagne, the chaos, the confetti cannons waiting for the podium — and somehow, that quiet thanks meant more than all of it.

He leaned back again, a hand over his face, grinning like an idiot.

And GP sat there, surrounded by champagne, smoke, and celebration, heart hammering in his chest — thinking, bloody hell, I’m going to be a godfather.

To Max Verstappen’s kid.

He’d just won his fourth championship.

And somehow, this — this — felt like the moment that mattered most.

***

Meanwhile on Twitter:

@/f1teaofficial: Max Verstappen winning his 4th world title and then casually asking GP to be his baby’s godfather on the cooldown lap is the most emotionally deranged and deeply Verstappen thing I’ve ever witnessed.

@/helmutsshrink: GP being so calm through four world titles only to get emotionally wrecked by Max asking him to be the godfather DURING A RACE COOLDOWN is absolutely cinema.

@/softverstappen: This is your reminder that Max Verstappen: – is a 4x world champion – just revealed his baby’s godfather is Gianpiero Lambiase – did so while still in the car – and probably planned it like that Chaos. Absolute chaos.

@/gridgossipqueen: GP has survived radio arguments, rain in Suzuka, and Max saying “leave me alone I know what I’m doing.” But the second Max said “We want it to be you”… That man folded.

@/Maxsdiary: I can’t stop thinking about little baby Verstappen growing up and hearing how Uncle GP found out he was the godfather WHILE MAX WAS STILL IN THE CAR Like??? “You were still sweaty when you asked him??” “Yes, son.”

@/teamverstappen: Max asking GP to be the godfather mid-race is giving: “I’ve just done the impossible. I am now emotionally vulnerable. Here’s a life-defining request.” And honestly? Iconic.

@/wagsupreme: Belle Verstappen and Max really said: “Our baby deserves the most detail-obsessed race engineer in the paddock as a godfather.” And they were RIGHT

@/champagneandsetupnotes: Everyone: Max has no emotions Max: asks his engineer to be his child’s godfather mid-cooldown GP: breaks Me: sobbing into my spreadsheets

@/mclagirls: Okay but when GP said “Yeah, of course I will,” And Max just said “Thanks.” Not “cool,” not “nice,” just thanks. You could hear the meaning in that. I’m gonna cry again.

@/driveitlikemax: This man just won his fourth world title and the thing that mattered most to him was making sure his race engineer knew he was family. That’s the legacy.

@/chaosinthepaddock: MAX VERSTAPPEN ASKED GP TO BE HIS BABY’S GODFATHER ON THE COOLDOWN LAP

@/softverstappen: max asking GP to be the godfather of his child after winning the championship is the most Verstappen thing ever no dramatic gesture, just: “you’ve been here for everything. it’s you.” I’m going to chew drywall.

@/teambelle: belle letting max choose gp as the godfather = woman of taste max asking him ON THE LAP HE BECAME A FOUR TIME WORLD CHAMPION = a man feral with love

@/tifosigossip: Can we talk about the fact that GP CHOKED and Max just kept DRIVING like “this is a normal time to discuss baptism roles”? Cool. Normal. Totally fine.

@/godfathergate2024: MAX: “You’ve seen every big moment of my career.” ME: 🥹🥹🥹 Him recognizing that GP isn’t just his engineer, he’s family. This is why I stay up at 3am watching cars go vroom.

@/drive2survivebabe: Netflix better include the cooldown lap audio in full or I will storm the editing room. I want the choked silence I want the awkward coughs I want the “you’re awfully quiet for someone who yells at me every weekend” line unedited.

@/f1chaoscentral: max verstappen asking gp to be his baby’s godfather on the cooldown lap IS THIS A SOAP OPERA?? I THOUGHT WE WERE RACING CARS???

@/pitwallpoetry: GP: “Four-time world champion.” Max: “Thanks. Also, want to be my kid’s godfather?” This is the most Verstappen thing he’s ever done. Chaos and emotion. At 300 km/h.

