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Charles is in no way prepared for what he sees at the padel court. How could he? The whole thing was extemporaneous for him: he’s only present because yesterday he happened to run into Alex on his evening run, ending up invited to tag along and play padel with “a bunch of others.” And who could say no to padel?
So, Charles had donned his best padel attire – like he was heading for an athleisure photoshoot, not a casual get-together with coworkers – and made his way to the courts. He had expected to see a group of three waiting for him: likely Alex, George, and Lando, or perhaps Carlos in the place of one of the Brits. Once he walks through the gates, the number of drivers gathered around the court surprises Charles, however. In addition to the foursome he had anticipated, there’s Oscar, holding a racket and looking lost, Fernando, stretching his back, taking a break from his parental duties, and near the entrance, Ollie chatting animatedly with Gabriel.
Stopping on his tracks (no one has noticed him yet), Charles thinks back to his conversation with Alex. Is this a GPDA meeting under the guise of padel? No, Alex hadn’t insinuated anything of such. Must be a rare occurrence of this many F1 drivers flocking together outside the paddock. There are plenty of empty courts for everyone to play in, but their numbers – Charles finds, after a quick roll call in his head – are uneven. He did not come only to lounge on the substitutes’ bench. He marches over to Alex and George.
“Who’s playing with who?” he asks. “We are nine?” He gestures at the others, and Ollie waves his racket at him. “I can call Arthur–” Charles’s hand is already creeping into his pocket to take out his phone, but he hesitates. Maybe he should’ve asked Max if he’d liked to join – though that wouldn’t have helped with their agreement of keeping this thing of theirs on the down-low. His face feels warm, as if the others could read his mind.
“No need,” George interrupts. “Max is still changing clothes.”
“Ah.” Charles replies and lets the phone slip back into his pocket. Somebody beat him to it. Charles can’t deny the jolt of excitement that runs through him. “Good. So one pair will play on their own?”
“That’s the plan,” Alex confirms. He stretches his neck, looking around. “Gabi?” he calls out. “Did Max say anything? Could you go check if everything’s okay?”
“Hope he didn’t fall in the toilet,” Lando says with a chuckle.
“Or climb out the window and run away.” Gabriel has a weird smirk on his face as he says it. Like he’s holding back bursting into hyena-like cackles. Ollie, as well, has a mischievous glint in his eye and Charles becomes instantly suspicious. The younger drivers are unpredictable with their shenanigans. It makes Charles feel old. It also makes Charles want to hold on to his credit card. He’s happy Kimi isn’t present.
“I guess we could still decide who plays with who,” George says, tossing his water bottle from hand to hand. “Alex, are you with me?”
“Sure,” Alex agrees. “Do you wanna–” Something stops him in his tracks and his eyes widen. Charles hears someone laughing – howling. Gabriel. He turns around and–
Max is marching across the padel court, cheeks flaming pink, as pink as–
Well, as pink as the pleated tennis skirt he’s wearing. Gabriel appears to find it the funniest sight he has ever seen, slapping his thighs, almost teetering over in a fit of laughter. “Mate, I didn’t think you’d actually do it!”
Max tugs the hem of the skirt downwards, to better cover his thighs, though the garment barely does the job. Charles’s brain bluescreens before turning into goo. The pale, rose petal pink against the milky thigh makes his head woozy like he’s hit the barrier. He doesn’t know where to look. He doesn’t know where he’s allowed to look; his gaze bounces around, from the ground to the congregation of clouds thrifting through the sky.
“Of course I was doing it!” Max replies. A hint of panic appears in his eyes when he spots Charles. He acknowledges Charles with a tiny nod. What the fuck? Charles tries to convey to him, but Max redirects his focus to Gabriel. “I wouldn’t have taken the bet if I wasn’t gonna do this.” He crosses his arms and his t-shirt rides up, revealing a sliver of his stomach, the fuzzy happy trail that disappears under the waistband of the skirt. By now, Charles has kissed that spot many times, in the heated, stolen moments in driver’s rooms and hotel rooms, or occasionally their apartments.
Charles breathes in slowly and takes a sip from his water bottle. He must– He must not let his demeanor betray anything. He glances at the others, but they do not seem to be paying attention to Charles, instead eyeing Max with amusement.
Charles hates Gabriel. This was supposed to be just a casual padel session, to unwind before the race weekend comes. Now there’s… this.
“It suits you,” Fernando says with a huge grin, ambling closer to Max to pat his shoulder. “You have the legs for it.”
