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NOT FOR THE FIRST TIME IN HIS LIFE, MAX FOUND HIMSELF QUESTIONING THE COMPETENCE OF FIA-APPROVED MEDIA OUTLETS AS THE FINAL CHILD OF THE DAY SAT BEFORE HIM, CLUTCHING A PACK OF CUE CARDS. The morning, buzzing with energy, gradually softened into a quiet hum as filming commenced, with the children intuitively grasping the shift from playtime to work time as the cameras started rolling. The initial video concept for F1 Kids was straightforward: a simple interview session between drivers and children, aimed at helping them become familiar with each other since they would be spending a lot of time together throughout the year. The children posed a variety of questions, ranging from playful ones like Monty's query about the taste of tire rubber to more serious discussions about fatalities and dangers in the sport with Arden. All of them, still, were more tolerable than any Sky Sports commentary—far more engaging than any question asked by the reporters permitted in the paddock, and, well, Max may be slightly biased, but he couldn't help it, though.

Everything about today had turned so lovesome, from the children's laughter to the woman who sat beside him throughout it all, her smile so bright that Max knew it could power all the engines on the grid for years to come.

Miss Honey had sat within view of her students for hours without a single complaint, strategically out of the camera's frame but close enough that Max could still catch the warm, sweet scent of her brown sugar hand lotion. She maintained a mindful silence but intervened when necessary, clarifying questions from the children and gently steering the conversation back on course if it veered off track. For instance, when Anwen became flustered with Max's first answer to her question about his favorite car color, Miss Honey subtly guided the conversation until they all realized that what Anwen really wanted to know was which car color Max thought was the speediest. It was an understanding that arose from sincere care and attention, qualities that Miss Honey exhibited in a manner similar to the sweetness her name suggests.

Not for the first time today, Max decided that he liked Miss Honey.

He truly, truly likes Miss Honey.

So, when the last student of the day—a six-year-old boy with smooth black hair and the iciest blue eyes Max had ever seen—called her over, requesting her to sit beside him in front of the camera, Max couldn't help but grin, adjusting his posture quickly as she smoothed out her dress and settled across from him.

Be it from experience or something beyond, Max sensed that something extraordinary was about to unfold when Miss Honey grinned at him with a twinkle in her eye and the boy removed the noise-cancelling headphones from his head, replacing them with a cap that had the name Schumacher embroidered on it.

"Hi, Max." Miss Honey greeted him again, her cheeks tinged with a rosy blush as she leaned in closer, her voice soft and inviting despite the cameras recording every moment. For someone so blatantly inexperienced in the spotlight, she was handling it remarkably well. Max felt a surge of admiration for her. She was doing perfectly, he thought; much better than he ever had as an anger-filled teenager, forced to navigate the media circus that surrounded his and his father's racing careers.

"Hi, Miss Honey," Max replied, his smile mirroring hers as he crossed his arms over the table. "Good call on joining me. I was starting to think I'd be flying solo here, answering all these questions by myself."

"You'll persist," she remarked affectionately. "I won't be much assistance here, though, as this sweet boy knows more about racing than anyone else in this room, isn't that so, Hummingbird?"

He didn't smile or glance their way, his gaze fixed firmly on the table. "I'm Nikolaas," the six-year-old introduced himself, fingers fiddling with a pack of cue cards in his lap. Like the other kids, he wore the Red Bull Racing polo shirt, but on the collar of his shirt was a large pin that read, 'Please be patient, I have Autism.'

Miss Honey was already looking at him when Max's eyes flickered towards her. She offered him a reassuring smile before redirecting her attention to Nikolaas, giving the child her full focus.

He nodded to himself, doing the same. "It's nice to meet you," he said with a grin, trying to make Nikolaas feel at ease. "I'm Max. I've been racing for a long, long time, so feel comfortable to ask me anything about cars."

Nikolaas nodded swiftly but remained silent.
The harsh overhead lighting and the microphone dangling above their heads seemed oppressive to Max; he wondered if the boy, too, felt overwhelmed by the unfamiliar setting. Silence descended heavily between them—Max realized he couldn't break it as effortlessly as Daniel could with his charm and wit. Yet, just as he began to fret internally, Miss Honey intervened, breaking the silence by inviting Nikolaas to begin with the first cue card.

"Nikolaas," she confided as the boy readied himself, "is a huge fan. He has been preparing for this moment for weeks!"

But the boy shook his head. "Not a fan of him," he said defiantly. "We're competitors."

A sharp laugh left him at the unexpected reactions. "Competitors, huh?' Max teased. "I have never had one so young before."

Nikolaas's shoulders grew rigid.

Maybe Max shouldn't have laughed; perhaps he should have taken it more seriously, but Max wasn't sure how children interpreted things—if they would giggle like Petunia did when Max had unintentionally ignored her question in favor of a joke, or if they would take it as a challenge to be met head-on, stubbornly refusing to back down.