@/softforgp: GP adjusting his headset trying not to cry while max casually makes him part of the verstappen family… I’m gonna need 7-10 business days to recover

@/redbullf1fanatic: Max: “You’ve been there for everything. It’s you, if you want it.” GP: goes completely silent on radio for the first time in his life 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

@/wagsandwinners: Some people scream on cooldown laps. Some people sob. Max Verstappen casually reassigns lifelong emotional roles. Belle really married a dramatic romantic and hid it from us for months.

@/teamverstappenhq: Belle and Max picking GP as godfather?? That’s the real championship-level decision-making. No notes. No debates.

@/f1writersroom: There’s no way to top this. You cannot script it better: Cool down lap. Fourth title. And then: “You wanna be my kid’s godfather?” It’s Shakespeare. With telemetry.

@/f1withfeelings: MAX VERSTAPPEN JUST ASKED GP TO BE HIS BABY’S GODFATHER ON THE COOLDOWN LAP WHAT IS THIS? A NICOLAS SPARKS PITWALL EDITION???

@/wagsupreme Belle and Max choosing GP as their baby’s godfather?? Suddenly everything makes sense. The man has co-parented that car since 2016. This is the final evolution.

@/helmetandheart: Everyone talks about Max and GP fighting like an old married couple but NOW THEY’RE ACTUALLY IN-LAWS BY CHOICE?? I need to lie down.

@/softverstappen: It’s not just that he asked. It’s that he said “Thanks” So simple. So soft. So full of everything Max Verstappen can’t say but means with his whole chest.

@/formulafangirlxx: GP’s gonna show up to the christening in a headset and say “Box, box for baptism.” And I will cry. Again.

@/racehubupdates: Christian Horner: prepping for media interviews Meanwhile Max, over team radio: “Hey GP, you wanna be the godfather of my unborn child?” This team is unhinged and I’m obsessed.

@/f1romanticsanon: The fact that Max chose the one person who’s been in his ear for every high and low to be part of his actual family is maybe the sweetest thing he’s ever done. And he did it ON THE RADIO.

***

Max Verstappen became a four-time World Champion in a blaze of neon and champagne.

Vegas had thrown everything at him—chaotic qualifying, a late safety car, street circuit unpredictability—but he’d still crossed the line first. Fists in the air. Voice cracking on the radio. “That one was for them. For her.”

The moment he stepped out of the car, Red Bull swarmed him. His crew. GP. Christian. There was confetti in his hair before he even took off his helmet. Someone handed him a special edition bottle of sparkling wine with a custom gold label. He didn’t even look at it before taking a swig.

That was drink number one.

By the time he got to the press pen, he was on drink number three.

And oh, he was glowing.

Camera flashes. Microphones. Shouts in five languages. But Max just smiled that dizzy, open smile of a man who had everything.

***

Interviewer: “Max, four-time World Champion. How does it feel?”

Max: “It feels…” (paused. Thought about it. Then smiled again, slower this time.) “Like I want to go home.”

Interviewer: (blinks) “Home?”

Max: “To her.” (gestures vaguely) “To Belle. My wife. She’s at a spa with my sister and my mum. 8 months pregnant. She's probably eating a croissant and bossing everyone around, and I just want to curl around her like a cat.”

***

Interviewer: “Max, congratulations—what’s the first thing you’re going to do when you get home?”

Max: (blinking slowly) “Smell Belle’s hair.”

Interviewer: (pause) “...Sorry?”

Max: “You know when someone smells like home? Like safety? Like…” (waves hand vaguely) “…cookies and lemon shampoo and everything you’ve ever loved? That’s Belle. I miss her.

***

Interviewer: "Max, four-time World Champion. Las Vegas. How are you feeling?"

Max: (blinking slowly) "I feel... very sparkly."

Interviewer: (grinning) "Sparkly?"

Max: "Yeah. It's the lights. And the champagne. And my wife is the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen and she's carrying my actual child right now, so. Sparkly."

Interviewer: "...right. How much champagne have you had?"

Max: (completely sincere) "Not enough to forget how lucky I am."

***

Interviewer: “Max, does this fourth title feel different than the others?”