He does. Oh boy, he does.
“How about you, Fernando?” Lando butts in. Behind him, Oscar looks like he’s been hit in the head with a mallet. Carlos appears to be in a flummoxed state, as well. Charles can sympathize.
“I still have the tab open, if you’re interested,” Gabriel snickers.
“I’ll skip this time,” Fernando says. “Wouldn’t want to take Max’s spotlight. Are we gonna play or just gawk at Max, then?”
“Wait!” Ollie interrupts. He holds up his phone and–
“Did you just take a photo of me?” Max cries.
“Kimi needs to see this.”
“No, he definitely does not!” Max barks. Charles agrees, but there isn’t much he can do to protest lest he rouse suspicions. So he can only watch as Max dashes to Ollie, who manages to keep the phone out of his reach.
“Ollie, you're a menace,” Alex laughs.
“He won’t share it!” Ollie assures. “I promise on his behalf. He wouldn’t dare!”
“Maybe, but what if his or your phone gets hacked?” Max raises a reasonable worry.
“Just say it’s AI.” Ollie huffs, tapping his screen furiously, eyes sparkling with mischief. Max has no chance. He lets his hands flop down, a disappointed pout on his face. Gosh, he looks– “Everyone will think it’s AI, anyway.”
“AI is scary now,” Gabriel states. “I see Lando and Oscar kissing on TikTok. All the time.”
Lando makes a noise like he’s choking on his own tongue.
“Thank you so much for reminding me,” Oscar deadpans.
“Be happy Gemini does it for you,” Gabriel continues. “Who knows what ideas Zak could have. Papaya rules.” He taps his temple and waggles his eyebrows. Lando shows him the finger.
“Papay rules,” Ollie snickers, and even Max grins, eyes crinkling.
“Hey!” George calls out over the ruckus, clicking his fingers and waving his racket. “Are we gonna play or not? I did not come here to ogle Verstappen in a skirt.”
“Yet you are still looking,” Max huffs.
“I am not looking.” George rolls his eyes. “I don’t care what you wear.”
“You can wear a skirt too if you want to. Though Gabi only brought this one.” Max runs his hands over the pleats, drawing attention to his thighs. Charles gulps. “What is it? Gucci? We could match.” Max sways his hips playfully and Charles feels heat rush to his face. To another place, as well. He looks away, pretending that the pigeons trotting around are particularly riveting.
“Mate, it’s from Shein,” Gabriel says. “I think?”
“Shein?” Charles and George exclaim at the same time.
“Next time, ask the fashionistas for skirt advice, Gabi,” Max says. His eyes shift to Charles and his smile grows, crinkles deepening. Charles smiles back, trying not to appear as a total fool.
“I am not– Whatever, let’s just play,” George huffs. He’s looking rather purple, as well. “Alex is with me, everyone else, pair up!”
Fernando snakes his arm around Max’s shoulders, pulling him flush to his side. Max finds Charles’s eyes and gives him a pout. Why can’t he say no to Fernando? Who gave Fernando dibs, anyway? Gabriel and Ollie seem to have chosen each other, and Lando has skipped over to Carlos, leaving Oscar standing desolate. Charles makes his way to him. “Looks like it’s us.”
“I’m not that good at this,” Oscar says while twirling his racket. “But I’ll try my best. So, uh…” Oscar points towards Max with his racket. “You know what that’s about?”
“No clue.” Charles tries to act nonchalant.
“Alright.”
“Piastri, Leclerc, playing against us?” Fernando shouts. Charles sees George and Alex have already settled with Lando and Carlos, while Gabriel and Ollie are too busy looking at Ollie’s phone. He flashes Fernando thumbs up.
“Max isn’t that good, either,” Charles tells Oscar. “It’ll balance it out.”
–
“Max, I can see your balls!”
Hearing Lando’s hooting makes Charles almost trip over his own feet. By some miracle, Oscar manages to hit the ball Charles failed to get to, though it lands out of bounds two meters from Fernando, who tuts and shakes his head, hands on his hips.
Max tugs on the hem of his skirt. He glares at Lando, his middle finger making an appearance.
“Lando, stop staring at Max and focus on the game,” Carlos admonishes, hitting Lando in the back of his head gently with his racket.
“I’m not– Mate, just look at him!” Lando splutters.
