“You added two new sponsorships this year, right?”
“What?” Max’s response is slightly muffled around his mouthful of toast.
“I said, you signed two new sponsors this year, right?” Lewis repeats as he enters the kitchen, crossing his arms and leaning against the doorframe.
“Why?” He straightens up from where he was rummaging in a lower cupboard and looks at Lewis across the kitchen island.
“Just trying to remember.”
“Yes.”
“And your contract was still the highest the team’s ever paid out to a driver, no?”
“Yes.”
“So what you’re saying is, you have money.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Max asks, perplexed. “Are we redoing the budgeting again? And also, where did you put the new coffee from that gift basket? I can’t find it anywhere.”
“No, I’m just confirming that you do indeed have cash on hand.”
“Yes, it was a good year.” Max says absentmindedly. “Why?”
“So could you put some of that money to use and buy yourself your own hoodie?”
Max looks down at the oversized Gucci sweatshirt he’s wearing. “Oh come on,” he says sheepishly. “The house was freezing this morning. I just grabbed the first thing I saw in the closet.”
“Well, could you consider warming yourself up in my non-designer clothing when you decide to go on a cooking spree?”
Max brushes hastily at the streaks of flour and spots of oil down his front. The motion smears one of the spots into a bigger greasy blotch. “In my defense, I forgot that vegan bacon still pops when it fries. And you don’t own any non-designer clothing.”
Lewis’s lips twitch, but he schools his face back into an archly annoyed expression. “We have to pack up in twenty minutes, on the road in thirty.” He pushes himself off the doorframe with a shoulder, picks up a slice of the vegan bacon off the serving plate on the island, and takes a dainty bite. “And you’re expected in team kit, so we can drop that off for dry cleaning on the way.” He turns and strides out of the kitchen, crunching on the bacon slice.
Max huffs in protest for his own benefit, but wets a corner of a clean dish towel in the sink and begins dabbing again at the spots. These last few years, he tends to spend the whole winter break diving into spontaneous fits of domesticity – cooking breakfast from scratch, moving planter pots around in Lewis’s garden, insisting on fixing the cars or a leaky sink without calling in any professionals – all the things he’s not able to do when he’s only got thirty-six hours at home, brain strung out on telemetry data and livestream obligations, before he’s packing to leave again. This means he’s woefully out of practice at cooking without making a complete mess of the kitchen, but he’ll consider Lewis approving of his home-cured coconut bacon a victory.
---
“Why did we agree to this exactly, again?” Max asks for what he knows is the fourth time this week. He’s just scrolled through the run of show on his phone, reading it out to Lewis, the suggested b-roll footage the team wants to take, and he’s feeling preemptively weary.
“That’s the fourth time you’ve asked that this week,” Lewis chides. Well, it was worth a shot. “Your boss, your team, man.”
Max looks away from the window and inward to Lewis in the driver’s seat. He is always looking to Lewis, to observe him, to check in with him, to pick up on what he’s saying without saying it. Lewis keeps his eyes on the road, but Max is attuned enough to his mannerisms, now, that he notices the grip, imperceptibly tighter than usual on the steering wheel of the Benz, the subtle clench in his jaw, and the faint definition of the vein in his left temple.
Max shouldn’t push it anymore. He’s mostly complaining to dispel his own anxiety. Anxiety is something he’s never really let bother him, and at this stage in his life it’s an almost entirely alien and unwelcome experience, given his unassailable position within Red Bull, the trophies in his cabinet, his status on the grid, and his airtight personal circle. It was ultimately his call to agree to the interview, after all, a rare favor the team asked of him and a favor he had turned around and asked of Lewis. In any case, pulling out at this stage would just set them back to square one on the marketing team’s request for something, anything, please, Max, to throw the fans about your mysterious private life, and he doesn’t want to know what stupid thing they might cook up as an alternative.
“The first question you don’t like, we’re out of there.” Max says quietly. He’s said that multiple times this week already too, trying to reassure himself of that as much as Lewis. They’ve certainly earned it, the ability to dictate their own terms. And the team had promised, when faced with Max in his unofficial role as protector of Lewis’s interests.
