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starset21 · 21 days ago

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Cold Front

Standard disclaimer: I do not consent to the posting, translating, or publishing of my work to any 3rd party site, the only place it may currently be found is on tumblr and Wattpad under the name @.itswildflower. This is all fake. It does not reflect real people, real events or their actual actions or relationships.

Warnings: self doubt, slightly mean Max

WC: 4.5k

Summery: Round seven of the 2023 world championships, follow her as the race unfolds and she finds clarity in her instincts and determination, pushing past her doubts.

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The pit lane is a hive of activity as the cars roll in for a brief respite between sessions. Max stands beside the car, arms crossed, watching the technicians move with practiced speed. From a distance, Casey Winters drives her car back to her own garage, her focus fixed ahead as she enters the pit lane. The sound of her engine cuts off, but the uncertainty inside her head doesn’t. Though she’s in the top five, her lap times were inconsistent. She’d hesitated in a few key places, moments when the slightest slip could have cost her dearly. Max, on the other hand, has already posted a blistering time.

As Casey steps out of her car, she notices Max leaning against his garage, his eyes scanning the track while the crew finishes up their work. She knows he’s aware of her. Max's eyes always seemed to find her. But it’s not just him noticing her. It’s the way he notices her that stings. His gaze flickers over to her as she approaches, the faintest curve of a smirk tugging at his lips. He doesn’t greet her, doesn’t make any move to acknowledge her beyond that quick glance. But she feels the judgment in the air. "Nice lap time," Max says, his voice cool, almost dismissive. Casey swallows, her throat tight. "Thanks," she says, trying to sound casual, though she knows he can see the unease in her posture. She doesn’t want to show weakness, but the self-doubt gnawing at her keeps pushing its way to the surface. "I could’ve done better." Max raises an eyebrow, the faint smirk not leaving his face. "Could’ve. But you didn’t." He leans back against the wall, arms still crossed, and watches her. "You always leave something on the table, don’t you?"

Casey flinches, her heart sinking. She’d expected some kind of critique from Max, but not so direct, so cold. She opens her mouth to respond, but the words stick in her throat. Just focus. Don’t let him get to you. "I’m getting better," she says, her voice steadier than she feels. "Every race, I’m improving." Max shrugs, his expression unreadable, but there’s a slight glint in his eyes, a challenge. "Improvement doesn’t mean much if it’s not enough. If you want to keep up with the front, you need to start taking risks. You know that, right?" Her stomach churns at his words. She knows he’s right in some ways. Her hesitation—her reluctance to push the car beyond its limits—is why she’s always a few steps behind.

"You’ll need more than self-doubt if you want to beat the guys at the front." His words sting more than they should. But Casey knows this isn’t about Max, it’s about her own fight. She feels the weight of every mistake she’s ever made, every race where she wasn’t quite fast enough, where she let fear and doubt creep in. She looks at him for a long moment, searching his expression for some sign of respect. But it’s not there. "Right," she finally says, nodding curtly. "I’ll figure it out." Max gives her one last glance before turning his attention back to his own team, dismissing her without a second thought. But as Casey walks back toward her garage, something shifts in her chest. His words, as harsh as they were, make her angrier than she expected. She can feel the fire sparking inside her. Maybe she’s not as bold or reckless as Max. But she’ll find her own way to push through. She’ll prove him wrong.

The sound of the engines blurs into a collective roar as the formation lap of the Spanish GP begins. Casey Winters tightens her grip on the steering wheel, feeling the heat of the moment. She’s in P4, an enviable position, if she holds it or improves it would be her first time in the top 5 this season. Max Verstappen, ahead of her in P1, is a constant reminder of the skill gap she still needs to bridge. His Red Bull is an intimidating presence, a mechanical beast that hums with assured confidence. Casey’s own car feels small in comparison. Focus, she tells herself. Just focus. The countdown begins. “Remember your lines, Casey,” Ken’s voice cuts through the radio. It’s reassuring, but she can hear the underlying hint of caution in his words. “We’ve got the pace. Keep your head cool.” The lights flicker out, and the race begins. Instantly, Max leaps ahead with his trademark lightning start, as if the car and driver are one single, instinctual entity. But Casey doesn’t flinch. Her foot slams down on the accelerator with more force than she’d allowed herself before. She won’t be timid today.