Nikolaas, he learned, took it as a challenge.
The six-year-old boy seemed fired up by it, gripping the cue card firmly. "How do you balance the need for speed with preserving your tires during a race?" He asked fiercely, looking Max straight in the eye.

They were so blue—frigid, like frozen arctic waters.

Max studied him, noticing the purplish hue coloring the puffiness beneath his eyelids and the way he refused to look away now that their gazes had locked. A casual observer might have mistaken Nikolaas for just another enthusiastic fan, just like Miss Honey had said, but Max saw something more in that focused intensity that made him pause before answering.

He had seen that sort of look before—in Räikkönen, in Hamilton, in Charles during their youthful days, hungry for victory and willing to play ruthlessly to achieve it.

It was a look of tenacity, of unwavering focus that could only come from a true passion.

Max straightened; he could feel the camera lens on him, but in that moment, all he could see was the determination in Nikolaas, a reflection of his own face before each race.

"Working closely with the team is crucial, you know?" Max replied, trying to find the words to explain it to a child before he realized that he did not need to. "Sometimes it means dialing back the aggression to extend the life of the tires, especially in longer stints or when the track conditions are particularly challenging."

Nikolaas nodded, as if he had been expecting this explanation. "Like in Singapore and Spain,"

"Like in Singapore and Spain," Max agreed. "Ultimately, it's a constant struggle during the race, making split-second decisions to maximize performance without compromising tire durability. Do you kart?"

That question caused a momentary falter in Miss Honey's demeanor. Still, Nikolaas lifted his head resolutely. "Not yet," he replied, like it was inevitable. "How do you adapt your driving style to different race tracks?"

And Max would have to ask later, he thought, when the cameras were not rolling and Miss Honey could speak freely.

But for now, in the stark glare of the overhead lights, he drummed his fingers on the table's polished surface before speaking. "Every circuit brings unique challenges—like high-speed corners, tight chicanes, or fluctuating grip levels. Working with engineers is crucial to fine-tune setups, of course..."

When the first half of filming concluded, and Miss Honey hurried off with the children for a midday lunch, Max stayed seated for a moment, taking in the quiet of the set and everything that had just happened, when Daniel's firm hand clapped him on the shoulder.

"Strewth, mate." The older man laughed, giving his shoulder a squeeze. "As adorable as he is, I'm glad I didn't have to deal with that kid. It was like having a pint-sized Vettel and Alonso love child grilling ya!"

Max stood up with a distracted laugh. "He does know a lot for a kid his age," he agreed, thinking of Nikolaas' intense knowledge—it wasn't just about Formula 1, or drivers, but technical aspects of the cars that Max had never bothered to learn about; vortex generation and downforce calculations were just a few of the topics the boy had brought up during their conversation. If he could harness that knowledge and integrate it into his driving, Nikolaas could be a force to be reckoned with on the track in the future.

All of it just made Max question why he hadn't started karting yet.

He himself started at the age of four; it wasn't too late for Nikolaas to start now, when the little boy seemed so sharply focused and knowledgeable at six years old. Still,  every year that passed without him starting would be a missed opportunity for growth and development in the sport.

Surely, Miss Honey understood this too, given her reaction when Max brought it up.

As they walked toward the cafeteria with other members of the filming crew, Daniel gave him an incredulous look. "Knows his stuff, doesn't he?" He ribbed. "He had you stumped with that engine mapping question."

"He did sound like GP," Max laughed, remembering the unimpressed stare Nikolaas had given him when he couldn't answer the question. "I mean, I'm here to drive, not build the thing from scratch. How am I supposed to know all the technical details?"

Daniel pretended to shake, wrapping his arms around himself dramatically. "Miniature Vettel," he repeated, his voice tinged with exaggerated fear. When they entered the vast canteen, the Australian came to a pause, letting out a whistle as he took in the sight of all the children seated throughout the room, their voices loud and overpowering the other employees that had come out to see them for the day. "Looks like a school field trip in here," he remarked, scanning the tables for an empty spot to sit. The room was a whirlwind of laughter, chatter, and excited exclamations, making the factory more lively than Max had ever witnessed—even the executive people were smiling and engaging with the children, Christian and Adrian among them, their serious demeanor replaced with playful banter and laughter as they interacted with the young visitors.

"Those are my kids," Daniel said jokingly, pointing to where the two boys—Chester and Sylvester, Max remembered—were flinging peas at each other with gleeful abandon. The green projectiles arced through the air, landing on trays and tables, one of them even hitting Christian, eliciting laughter and applause from the other children sitting at the table. "Alright, mate," Daniel continued. "I'm gonna join 'em before Miss Sugar Cube rains on our parade with a lecture on table manners—I need to slip one down Helmut's trousers before that. You should join your kid, too. He seemed to take a liking to ya."