Lewis still keeps his eyes on the road, covers for it with a silky smooth but unnecessary merge into the center lane. But he nods, and reaches over for Max’s hand. Max squeezes back hard, trying to press a message into Lewis’s fingers, and only releases when he’s satisfied Lewis has gotten it.
They lapse back into a comfortable silence. After a few minutes, Lewis muses quietly, with a sneaky glance into the rearview mirror for the benefit of their passengers: “What do you think of pizza for lunch if we get through this, hm?”
“Yes!” The two voices in the backseat chorus in unison.
“Ah, so, they were listening,” Lewis says with a chuckle. “Little pitchers, big ears.”
Max has no idea what that means but mentally files it away to look up later, as he is accustomed to doing with Lewis’s more advanced-level Britishisms. For someone who constantly expresses awe toward Max for speaking multiple languages fluently, Lewis still manages to keep Max on his toes with just Lewis-English: the southern British accent, the heavy layer of American slang and consonants, the recent development of occasional lapses into confused hybrid Dutch-English grammar, and an endless catalog of wordless noises and emotive facial expressions. He especially doesn’t mind keeping track of the last part – he could look at Lewis forever, he thinks.
---
“You smell ever so slightly of bacon,” Christian says as he pulls away from their hug, slapping him on the back. “Cheat day? Woke up somewhere else?”
“There’s vegan bacon,” Max says mildly. There was a time he would have bristled at the remark, but the state of heightened alert that used to flare up and take over his brain for the first couple of years of his relationship have faded, and now he can remind himself that Christian made that sort of joke constantly even when Max only dated women.
“Ah well, then, will wonders never cease,” Christian says, putting his hands on his hips. He’s still smiling genially but he’s looking down at the floor – the signal that he’s out of other things to say on that particular topic. Christian learned years ago that Max did not take well to even gentle ribbing where Lewis was concerned, at least not on the job. “Well, they’re all set up for you in the exhibition hall. It looks good. Where are the others?”
“The kids got shy suddenly.” Max says, shaking off his coat and placing it in the outstretched hands of the hovering junior press assistant. “He’s bribing them out of the car.”
On cue, the double doors push open again and Lewis enters with a burst of cold air. Evi lifts her face out of Lewis’s shoulder, peering with interest up at the foyer’s cavernous glass ceiling, and her brother is holding Lewis’s hand and walking forward of his own volition, which bodes well.
“Hey there, angels,” Christian says cheerily. He’s clearly grateful for the arrival of at least two individuals he can relate to without putting his foot in it. “How are my favorite kids today?” He stoops and stretches out his arms and Cas walks right into them, letting himself be scooped up and hoisted onto Christian’s left hip.
“Daddy says we get pizza for lunch,” he informs Christian without preamble.
“If you behave,” Max amends.
“Well, I’m sure that won’t be a problem, eh buddy?” Christian ruffles Cassian’s hair. “Wait until you see the cars they put out. You’re going to love it.” He swoops off toward the exhibition hall, beckoning with his free hand for Max and Lewis to follow. “They’re waiting for you two to check makeup and hair.”
He didn’t greet Lewis directly, but it’s probably for the best that they postpone their stilted small talk until after they get through the interviews. Lewis trusts exactly two things about Christian: his steadfast loyalty to Max, and his affection for their children – the only humans who can lure him away from the pit wall to sit in Max’s garage on a race day, and the only humans not employed by Red Bull who he lets clamber over Max’s car. Given their history, Max has been more than happy to settle for that.
---
“’A household with a remarkable eleven world driver’s championships to its name – and counting.’” Jennie Gow looks up from her notes. “That will be the last narrated line from my intro,” she informs them, “and then it will cut to the segment with the two of you. Sound good?”
It’s not that Max hasn’t imagined something like that line before in private, when he’s in one of his incredibly rare self-indulgent daydreams about his legacy, but it feels almost embarrassing to hear someone else say it, as if Jennie has somehow read his diary.