By the first turn, Max has already built a small gap, his rearview mirror filling with the sight of Lewis Hamilton’s car as the two men pull away. But behind them, Casey isn’t letting up. She’s already battling with Carlos, who’s looking to chase her like a hungry shark circling its prey. She manages to build a bit of a gap, her mind is laser-focusing on the car ahead of her, George Russell in the Mercedes, holding on to P3, just within reach. The gap between them fluctuates, but George is quick through the corners, tight on the racing line, and there’s that slight edge in his driving style that demands respect. She can’t afford to back off—if she does, he’ll pull away and that’s the end of it. By Lap 5, the leaders—Max and Lewis Hamilton—have started pulling away slightly, but George is right there in the mix, keeping the pressure on Max. Casey, however, isn’t looking up at the front—she’s looking ahead at George, calculating, watching for his weaknesses. He’s fast, but she knows she can find an opening.

She’s pushing harder now, leaning into every corner with increasing precision. She can feel the car responding, the way the tires grip the tarmac just a little more fiercely. It’s as if every turn, every gear shift, is a small defiance against her own insecurities. I’m not just here to fill space. I’m here to race. On Lap 8, George makes a slight mistake. He brakes a little too late for the hairpin, locking up his front tires just slightly, and Casey catches it immediately. This is my chance. Her heart picks up speed. She doesn’t hesitate—she puts the throttle down, diving for the inside line as they approach the sharp left-hander. George reacts quickly, trying to cover the line, but it’s too late. Casey is already there, inching ahead as the two cars brush past each other, racing side by side. For a moment, they’re both on the same line, but Casey has the tighter angle through the corner. She holds her nerve, refusing to let up. George tries to push, but Casey accelerates faster out of the turn, finding a smooth exit as they head into the long straight. The crowd’s roar echoes in her ears as she positions her car perfectly to block any attempt from George to retake her. The Mercedes driver tries to cut across her, but Casey holds firm. Her heart is pounding in her chest, but her grip on the wheel is steady. She pulls ahead, the gap widening as they break for the next chicane.

As she settles into P3, Casey feels a rush of pride and relief. It’s a small victory, but a victory nonetheless. Her lap times are holding steady, and she’s pushing now—not out of fear, but out of sheer will. One step at a time. One corner at a time. Her focus remains on the road, but her mind drifts for a moment. Max is still in first. He’s always first. She knows she’s not in his league yet, but the gap between her and him is starting to feel a little more achievable. And that thought fills her with something dangerous—ambition. But she’s not going to get distracted by the front runners. Right now, her focus is on holding off George, who’s close behind and fighting for the position she just took. Her tires are holding up well, but it’s only a matter of time before the battle intensifies.

As she heads into Lap 15, Ken’s voice cuts through the radio: “Great job, Casey. Stay focused. You’re holding a solid P3. Keep it steady.” The words are comforting, but she knows she can’t let herself relax. George is there, and he’s not giving up. She glances in her mirrors as the familiar shape of George’s car fills the space behind her. He’s closing the gap, but it’s clear he’s struggling to find a way past. Casey takes a deep breath and positions herself defensively through the next corners, covering the line, refusing to let him through. By Lap 16, Max had extended his lead to a comfortable gap over Hamilton. But the real battle is behind them, where Casey and George are in a fierce tug-of-war. Through Turn 1, Casey holds a defensive line, but George finds a small opening. He dives to the inside, making a bid to retake P3. The two cars are inches apart, racing side by side through the turns. Casey reacts immediately. She covers the line into Turn 2, forcing George wide. It’s a risk—if she overdoes it, he’ll get past—but she holds firm. He tries to get the exit, but she powers out faster. The crowd roars as she keeps the position. Stay calm. Stay aggressive. Now, with George back in her mirrors, Casey knows it’s only a matter of time before she’ll have to make another move—whether it’s defending or attacking. But there’s one thing she knows for sure: she’s not letting up. Not now. George makes a move on lap 24, again into Turn 1, trying to force Casey into a mistake. She can feel his car on her tail, his Mercedes trying to edge past. But Casey’s response is immediate—she defends the line, making sure George can’t squeeze through. “Casey, push,” Ken warns. “Make sure you hold onto this position. We’ve got fresh tires waiting for you.” Casey’s mind races as she watches the laps click by. The tension builds as Carlos Sainz closes the gap, inching ever closer to George, but Casey refuses to let up. She knows what she’s doing. She knows where she’s placing her car. Every turn, every braking zone is measured. “Box. Box,” the order came on lap 27. In a flurry of motion, her tires are swapped—fronts and backs in a flash. She feels the car jolt as the fresh tires are put on, and in a blur of activity, she's back on the track. The time on the stop is crucial. She can’t afford to lose more than a second to the others in the field. Ken’s voice cuts through: “You’re out just behind George. P4. Stay tight!”