"He thinks we're competitors," Max corrected, but the smile that spread across his face belied his words.

Daniel laughed, placing a hand on Max's hair and ruffling it playfully. "Just like ya, then," he teased, clapping his shoulder one last time. Max glanced over at Nikolaas, sitting without his noise-canceling headphones and sharing tangerine slices and cut strawberries with his classmates. He wanted to argue that the little boy was already much better than Max ever was at his age, yet Daniel was already walking away, Chester and Sylvester cheering as he joined them at the table.

Standing alone, not quite sure where to go, Max felt a sense of déjà vu—reminiscent of this morning, of yesterday, of a week before, and even years ago when he was seventeen and too hotheaded to see friends without sizing them up as rivals. Daniel had been a benchmark to beat, Pierre a mockery, Alex exemplified everything his father had warned him against becoming, Charles someone from the past to humiliate and outperform. There were no friends on track; there were only competitors to conquer.

He had gotten better as he aged, of course. More mature, GP praised. A little more rounded out, as a person and a driver. He befriended a few more people on the grid, something younger him would've pulled teeth to avoid admitting he ever wanted; he plays padel with Lando now, learned to talk to Charles without wanting to pick a fight, calls Daniel a bit more often nowadays. It doesn't take him days to reply to a text now. Yet it's still difficult; the one on his cap symbolized much more than a number, didn't it? Something that made Charles avert his eyes and Daniel's smile dim each time they saw each other outside of the RB hospitality—and now, standing alone, Max couldn't help but realize that he never truly carved out a place for him, has he?

Max grew up, sure, but never into the person anyone sought out first. He has the world championships, but none of the respect in the media. A natural born driver, but not someone worth approaching for advice. A sportsman when he wasn't on track. A great addition to any team, but never a great teammate.

And he is fine with it—truly, he is—until moments like this.

Until he is standing alone in the middle of a cafeteria, watching everyone pair up as if they knew where exactly in the world they belonged.

Max isn't seventeen anymore, and he's changed a lot, but one thing hasn't:

He will never belong anywhere outside of a car.

Except—a hand suddenly appeared before him, offering a glistening apple.

Miss Honey beamed up at him. "Hi, Max!" She grinned, her eyes warm and inviting. "Care to join me and the children for lunch? We have plenty of room at our table, and, well, too many apples to eat by ourselves!"

Max looked down at the shorter woman for a moment, slightly taken aback, before he smiled and accepted the apple. "Hey, Miss Honey," he chuckled. "British food doesn't do it for me, but I can always go for an apple or two."

He followed her to the table where Nikolaas and three other children eagerly greeted him, Petunia's waving arms, though slightly uncoordinated, beckoning him to sit next to her. "Hi, Mr. Max!" she exclaimed, her eyes wide with excitement. Her speech was slightly slurred but filled with joy. Miss Honey reached forward to the little girl, gently readjusting the plastic strap of her glasses and ensuring her wheelchair was comfortably positioned at the table before taking her own seat.

One of the children Max hadn't met was seated beside her, brushing away his mousy brown hair from his forehead with a sticky-looking hand. "Miss Honey, you did it!" He cheered a bit too loudly as the woman let out a sigh, reaching into the pocket of her dress to pull out a small packet of wet wipes to clean his hands.

"I did, Monty, didn't it?" Miss Honey said, smiling warmly at the boy.

Petunia giggled, signaling Max to come closer before whispering, "Miss Honey saw you standing there and knew you needed a friend. She's very, very shy, though, so Monty reminded her that if words are hard, let your actions speak!"

Max's brow furrowed in confusion as he tried to process Petunia's words, though he couldn't refrain a smile at the way Miss Honey grew embarrassed in her seat, easily overhearing everything since Petunia hadn't quite mastered the art of whispering yet. Monty, having heard it as well, grinned widely when his name was mentioned, munching another apple slice and getting juice everywhere. "Miss Honey said if we're too scared to talk to new people, we can share toys or ask them to play! It's like saying 'hi' without talking! That's how we make new friends and show we like them! So I told her, 'Miss Honey, we have a lot of apples from my grandpapa's orchard, so why don't you share one with Mr. Max, and that way he'll know you like him too!'"

Max chuckled, unable to suppress his amusement at Monty's enthusiasm. He stole a quick glance at the teacher; their eyes briefly met before she chuckled shyly and glanced away. "That's really nice," he remarked. "I hope with each bite Miss Honey realizes I already think quite highly of her. Just like I do with all of you."

"I don't like you," Nikolaas spoke up then, snacking on chopped veggies from his lunchbox. Miss Honey looked appalled, but Max just laughed. "Because we're competition, right?"

Nikolaas nodded firmly. "If your car is bad, you'll be really bad. I don't like losers."