“Does ‘and counting’ mean Max is going to get more, or that the kids will?” Lewis says drily. His eyes are closed, as the makeup artist is ghosting her fingers over his eyelids and cheekbones, checking for any blemishes to be covered. There are none, of course.
Jennie chuckles. “Let’s leave that open to the viewers for interpretation, I suppose.”
Max sneaks a look at Lewis, trying to assess his mood. He can’t move his head, because his, Max’s, makeup artist, has to work a little harder, diligently neutralizing some blotchiness with powder concealer. Lewis looks calm, and he’s already relaxed enough to joke, which is a good sign. Jennie was the right call, it seems. Better a woman handle this, he thinks, and then immediately feels guilty for doing so.
---
They’ve survived their own segment, and now Max feels a little tense again, watching the children prepare for their own. Though the camera is not yet recording, Jennie is smiling and speaking kindly to them, showing them the range of crayons they can use as props, flipping open a Cars sticker booklet for Evelyn. Max is reminded, suddenly, of a child psychiatrist’s office.
“Do we feel good?” Jennie asks. She turns toward them both, where they’re standing out of view behind the camera crew, but she mostly directs the question to Lewis. He nods, his expression inscrutable to anyone other than Max. She signals the camera on.
“So, what do you two like about racecar driving?” Jennie says to the kids. “What’s your favorite thing about F1?”
“Watching the races with Daddy,” Evi answers without hesitation. “It’s best if we sit with him, because sometimes he gets scared and he needs help to be brave.”
“Really, scared? What do you think he gets scared of?”
“If something will happen to Papa,” Evi says, as if this is the most obvious thing in the world. “Because it can be quite dangerous to race.”
Max wants to laugh at how she’s mimicking the prim phrasing she’s likely heard Lewis or a commentator use - “quite dangerous” – but instead he just places a hand on the small of Lewis’s back, applies the smallest amount of pressure.
“It certainly can be,” Jennie says smoothly. “But your Papa is very good, eh? How do you help your dad be brave when you watch?”
“You have to hold his hand really tight,” Cassian pipes in, “and say it will be okay, because Papa knows what he’s doing. Then when it’s done and if everything is fine, he has a big smile and you give him a hug.”
Max feels Lewis lean back against his palm, a barely noticeable shifting of weight. After a moment, he straightens again, and Max drops his hand away from his back. It feels like a little thrill, in a way, being out and about, but with no eyes on them at this exact moment. It’s rare that they are able to be physically affectionate in public; they generally stick to the tacit agreement, honed over the years, to give no more away to onlookers than is required to get through the outing – handing over a set of keys, smoothing down a collar, passing a sleeping child to the other’s arms.
“It sounds like it’s very fun to watch with your dad,” Jennie is saying. “Do you like to watch races on the telly at home, or do you like when you come to the track?”
“The telly,” Cas says, scribbling hard to fill in the outline of a yellow sun. “Because there’s no people who chase us around.”
Max can see, out of the corner of his eye, Lewis press his lips into a thin line.
Jennie, to her credit, doesn’t flinch. “Yeah, I can imagine that is really hard.”
“I know what famous is,” Cas says, matter-of-fact. “It means people want to be friends with you, but you can’t be friends with everybody, because there isn’t time. So you have to be careful.”
“I like going to the track,” Evi insists. “I like to see all of our friends who work there, and see the crowd. But it’s hard to go because it can be far away, so Daddy only takes us sometimes.”
“Who are some of your favorite friends at the track?” Jennie seizes on slightly safer territory.
“Uncle Christian, or Aunt Susie when she comes to Mercedes. They look after us and let us sit on their chair, and give us a snack when they are not busy.”
“Where do you like to sit better to watch a race, if you could pick, with Red Bull or with Mercedes?”
Cas and Evi exchange looks. As perfectly cautious as their father, Max thinks. The other father, anyway.