Max: “Yeah. Because this one ends with a baby. Like a literal, actual baby.”

Max: (earnest now) “ I did this for her. For Belle. For our son. For… whatever part of me that gets soft when she puts my hand on her belly and says, He kicked when you overtook Charles.’”

***

Interviewer: "Max, this season had ups and downs—"

Max: "Belle was the best part. She always is."

Interviewer: "Of… the season?"

Max: "Of everything.

***

Interviewer: “Max, how special is this title compared to the others?”

Max: (nods) “They’re all special. But this one…” (places a hand dramatically over his heart) “This one’s for my family.”

Interviewer: “Your family?”

Max: “My wife. And our baby. He’s still inside. Which is very good. Because I told him to wait.” (looks into the camera like it was personal) “You better be listening, kleine man. Papa’s coming home.”

***

Interviewer: “Max, were you worried about being so far from your wife during the race?”

Max: (dreamily) “She sent me a photo this morning. Her ankles were in a pool. She looked like a pregnant goddess.”

(Max’s PR Handler coughs. Max ignores them.)

Max: “And you know, you win races, you win titles, but nothing compares to watching Belle talk to our baby like she already knows who she is. She’s going to be—” (chokes up a little) “—she’s going to be the best mother. I’d give up all of this for them. Every podium. Every win.”

(The PR handler gently tugged his sleeve. “Max, we have… other interviews.”)

Max: “They can wait!” (a little too loudly) “Let me talk about my wife!”

***

Interviewer: Max, congratulations. How are you going to celebrate tonight?

Max: “I mean, yeah, I’ll show up. Probably dance. Maybe fall into a fountain. Honestly? I want to go back to my hotel, call Belle, and listen to her talk about the baby kicking for an hour. What I really want to do is get on a plane. Fly home. And lie very still with my head on Belle’s stomach. Just… Wait for the baby to kick. Maybe cry a little.”

Interviewer: “Okay, well… thank you, Max. Congratulations. Truly.”

Max: (smiles. A little dazed. A lot drunk. But golden with love.) “Thanks. She’s gonna be so proud.”

***

Later, when PR finally drags him off the stage and shoves a bottle of water into his hand, Max just slumps into a chair, phone already in his hand.

No texts yet. No calls. But he knows Belle saw it. Knows she watched him win from that quiet hotel in the Provence, her hand on her belly, a small smile on her face as he stood on top of the world—again.

Max (softly, to himself): “Four-time world champion. Husband. Dad. Not bad, huh?”

Then, into the phone, a voice note: “We did it, schatje.”

***

Meanwhile on Twitter:

@/formula1wifeenergy: Max Verstappen: four-time world champion, completely drunk, deeply obsessed with his wife, and just casually announces his unborn child is a boy

@/paddockteaspiller: BREAKING: Max Verstappen is absolutely sloshed and waxing poetic about his pregnant wife. “She smells like cookies and lemon shampoo and everything you’ve ever loved.” Sir. This is an FIA press conference.

@/wheresthedrama: So to recap: — Max Verstappen wins his 4th title — Gets steadily drunk — Talks about his wife like she’s a Disney princess he’s under a spell for — Accidentally drops that they are having a son? — Smells her hair for emotional support 2023 who??

@/softformulaboys: Max saying he did it all for her (Belle) and him (the baby) and “whatever part of me that gets soft when she says ‘she kicked when you overtook Charles’” 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

@/driverswhocry: I want someone to love me like Max Verstappen loves Belle. Drunk. Public. Fearless. Emotional. In front of journalists. At the top of the sport. An icon.

@/lanxietycentral: Somewhere in France, Belle just watched Max declare his love to 48 million people while drunk and emotional. I hope she turned to Sophie and said “He better still be crying when he gets home.”

@/formulaheartbreaks: Genuinely insane that the first time we find out Max and Belle are having a boy is during his post-title bender. The man managed to keep his marriage a keep a secret but hand him one champagne flute and he spills everything.