"Even so, you like Leclerc and Alonso?" Max teased, earning a glare from Nikolaas.

"Bad car, bad team." The six-year-old said it like it was a curse. "Good drivers,"

Max nodded, acknowledging that even at a young age, Nikolaas had a keen eye. What a strange kid, he thought. What a strange, fascinating kid. "So if I win, you'll like me?" Max asked, charmed by Nikolaas' competitive nature.

The young boy shrugged. "Depends on how you drive. Good race, maybe. Bad race, no way." Nikolaas then turned his attention back to his lunchbox, ignoring Max's attempts to engage him further in conversation. Miss Honey smiled apologetically at Max, but he laughed it off. He tried to remember if he was like that at Nikolaas' age, brutal despite all of a child's cuteness; probably not, he figured. He had been much quieter for most of his childhood, studying maps and flags, and faraway nations on the days when his father could not stand to hear his voice. He definitely was not as intense in his silence as this little guy.

Just like you, Daniel had said, still.
Leaning back in his seat as his chuckles subsided, Max took a moment to truly consider.

He often heard people spouting nonsense about how he had "a database in his head that he could use instantly," when it came to Formula 1—that he was born to drive and his skills were innate, a mythical talent that couldn't be taught or learned. Yet by Nikolaas' age, Max already had nearly two years of karting experience. He had spent countless hours practicing since he had learned to walk, pushed to the limit each day, swallowing down all the mistakes his father pointed out until perfection became his standard. Max's success on the track was not just about natural talent; it was dedication, hard work, a relentless pursuit of improvement.

It was sacrifice. Max never spent lunch breaks chatting with friends in the cafeteria at school; instead, he was always at the track. Even when his hands were numb from frostbite or fear gripped him so tightly that he could barely breathe in his father's presence, he never faltered. He succeeded because he was willing to make sacrifices that others were not.

Except—others did not need to make the same sacrifices, did they? They did not have a father like Max's, and still, they succeeded. They were not restrained to steering wheels the way he had been as a child and still ended up crossing the same finish line as him.

They achieved more and were far happier with it than Max could ever be.

Max studied Nikolaas, recognizing the purplish hue coloring the puffiness beneath his eyelids; the frozen expression on his face that only seemed to thaw when he spoke of Schumacher, telemetry and a fuel management strategies as if the little boy were discussing his favorite bedtime story.

There, Max realized; that's where the two of them blurred together.

That's where the two of them were the same, because Max maybe wasn't born to drive, but he still did so anyway, and Nikolaas might've been born for something else entirely, but he still chose racing. They both decided to love it before they had grown enough to fully understand it, before they could even comprehend the risks and sacrifices involved—in spite of any obstacles or doubts that may have come their way.

There would be even more, if he spoke now; for him, testing was scheduled for the 21st, and Bahrain would not begin until the 29th. Max wouldn't spend enough time in Milton Keynes to get to know Nikolaas better before the season began. He would see them again, of course, Miss Honey and all of the children, for whatever next F1 Kids shooting was planned—but every month of karting mattered. Nikolaas could truly be something special if his technical skills matched his raw talent on the track.

As the world champion, wouldn't it be a disservice to the future of the sport to not invest time and effort into nurturing young talent like Nikolaas?

"Miss Honey," Max said absentmindedly, a bit too distracted to truly focus on the conversation at hand. "Would it be possible, you think, if we could speak before the end of the day? If it's okay with you, of course."

And the woman stopped midbite, her expression a bit troubled, a bit resigned, as if she had known all along that this moment was inevitable. She nodded slowly, her eyes flickering towards Nikolaas, before returning her gaze to Max. "Of course," she replied simply, and Max could see the concern in her eyes, fear as well, but most importantly, some hope as well, a dulcet fragility that tugged at his heartstrings.

"Thank you," he said earnestly. The woman didn't respond, instead turning toward Nikolaas. With a gentle touch, she smoothed down his black hair, a gesture that spoke volumes about their bond.

And—Max felt struck with the realization that he would like to do the same. To have that same level of care and connection to someone one day. Find someone the way his sister had—to have someone waiting for him within the garage like Sergio did with his wife and children, someone to reach for his hand and smooth out his hair regardless if he had earned first place or crashed out of the race entirely.

It would be nice, he decided. It would be very nice to have a place to call his own outside of his car. Even nicer if they were blunt, tongue-heavy, and too unconcerned, just like him.
Just like Nikolaas.

What would it be like, Max wondered, to raise a world champion without ever becoming his father?

𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 ! ! !

honey lion son has entered the scene
niks is such a little cutie he isn't angry at all just very dialed in LOL that's that autistic hyperfocus i had it with the bible and he has it f1
idk it be like that sometimes

charley and madi you can both take turns murdering me but max and honey are going to be a slow burn idc idc i am doing this properly

alright

Thank you for reading!
Until the next update, bye-bye!