“I like the Mercedes garage best, and Cassian likes the Red Bull garage best,” Evelyn answers diplomatically for both of them. “Because Mr. George always hides a special present for us to find when we come, but Red Bull has more snacks that Cassian likes.”
“That seems very fair,” Jennie smiles encouragingly at them. “And what do you think of watching your papa drive? Do you think it looks fun?”
“Papa drives very fast,” Cas says, “But we’re not big enough to drive.”
“It looks fun to me,” Evi blurts out. She looks down at the drawing she’s been working on. Max cranes his neck forward a bit to see it –the blobby outline of a racecar, bright red. Max hopes for the Red Bull comms department’s sake that Jennie doesn’t ask Evelyn to reveal her favorite team, even if Max is her favorite driver. “It looks fun to race. I want to do it one day too, when I’m old enough.”
You couldn’t have scripted better lines for them. That’s the gold nugget they’ll be looking for in the BBC’s editing room, Max knows, the narrative thread from the kids they’ll be most excited to tug on.
“Like Papa and like Daddy,” Evi adds. “Daddy was also very quick.”
Jennie chuckles. “Yes, what do you think of your daddy’s racing? He stopped driving before he was your dad.”
“Daddy is the best of all time.” Cas parrots confidently.
“Definitely a lot of people would agree with you there,” Jennie nods.
“He won the most championships in history,” Evi says, not liking to let Cassian have the last word. “And Papa says he was a very smart racer and everyone looks up to him.”
“What’s your favorite thing you’ve seen your dad do?”
Cas considers. “I like when Daddy does donuts for us in the car park.”
Busted. Maybe they’ll edit that part out, Max thinks.
---
“I’m quite pleased with how that went,” Jennie says brightly, handing off her notes to a production assistant. Lewis is making seemingly civil chit-chat with Christian, as they both try halfheartedly to stop the kids climbing on the wheels of the old chassis parked in the exhibition hall. “I can’t thank you two enough for your time.”
“Do you think anyone will find it interesting?” Max can’t help it. He hopes it will come out as self-deprecating rather than insulting.
Jennie isn’t fazed. “Well, you know – the two of you have hardly done public press together since Lewis retired. And no one has ever talked to the kids on camera, now that they’re old enough to sit still. That alone will draw people in, I think.”
“We did some press,” Max corrects. “Back at the start.” He isn’t sure where the need to correct the record is flaring up from – he knows what she means, but they didn’t have their guts poked and prodded at by accredited media for two years just to have it forgotten.
“Yes, of course, at the start,” Jennie acquiesces. “In any case, I think it’s just fantastic to see you two together at once, and to hear you’re doing so well. Your reflections on the sport. All of that.” She pauses, considering him. “I know you’re bizarrely modest about this sometimes for someone who is so self-confident, but people think of both of you as giants, and everyone wants to know the private thoughts of their legends.”
He’ll allow her that, won’t push back further. She’s been interviewing him for nearly half his life. And she’s never really done him wrong. Not intentionally, anyway.
“In any case,” she says, “I know how important your privacy is to you. To both of you. It means a lot that you and Red Bull trusted the BBC with this. We won’t waste it.”
Max laughs. “Well, it’s not like there’s many options for friendlier territory.”
Jennie smiles, a little sadly, and doesn’t laugh back.
---
“Tell Jennie to cut that one voiceover line from the intro,” Max says, scrolling through the preview document. “And the release copy.”
“Max, we agreed we would only make minimal thematic corrections, not line edits –“
“This is minimal,” he cuts in. “And it’s not negotiable. It’s about the kids.”
A sigh, the tapping of keystrokes over the speakerphone. “Alright – is it just that ‘racing royalty’ line, or the whole section introducing them?”
“I don’t care about the rest, but no royalty, dynasty, destined for greatness bullshit. They’ll listen. They’re lucky we agreed to put them on camera.”
“’Next generation?’” Vicky offers. “It’ll go over better if we suggest an alternative.”