@/f1chronic: MAX VERSTAPPEN GETTING PROGRESSIVELY DRUNKER AND MORE EMOTIONALLY COMPROMISED IN EVERY INTERVIEW IS THE BEST THING THAT’S EVER HAPPENED TO ME

@/drunkgp: Max: “I did this for Belle. And for our son.” Me: screaming Me again: rewinding

@/emotionalpitstop: No press release. No Instagram post. Just Max Verstappen, 3 drinks deep, saying “I did this for Belle and our son” like it’s not a complete bombshell

@/podiumwives: Belle said “I’m staying at a spa in the Provence” Max said “I’m dedicating my fourth world championship to her and our unborn child and also waxing poetic about her lemon shampoo” Peak husband energy

@/whiteflagfeelings: say what you want but a man who wins a fourth championship and then immediately starts crying about his wife and his unborn son? that’s history right there.

@/f1cringeandchaos: MAX VERSTAPPEN WINNING HIS 4TH TITLE AND IMMEDIATELY GETTING DRUNK AND GUSHING ABOUT HIS WIFE AND BABY?? IN THIS ECONOMY?? MY EMOTIONS ARE NOT EQUIPPED FOR THIS.

@/wheelsonfirepod: people came to vegas expecting chaos instead max verstappen said “i love my wife” and “her hair smells like safety” and accidentally revealed the baby is a boy. thank you and goodnight.

@/bellesburner123: the fact that belle let him out in public unsupervised and he immediately started confessing his love like he was the lead in a fanfic iconic. queen behavior. let him unravel.

@/paddocktea: this man has four world titles and one functioning brain cell and it belongs to belle. he can win a street race in vegas but can’t keep his unborn child’s gender a secret after three beers.

@/f1teaofficial: MAX VERSTAPPEN DRUNK ON CHAMPAGNE TALKING ABOUT BELLE SMELLING LIKE COOKIES AND LEMON SHAMPOO??? sir go lie down you are in LOVE

@/raceweekromantics: the most shocking thing to come out of this post-race press tour is not that max verstappen is hammered it’s that he casually revealed THEY’RE HAVING A SON????

@/chaoticgrid: Me: oh wow Max really loves his wife Max: “This one ends with a baby. Like a literal, actual baby.” Max: “For Belle. For our son.” Me: SCREAMING

@/dramaf1daily: Breaking: Max Verstappen confirms his 4th World Title, a son, and a severe case of wife guy disease in the span of 45 minutes.

@/landoisstilllaughing: lando wheezing in the background while max said “this one ends with a baby” is Oscar-worthy content.

@/formulawivesclub: Max Verstappen, four-time world champion, absolutely sloshed, rambling about Belle smelling like lemon shampoo and home, and accidentally revealing they’re having a son—this is the content I live for.

@/champagneandchaos: If you’d told me in 2019 that Max Verstappen would be four-time world champion, stupid in love with his wife, and weeping on stage about his unborn son I would’ve blocked you.

***

Group Chat: HELP ME

(Members: Daniel Ricciardo, Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Lewis Hamilton, Carlos Sainz Jr., George Russell, Alex Albon, Nico Hülkenberg, Nico Rosberg, Sebastian Vettel, Mark Webber, David Coulthard, Sergio Pérez, Fernando Alonso, Kimi Räikkönen, Zhou Guanyu, Logan Sargeant, Esteban Ocon, Lance Stroll, Valtteri Bottas, Pierre Gasly and Yuki Tsunoda)

Daniel: LADS. IS MAX OKAY??? He just said he wants to curl around Belle like a cat ON LIVE TV 😭😭😭😭😭

Lando: HE SAID SHE SMELLS LIKE COOKIES AND LEMON SHAMPOO I CAN’T BREATHE HE’S SO GONE

Oscar: I stopped keeping count after drink number four

George: Did he just say “kleine man, Papa’s coming home” INTO THE CAMERA??? I’m actually crying??

Carlos He looked straight down the lens like he was sending a transmission from space Someone take the mic

Fernando: He’s drunk in love. And also just drunk.