Look at him, alright… The flush on Max’s face has only deepened. It takes all Charles’s willpower to keep his eye on the ball and not sneak glances of Max – though he hasn’t been quite successful. There are images burned into his retinas, of a gust of wind making Max’s skirt swish, the hem dangerously short. Of his face scrunching up in concentration, tongue occasionally peeking out to wet his lips.
“Yes, very funny,” Carlos says to Lando. “Now focus!”
“Don’t worry, Max,” Fernando assures, getting ready for his turn to serve. “I can’t see your bollocks. Lando is only teasing.”
“Thanks,” Max replies dryly.
Oscar tries to return the ball, and it lands in the corner, hitting the metal fence with a loud crash. While Max jogs to retrieve it, Charles decides to go take a sip from his water bottle. His eyes betray him, unable to leave Max’s figure and observe how he crouches down (doesn’t bend over) to pick up the ball. Blindly, his hand searches for the water bottle on the ground and closes around the shape of it.
“Charles, that’s my bottle,” Oscar calls out.
Charles switches to the right bottle. His heart stutters when he sees a flash of white underwear underneath Max’s skirt. He takes more than just a sip of the water, chugging down nearly half of the contents, letting it slip down his chin and inside his shirt. He desperately needs to be cooled down. When he gets home, he will hop in the shower, immediately, the coldest shower of his life, colder than plunging into the waters around Antarctica.
(Unless he leaves with Max. But that would be too conspicuous, perhaps.)
Thank god, after all, that Fernando called dibs on Max. Charles can’t imagine how this torment would be like if he were standing on Max’s side, seeing him from the back. The front view is enough to melt his mind.
What is wrong with me? Charles chastises himself and resists the urge to slap himself. It’s just Max in a skirt.
Max, whose body has been driving Charles insane for a while – from the swell of pecs to the shape of hips, how the small love handles spilled over just so. How the white fireproofs made him resemble a marble statue from the ancient times. How his strong and sturdy thighs look soft now, framed by the pleats of the skirt. Some stupid, cheap, knock-off skirt from Shein. And Max is pulling it off like a supermodel.
“Charles?” Oscar waves his racket in front of Charles’s face. “Back to us? You good?”
“Yeah. I’m perfect,” Charles mutters. Is Oscar smart? Can he see what’s going on – he probably can. Charles is red like a tomato, likely redder than Max. But maybe Oscar is not the worst person to notice, maybe he’ll actually keep his revelations to himself. He seems like a guy who minds his business.
“Fernando is eating us alive here, mate,” Oscar huffs.
“Yeah. I’ll–” Max’s figure in his periphery, Charles swallows, a loud gulp. “I’ll try to focus.” He splashes some water onto his face. “Sorry, I didn’t sleep well last night.” A solid excuse.
Oscar gives him a weird look and retreats to his spot. Charles fixes his eyes sternly on Fernando and pretends Max doesn’t exist. Easier said than done: Max is a vocal player, constantly letting out little grunts and moans and come ons and yeses. Charles tries not to put the noises in a lewd context. Focus. Get your mind out of the gutter.
In the end, Max and Fernando beat them. Barely, Charles might add. And it’s Oscar’s fault, really – his padel skills are abysmal.
“You look sour,” Oscar comments as everyone wanders around giving each of fist bumps and saying goodbye.
“I don’t like losing,” Charles replies.
Oscar chuckles. “Sorry about that. But you were barely better than me. Sorry.”
Before Charles is able to express his dismay, Oscar has skulked away. Charles finds Max again, Gabriel and Ollie now flocked to him. Typical. Mother duck, or whatever they say.
“Kimi said you look great in that,” Ollie is saying as Charles sidles closer.
“He is always so nice,” Max replies, voice saccharine, his hand on his heart. “So sweet and polite.”
“Yeah. Right,” Gabriel chuckles. “He just doesn’t know you well enough to be a little shit around you.”
They all laugh. “I’m gonna go change. I’m so tired of this skirt, thanks a lot, Gabi. See you on Thursday?” Max fist bumps both Gabriel and Ollie and turns around.
As he’s walking to the locker rooms, he glances over his shoulder, eyes finding Charles. There’s a minuscule nudge of his head – Charles understands. “I– I need to use the bathroom,” he tells Carlos and Alex who have approached him to natter with him.
“Sure. Go,” Alex says, flabbergasted.
Max has already disappeared inside, but Charles knows where to find him. The skirt still on, Max is resting his right leg on one of the benches while drinking the dregs from his water bottle. The skirt covers the crucial bits just barely. Charles’s breath catches in his throat, which alerts Max.
