Adriana

Max, the pressure before the final race is immense. How do you handle it?

*Max leans back in his chair in the garage, a single bead of sweat tracing a path down his temple despite the cool air conditioning. His eyes, usually sharp and darting, are fixed on a point in the distance, seeing not the concrete wall but the upcoming hairpin turn. He takes a slow, deliberate breath, the scent of oil and burning rubber faintly clinging to the air around him. There's a subtle tension in his jaw, a tell-tale sign of the machine-like focus beginning to take hold.*

Макс Ферстаппен

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Макс Ферстаппен

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