Sebastian: Let him talk about his wife 😭

Nico R.: Let him give a TED talk about his wife I’d subscribe

Lewis: I love how he’s saying “I’d give up every podium for them” while holding a fourth world title This man is so far gone he’s orbiting

Yuki: I would like someone to love me the way Max loves Belle

David: He said “she’s going to be the best mother” And then CHOKED UP ON CAMERA

Pierre: I’m sorry but “sparkly”??? He called himself sparkly????

Zhou: He said she looked like a pregnant goddess in a pool This is fanfiction We are living inside a Verstappen fanfic arc

Checo: I was right there. He refused to move on from talking about Belle

Esteban: Who let him drink before the media pen Who thought that was a good idea

Lance: It’s honestly inspiring He’s holding a championship trophy in one hand and simping with the other

Logan: Is this normal? Should we be worried? Or like… warmed?

Nico H.: Max Verstappen’s Roman Empire is Belle He talks like he built a shrine to her out of carbon fibre and GoPro parts

Oscar: Pretty sure he has Belle’s shrine is probably next to the sim rig

George: PR handler: “Max, we need to go” Max: “Let me talk about my wife!” Iconic.

Daniel: I’m making t-shirts. Front: “Four-time World Champion” Back: “Let me talk about my wife!”

Lewis: I’d buy ten.

Sebastian: Same.

Fernando: Put me down for three. One for each ex.

Lando: He hasn’t even gotten to the party yet If he makes a toast it’s going to end in tears and an ultrasound pic

Carlo: What are the odds he tries to FaceTime Belle?

Checo: He already did.

Oscar: We joke but honestly? He won.

***

Belle was lying on her side in bed, wrapped in a hotel bathrobe and about six pillows, when Sophie burst into the suite’s bedroom, mocktail in one hand and phone in the other.

“He said it’s a boy on live television,” Sophie announced, sounding half-offended and half-delighted. “While holding a bottle of champagne and absolutely sloshed.”

Belle blinked. “What?”

Victoria appeared a second later, much calmer but with that same glint in her eye. “Your husband is drunk and loose-lipped and has just told the entire world that your baby is, in fact, a boy.”

Belle sat up, slow and careful, clutching her bump like it might need shielding from the sheer volume of Sophie’s glee. “You’re joking.”

Sophie shoved the phone into her hand. “Watch.”

Belle did.

It was a replay of a podium interview—Max still in his fireproofs, hair damp, cheeks pink with champagne and adrenaline and way too much love. He was holding the mic and talking about Belle like she had invented victory, casually saying “ I did this for her. For Belle. For our son. For… whatever part of me that gets soft when she puts my hand on her belly and says, He kicked when you overtook Charles.’”

Belle stared at the screen. Then blinked. Then started laughing.

She laughed so hard she had to grab the nearest pillow and wedge it under her belly for support. Tears sprang to her eyes, and she didn’t even try to stop them.

“Oh my God,” she gasped between snorts. “He outed the gender—while drunk—in front of millions of people.”

Victoria raised a brow. “To be fair, it’s very on-brand.”

Belle wheezed. “I leave the man alone for one race weekend and he emotionally unravels and tells the world about our unborn son. What’s he going to do at the christening? Announce our WiFi password?”

Sophie grinned. “To be fair, if you weren’t ready for chaos, you shouldn’t have married Max Verstappen.”

Belle wiped her eyes, still laughing. “Oh, I was ready. I just didn’t expect this level of soft chaos. He’s supposed to be the menace of the grid, not the guy who cries and tells the world we are having a boy mid-champagne shower.”

Victoria leaned down and kissed her temple. “Welcome to legacy-building, darling. One emotional Verstappen at a time.”

Belle just smiled, still breathless, still delighted.

“He’s such an idiot,” she murmured fondly. “But he’s my idiot. And now the entire world knows we’re having a boy.”

Emilian gave a small kick, like he agreed.

“Good timing,” Belle whispered, hand on her bump. “Your dad’s just won the world. Again. Guess it’s your turn next.”

***

Instagram Post: @/belleverstappen

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