"And if you have a minute, why don't we go talk about it somewhere only we know?"
-
Maya Beaulieu, born and raised in Montreal, has heard the stories about Lance Stroll, the boy who grew up down the street of where she lived. All the reason to stay...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
𝙻𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎'𝚜 𝚙𝚘𝚟
6th of August, Montreal Canada
"Where do you think you're going?" My dad's voice stops me before I can walk out of the door. My hand is already on the handle, but I reductively take it back.
"I— uhm, I wanted to go to the park."
"The park?" My dad repeats with a scoff. "Is there a secret simulation device I know nothing about?" He crosses his arms in front of his chest, an eyebrow raised as he waits for me to answer. The corners of his mouth are curled down. "You're not going anywhere until you've done laps on the simulator. The park is not going anywhere."
The park is not, no.
"I can do—"
"Now, Lance. I'm not asking you."
I nod, "Yes, sir."
When I'm done on the sim, the sun is long gone, and with that, I assume Maya too. With a sigh I drop myself on my bed, tired from the training, and tired from my dad making the desicions about my career for me.
My phone pings, and I see a message popping up from Natalia, a local American model I've met during the Austin Grand Prix last season.
Natalia
Hi there, handsome. Wanna meet up? I'm in Montreal Hygie Hotel
Room 254.
I'm on my way.
August 7th, Montreal, Canada
I climb up the ladder of the treehouse and see Maya sitting in a corner with her notebook, scribbling nervously while listening to piano music from her phone. She doesn't seem to notice me entering.
I recognize the tunes as Charles' MIA23 piece, and I chuckle softly. Would she know that her pianist is a F1 driver as well?
"Hi there," I say, softly as not to spook her again, I already did that when I found her sitting in the treehouse, but then blindfolded.
"God, Lance," She flinches, heavily. Results of me still spooking her. "Don't ever do that again."
"What?" A faint smile on my lips. "I can't do anything about the fact that you're easy to scare."
She rolls her eyes, and shuts her notebook, shutting off the music as well, "You're late. Like a day late."
"Yeah, sorry," I scratch the back of my head. "My dad made me train some more last night, and when I was done, the sun had already set for a long time."