Now on fresher tires, Casey quickly starts to close the gap to Russell. She’s aggressive in the corners, using the added grip to get closer, but Russell is no slouch, defending well and maintaining P3. However, with each passing lap, Casey inches closer as Russell’s tires begin to show signs of wear. On Lap 44, George Russell makes his move into the pit lane for a tire change. It’s an expected move—he’s hoping to capitalize on fresh rubber to extend his battle for P3. Casey, now in P3, continues to push hard, setting her sights on the track ahead. She knows that if she can maintain a fast pace and make the most of the gap left by Russell’s pit stop, she can move up the order.

Casey pits again on lap 50 for a fresh set of tires. She dives into the pit lane, confident in her strategy. The crew is ready, and they get to work quickly. Another clean stop—around 2.5 seconds—and Casey exits the pits, aiming to make a big push in the final laps. “Fresh tires, Casey. You’re clear of traffic. Let’s go,” her engineer says. With the fresh rubber, Casey is ready to charge, closing in on Russell. Her pace is relentless, and within a few laps, she’s within 1 second of him. As they hit the DRS zone, Casey uses it to full advantage, getting closer and closer to the Mercedes. Lap 55, Casey is right behind Russell as they head into the final sector. She’s much quicker through the corners, and on the straight, her DRS advantage gives her the edge. She sets up for a pass into Turn 1. Casey finally makes her move. Coming out of Turn 13, she closes the gap to Russell. With DRS wide open, she pulls out of his slipstream, getting a much better exit. Russell tries to defend, but Casey dives to the inside and outbrakes him into Turn 1.

“Casey Winters takes P3 from George Russell. She’s made the move stick and now has a clear track ahead of her!” The announcer cheers. “P3, Casey. Great move. Focus, head down for the final laps,” her engineer says. The crowd roars as Casey moves up to the podium position. But there are still laps to go, and she has to stay focused. She drives defensively but with precision—covering the inside line, braking at the right moments, and making sure to avoid any mistakes that would allow Russell to slip through. Her tire management pays off as the laps wind down. By Lap 63, Russell starts to lose grip, and despite his best efforts, he’s unable to get close enough to attempt a pass. As the final lap of the race begins, Casey knows the podium is within her grasp. Max Verstappen and Lewis Hamilton are long gone, but Casey Winters is fighting hard to finish in P3. George Russell is still within a few car lengths, but Casey’s pace and defensive driving are enough to keep him behind. She crossed the finish line in P3, securing a hard-earned podium finish after a brilliant strategy, quick pit stops, and a flawless defense against Russell in the final laps.

The heat of the Spanish summer clings to the air as the engines of the cars wind down, their roar fading into the buzz of the paddock. The track, lined with excited fans, seems to hum with energy in anticipation for the podium celebration. Casey sat in the car that she had just guided into place behind the third place pillar. She feels the weight of the race slip off her shoulders as the team’s radio crackles through her helmet. “P3, Casey. P3! Fantastic job!” A rush of relief floods through her. She can't believe it. Third place. It’s surreal. Casey gets out of the car, blinking into the harsh daylight. Her legs feel a little unsteady, but the adrenaline is still pumping through her veins. She congratulates Lewis before running for the red bull team, her side of the garage cheering as she hugs her dad, who had made the trip out to see her race. She receives some helmet pats from her team members before she pulls away, heading to the small station where she could place her helmet once removed and grab some water.

She’s carefully sipping it as she spots Fernando, who has just exited his own car— his head bent as he removes his helmet. Fernando’s car had struggled more than Casey’s, and he’d finished in 7th place, a result that was good but not great for someone like him. He’s already scanning the track, eyes sharp despite the less than ideal result. Then, he sees her. He walks over, a slight smile tugging at his lips as he notices the dazed joy in Casey’s face. “Well, well, look at you. Third place. Not bad for a rookie.” Casey laughs, though there’s a touch of disbelief in her voice. “I didn’t think I’d be here today.” Fernando’s smile softens, his eyes gleaming with something deeper than the usual competitive fire. He looks at her with pride—a rare, almost fatherly pride. “You’ve got the talent. You just needed to trust yourself. That’s what I saw in you the moment I first saw you— before you saw it in yourself. And today? You showed it. You showed everyone.” Casey’s heart swells with something unspoken—gratitude, respect, maybe even awe. She knows the weight of Fernando’s words.

