"And if you have a minute, why don't we go talk about it somewhere only we know?"
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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...
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𝙼𝚊𝚢𝚊'𝚜 𝚙𝚘𝚟
September 6th, Montreal, Canada
I wake up with a pounding headache and a sense of dread in my chest. I remember bits and pieces of the party from Brent's night before, but everything is hazy and disjointed. But the bitter taste on my tongue has just one name.
Joey Tremblay.
With must restrained in my body, I turn over in the bed and see Lance sitting in a chair next to it, he looks tired and concerned. I shoot up from the bed, suddenly very much aware that I am not in Brent's room, and not wearing my own clothes.
"What happened last night?" I croak, looking around me and taking in my surroundings, before my eyes meet Lance's again.
Lance sighs and rubs his forehead, "You're kidding me, right?"
I shake my head, feeling a surge of panic rising in my chest. "Wait, we didn't...right?"
Lance raises an eyebrow, "Wait, you don't remember? Did I not give it to you good enough?" He grins teasingly, but my face goes pale, I feel my blood drain from my face.
No, no, no. This can't be true. Not again. Not Lance too.
"Are you serious? What... Lan—"
Lance interrupts me quickly, realizing he has made a mistake, "Calm down, nothing happened. Contrary to what you believe, I do have self-control, and you were clearly not in any condition to consent to literally anything."
I feel a wave of relief wash over me, followed by embarrassment and shame, as I remember what happened in this room last night. I sit up in bed and cover my face with my hands, I have made a fool of myself in front of Lance, and now he knows how I feel about him.
"I'm so sorry," I whisper. "I don't know what came over me. I didn't mean to...I didn't want to..."
"Nothing happened, Maya. It's all good. We're good."
"I don't even remember most of last night."
Lance gives me a small smile, "Yeah, I figured as much. You were pretty out of it."
I take a deep breath and try to compose myself. "Thank you for being understanding, Lance. I don't know what got into me."
"It was just a reaction. You were faced with Joey and you reacted."
"I promise it won't happen again."
I can't let myself throw myself on him again. I must have looked like one of his fans in night clubs after a Grand Prix.
Lance stands up from the chair and walks over to the bedside table, where he has placed a glass of water and some pain relievers. "Here, take these," He says, handing them to me. "They should help with your headache."