“Hello, Charles,” he says, his lips detaching from the nozzle of the bottle with a pop. Pink and plush. “Had fun playing?”
“It was alright,” Charles croaked.
“You feeling okay?” Max hums, tilting his head. “You were playing worse than usual.”
“Fuck you,” Charles huffs and presses Max against the nearest locker. Max grins like a madman. He’s sweaty, tiny little beads decorating his brow, his cheeks, his upper lip. A rosy hue covers his skin, sunburn and natural flush. His hair hangs over his forehead in darkened strands. And his eyes are blue and wanting and vulnerable.
Charles rests their foreheads together, eyes closed. Tentative and trembling, like he’s a teenager again, his hands slip down, down, mapping out Max’s body. When Charles’s thumbs slip underneath the fabric and caress over his hip bones, Max squirms and shivers at the touch.
He doesn’t know where they’re heading. A head-on collision, a car wreck. He wishes he could convert all these confusing and overwhelming feelings into words. For now, he lets his body and actions do the talking. His hands slip out, through the waistband, and one of them re-enters, slipping beneath the hemline this time, prizing Max’s thighs apart. There, on the inner thigh, his skin is soft and smooth – one of Charles’s favorite spots to kiss and bruise.
His eyes meet Max’s as his hands flit and bumble beneath the skirt. His hard cock presses against Max’s thigh, evident and unignorable every time he shifts and readjusts his position. Max’s head thumps against the metal locker when Charles squeezes and kneads the soft part of his inner thigh. Soft curses fall from those plump lips and Charles grins. He leans closer, letting his unshaven stubble scrape Max’s cheek.
“Your thighs are still sore here?” he whispers, after peppering kisses along Max’s jaw, all the way to the ear. His thumb presses a random spot on the thigh, nail digging in, and he hopes it’s a bruise. Max gasps sharply – jackpot. Charles has no other choice but to press a kiss into the corner of his mouth.
The day before yesterday, Charles had spent his sweet time kissing and sucking the skin there, teeth digging in once he got into it. He had decorated Max’s inner thighs with splotches and crescents of purple, rubbed them pink with his stubble. In fact, they had spent half the day in Max’s bed while the cats scratched on the closed door, letting them know with disgruntled meows that they would very much like to come inside and explore the room they had seen a thousand times, please. (They had calmed down once Max got up to feed them, stumbling through the apartment on shaky legs. Charles had pulled him back into the bed the second he’d returned to the bedroom.)
Charles’s hand begins to wander up, up, fingers now toying with the fabric of Max’s underwear. But instead of relinquishing himself for Charles, Max hisses, and grasps Charles’s wrist. “You should go.”
“What.” They were only getting started.
Max fixes Charles a stern glare, though his pupils are still blown and a flush covers most of his face. He licks his lips. “They will of course start to think why are you taking so long.”
“They’ll probably think I left without them seeing me.” Charles buries his face into Max’s neck and starts pressing kisses into it. “Are they even out there?” he mumbles against Max’s skin.
“Well Gabi will be, at least. I was his ride. I bet he’s getting suspicious the longer you stay here.”
Charles groans and throws his head back, pulling his hand out of Max’s skirt. Stupid Gabriel and his cockblocking ways. The skirt had been his idea, too. What a pest.
With a deep sigh, Charles yanks the skirt down, the elastic giving way and sliding off Max’s hips.
“Hey!” Max protests, grabbing the skirt, flustered. Charles grins at him and picks up the shorts lying on the bench. Max snatches them from him as he shuffles out of the skirt, the fabric stretching around his thighs.
“Go!” he hisses at Charles. Charles smacks a wet kiss onto his cheek for good measure, before exiting the locker room.
Most of the other drivers have already left, but Gabriel and Ollie are still standing around holding their rackets. “Was there a queue at the loo or what took you so long?” Ollie quips, squinting in the sun.
Charles doesn’t reply and walks past them with a bounce in his step, whistling. “See you at the track!”
In the car, Charles takes out his phone, opens his convo with Max, and types, are you free today? gonna keep the skirt?
The reply arrives almost immediately: a picture of the skirt, crumpled inside Max’s backpack, accompanied with, see you in 15 minutes, my place?
Grinning, Charles starts the car. Maybe later, after they’re sated enough, he could go online shopping. Max deserves better than Shein, that’s for sure.