The respect he gives isn’t something he hands out easily, and to have him recognize her achievement means everything. “I couldn’t have done it without you, Fernando. All the advice, all the times you told me to keep pushing—even when I was ready to give up. You made me believe in myself when I didn’t.” Fernando shrugs, a bit of a humble smile forming. “You believed in yourself more than you think. I just reminded you what you already knew. But today, you earned it. You showed everyone what you’re capable of. It’s not just about the race results; it’s about the moments that make you a better driver. You’ve got the heart of a champion. And that... that’s why I’m proud of you.” Casey’s eyes mist over, her throat tightening as she glances down for a moment, taking it all in. “Thank you. Honestly, I don’t even know what to say. I’ve been dreaming of this moment for so long.” Fernando chuckles, his tone light but filled with an undeniable warmth. “Say nothing. Just keep going. This is only the beginning for you. You’ve got a long career ahead, Casey. And if today’s anything to go by, it’s going to be a hell of a ride.” He turns to walk toward his own team, but not without one last look back. “Enjoy the moment, but don’t get too comfortable. The real work starts now.” Casey watches him leave, her pulse still racing, but now not from the excitement of the race. It’s from the weight of his words, the pride in them. She stands there for a moment longer, before she’s pulled away to get weighed.

The roar of the crowd fills the air, a sea of voices and applause echoing through the stadium. The track is bathed in the soft glow of the evening sun, the top three finishers are finally making their way to the podium, each one soaked in sweat, their faces streaked with determination and triumph. The crowd goes wild as Casey steps onto the podium, the third-place finisher of the race. She’s been in this moment before —victories, podiums, celebrations— as a kid in karting but nothing like this. Next up is Lewis Hamilton. The British driver’s presence is magnetic as always. He’s grinning widely, despite the disappointment of losing the race. But Hamilton is a master of handling these moments with grace. He waves to the crowd, acknowledging their cheers with a raised hand. As the anthem ends, he lifts his cap and places it over his heart. The light gleams off the familiar logo on his chest, but today, it’s the smile that stands out. He’s proud of his performance, though it’s clear he’s already thinking ahead to the next race. Max is last out. He strides to the podium with a quiet, confident air, his usual intensity softened by the thrill of another victory. His eyes scan the crowd, but there's no sign of surprise—this is where he's used to being. The Dutch national anthem begins to play, and Max stands tall, hand over his heart. A slight smile touches his lips, though it’s more out of habit than joy.

The presenter, standing just off to the side, hands out the first of the trophies, finally ending with her where she lifts it for the red bull crowd below. As soon as the presenters are out of the way. Max pops his bottle, the spray of bubbles flying high. A victorious smile spreads across his face as he turns to Lewis Hamilton, whose eyes light up with the challenge. He aims the bottle and gives Lewis a good soak, causing the crowd to laugh. Lewis laughs back, wiping the champagne from his face. Casey’s never been one to let the atmosphere take over her, but there's something thrilling about the camaraderie—and rivalry—that fills the air. Max, noticing her quiet presence, turns to her with a half-smile. “Don’t worry, Casey,” he says, offering her a playful wink, “there’s plenty of champagne for everyone.” He then turns his bottle on her.

She raises an eyebrow, lips curling slightly. With a quick flick of her wrist, Casey grabs her own bottle of champagne and pops it. The crowd responds with a fresh wave of applause as she takes a step forward, aiming her bottle toward the two men beside her. Without hesitation, she unleashes a perfect spray. The champagne catches the light as it bursts into the air, raining down on Max and Lewis, who both laugh, raising their own bottles in a mock salute. “Cheers, Casey,” Max says, wiping champagne off his face with a smile that’s almost approving. “Good job today.” Casey flashes him a brief smile, wiping a bit of champagne from her cheek. Lewis nods in agreement. “You’ve earned it, Casey,” he says, his voice sincere. “You were brilliant out there.” The three of them stand there for a moment, the crowd cheering around them, the noise almost deafening.