“Even that’s a bit grand for two kids who aren’t tall enough to even sit in a kart,” Max says. “But sure. Just – you know, nothing that is going to give them a complex, please.”
Nothing about bloodlines, is what he doesn’t say but what he hopes Vicky hears. Nothing about how racing is in your blood, you were engineered from birth to be a world class driver, you were bred for it – as if there really were a scuderia full of little boys grown in vats, living in stalls, drinking protein shakes out of a communal trough. As if Michael’s father hadn’t been a bricklayer. As if motorsport pedigree mattered more than what Anthony had done for Lewis. As if blood mattered more than what he and Lewis were trying to give the children now.
“Understood,” she says. “Sorry, forgot for a moment.”
---
“People in motorsports, in all sports, have competed against family members as rivals before. And certainly against friends, people we grow up with. I really didn’t think of us as any different.”
“We actually learned a lot of that healthy separation from Toto, in 2023, before we were public. How to navigate having a competitor as a partner, in some ways. He helped us and Red Bull set up those walls within the teams.”
“Do you think it caused him a lot of stress, to navigate that?”
“Maybe, sure, but he said at the time – with the decisions he already had to navigate every day, you won’t catch any gray hairs on him from this. He was always supportive, always behind me. And he knows there are things in life that are more important to sort out than racing.”
Max feels the couch dip at the other end. He twists his neck around to see Lewis moving the obliging cat to the armrest, sinking back against the cushions in her place. “They’re down again,” Lewis says.
Max flips over so he’s lying on his back instead of his side, and nudges Lewis’s outer thigh with a foot, a question. Lewis nods and moves his arms so Max can lift his socked feet into Lewis’s lap.
“It’s a little different to face each other,” the Max on the TV is saying, “But not that much. You care for someone, yes, but once you put the helmet on and get in the car, you still want to win. Maybe the only difference is you are happier for them when they win, too.”
Jennie’s voice. “Lewis? Your face is telling me maybe that’s not the only difference.”
Max looks away from Lewis on the couch to turn his gaze back to Lewis on the screen.
Onscreen Lewis smiles. “No, he’s right. It’s the main difference. There were others, but it wasn’t happening in a vacuum, so it’s hard for me to separate some of those changes from – you know, everything else going on, and also just, like, getting older. Changing my perspective, approaching my last few seasons, that sort of thing.” Onscreen Lewis allows himself a moment of unguarded softness, swivels his head to smile at onscreen Max. He’s not trying very hard to charm – Max knows what it looks like when Lewis puts all of his focus into giving someone a look – but he’s still glowing anyway. Max can almost feel the energy of a million people across the United Kingdom, in front of their TV sets, sighing wistfully as their hearts melt. “I did love seeing him win more, after. Still do.”
Max nudges real-Lewis’s thigh with his foot again. “Soft old man,” he says. “You admit it.”
“Ah well, no downside to it now,” Lewis hums. “Nothing left to lose telling the truth.”
They both know that’s not true. Max thinks of it differently for himself, but Lewis, he feels, still has more left to lose, and Max is conscious of how much he’s already given away. Every little piece of his internal life Lewis offers up is another chunk taken out of him. Max marvels at times that there is still so much of the sculpture of Lewis that remains, considering all that people have tried to chip away; whether they’re trying to carve him into another shape, or scratching at the surface, trying to find a fissure they can stick their picks into. And yet there’s always more left, a solid foundation. As if he were an endlessly renewable block of the finest marble. Or something softer, probably. A rare wood.
He needs to snap himself out of being reflective. He sounds like a bad memoir writer in his own head too much these days. Or worse, a bad poet. He sits up, leans forward, and pinches Lewis’s earlobe, just behind one of the small gold hoops dangling there. Not too hard, but firmly enough that he can reassure himself Lewis is solid and present, and to reassure Lewis that Max is as well. I’m here, he thinks hard in Lewis’s direction.
“Ouch,” Lewis says fondly, “Brat.” He lets Max resettle against his side anyway. I know, Max hears back.