The Bahrain paddock shimmered with heat even as the sun dipped below the horizon. Floodlights bathed the garages in gold and white, casting long shadows and glinting off freshly polished carbon fiber.
And somewhere in the organized chaos of the Red Bull garage, Max Verstappen turned his head instinctively the moment he heard her laugh.
Genevieve Horner stood near the pit wall monitors, tablet in hand, exchanging thoughts with the strategy engineer on alternative pit windows. She wore a Red Bull polo tucked into clean-cut jeans, a pen clipped neatly at the collar, her hair pinned back in a loose twist. Her tone was calm, curious—probing in that way only people truly listening knew how to be.
"No, but look here," she said, flipping the screen around. "If Ferrari undercuts with softs by Lap 13 and we respond on Lap 14, we'll likely get caught behind traffic. Unless you're betting Leclerc hits degradation earlier than usual."
Her colleague blinked. "You caught that already?"
She smiled without smugness. "I ran it through the sim over lunch. Twice. Don't worry, I also checked Max's tire history at this circuit. He's got room."
She said it like it was nothing. But Max, a few feet away in the shadows, felt the quiet pride swell in his chest.
Gen didn't chase the spotlight—never had. But she knew her stuff, and more importantly now, she trusted herself to speak up. She wasn't hiding behind stats anymore. She owned them.
Friday - Free Practice
It started small.
Max came into the garage after FP1, tugging off his gloves, sweat making his curls damp beneath the cap.
Gen handed him his water bottle without ceremony. "Throttle trace on Turn 10 looks good. You're smoother than yesterday."
He arched a brow. "You watching me or the data?"
She quirked a brow right back. "Both. You just happen to be less predictable."
It wasn't flirty. Not exactly. But it made his ears turn pink.
Later, during FP2, she sat on the stairs beside the engineering station, sipping iced coffee and scribbling something in a notebook. Not typing. Writing. Like she did when she wanted to think things through before saying them aloud.
Max appeared beside her quietly.
"You okay?" she asked, without looking up.
"Yeah. You?"
She glanced over. "Trying to figure out if we should open with a short stint or long-run softs."
YOU ARE READING
Calculated Risk ┃MV1
FanfictionShe's the quiet analyst nobody notices. Except Max Verstappen sees her. She's always there - in the shadows, calculating his every move, but never speaking a word. Max doesn't trust silence, and something about her doesn't add up. The more he pushes...