It’s not just about the champagne or the celebration anymore. It’s about respect. They all fought for the podium today—some harder than others—but they all belong here. Together. The podium photos are snapped, the three of them standing side by side, flashing their best smiles for the cameras. The moment feels endless, a blend of history and competition. Casey feels a surge of pride in her chest as she stands beside Max Verstappen and Lewis Hamilton, two of the best to ever race in Formula 1. This is her moment. She’s earned it. The crowd’s applause swells once more. The roar of the crowd fades as Casey exits the podium area, still buzzing with adrenaline. The heat of the battle is slowly ebbing, but the weight of the day lingers in her chest. A P3 finish. In only her 7th grand prix. She hadn’t expected it when the race started, but here she is, standing on the podium, her name alongside Max Verstappen and Lewis Hamilton.

She steps into a quiet hallway, taking a deep breath, the sounds of the race still echoing in her mind. She lets her guard down, just for a moment, and then she hears footsteps behind her. Her heart skips a beat—she recognizes the sound, the heavy, purposeful stride of someone who knows how to command a room. She turns, and there he is. His eyes are unreadable, like always, but there’s something in his gaze that stops her in her tracks. He’s not smiling, but he doesn’t look angry either. Just... present. He’s a few steps away, leaning against the wall, arms crossed. His face is still flushed from the race, and there’s a faint sheen of sweat on his brow. “Nice race,” Max says, his voice low, almost casual, though there's a hint of something sharper beneath the words. "Surprised you held off Russell like that." Casey raises an eyebrow, crossing her arms. “Is that a compliment?” He shrugs, the gesture almost dismissive. “Take it how you want. I wouldn’t have put my money on you for P3 after the first half.” Casey’s lips twitch in a smile, though it’s a tight one.

Max Verstappen doesn’t give compliments easily, but she can tell he’s acknowledging something. “I’m not one to give up easily,” she replies, standing a little taller. “And my tires were in better shape than Russell’s. You know how it is.” Max’s eyes flicker, his posture shifting slightly. “Yeah, I know. But still... you weren’t exactly making any bold moves in the first half, were you?” Casey’s eyes narrow, not liking the implication. She knows what he means: hesitation. It’s something he’s picked up on, pressed her about more than once, and maybe he’s right. She was cautious at the start, maybe more than she needed to be. But now, here she is. Third step on the podium.

“What’s your point, Max?” she asks, her tone sharper now. “I made it work, didn’t I?” Max lets out a breath, his jaw tightening for a moment. He pushes himself off the wall and steps closer, his presence filling the narrow hallway. “No point,” he says, but the edge in his voice is harder to miss. “Just saying, you’ve got potential. You’re good, but you don’t always act like it.” There’s an awkward silence that stretches between them, the air thick with unspoken things. For a moment, it’s just the two of them standing there, two drivers from different worlds, both with something to prove. Casey hesitates, then folds her arms in front of her chest, trying to shake the edge of Max's comment. "I think I proved it today." Max stares at her for a moment, as though considering whether to keep going. He’s never been one to mince words, and even in this quiet space, he doesn't pull back.

“You don’t need to prove anything to me,” he says finally, the words softer, but no less direct. “Just... you should trust your instincts more. You’ve got it. But you play it too safe sometimes.” Casey raises an eyebrow. “And you think that is the secret to beating you? Just go for it, no matter the risk?” Max's lips curl into a half-smile. “Something like that. But you already know how to race smart, don’t you?” He steps back, eyes narrowing slightly. “It’s just... you don’t always show it.” Her eyes flash with something unreadable. She’s not used to being critiqued like this, especially by someone like Max Verstappen. But there’s something else in his words—something like... care? Maybe even a bit of respect, despite the sharp edges.

Casey leans in slightly, her gaze fixed on him. “And you’re one to talk. You make your moves, you take risks, but you’re also cold when you need to be. I know how you operate.” Max meets her gaze, an unspoken challenge flickering between them. "Cold? Maybe. But I know exactly what I want. You’re good, Casey. Maybe better than you think. You just need to trust yourself more." Her pulse picks up slightly, a surge of something fierce rising within her. She’s fought too hard to get where she is to have anyone—especially Max Verstappen—tell her she’s not giving it everything. “I’ll take that into consideration,” she replies, the words a little clipped. “But don’t expect me to change how I race just to make you happy, Max.” He chuckles softly, a hint of amusement finally breaking through his steely expression. “I don’t expect anything from you. But if you’re planning to keep up, you’ll need to.” Casey stares at him for a moment, something like a challenge flickering between them. The rivalry is there, undeniable, but there’s also something else—something that’s not just about racing anymore. “Maybe next time, we’ll see who trusts their instincts more,” she says with a faint smirk, turning to walk away. Max watches her, a knowing look in his eyes. “I’ll be waiting.”