Somewhere Only We Know - Lance Stroll

𝓸𝓷𝓮

𝙼𝚊𝚢𝚊'𝚜 𝚙𝚘𝚟

At the end of my street begins Parc Angrigon. A place where I, as a kid, always used to play hide and seek with my friends. And the place where my father built me a secret treehouse, hidden behind the largest trees. It was my hide-out, it was my place to retreat. And in the 12 years it stood there, no one ever found it.

Not to my knowledge at least.

August 2nd, Montreal, Canada

I can walk to the treehouse blindly. If I ever lose my sight, I know how to find the place.

It is a daily routine, especially since writing does not go as smoothly as it has, walking to the treehouse to watch the sunset has become a routine. I go to retreat myself from the noise of Montreal, and from the pressure given from my publisher and writing agent.

I turn the last corner and immediately freeze. Someone is sitting in my treehouse, his gaze locked on the setting sun. I slowly walk closer, and recognize the guy, sitting at the edge of the house, his legs dangle over the edge and his arms support him as he leans back. A small smile lingers on his lips.

Lance Stroll.

We grew up together, living on the same street and only being born 15 days apart from each other. As toddlers, we used to play together, but as we got older, we drifted apart. He became someone I didn't want to be involved with.

My family followed his racing journey, almost the whole neighborhood did, if not all of Montreal did. And as soon as Lance entered Formula One, the stories traveled back with him in the summer- and winter breaks.

My first instinct is to turn around and leave, but something makes me hesitant. Perhaps it is because coming here and watching the sunset is my routine, or because I've known Lance since we were children. Whatever it is, he is not going to disturb my evening.

"What are you doing here?" I ask, trying to hide my annoyance.

Lance flinches and looks down at me, "Oh, I am sorry. Am I on private ground?"

"You're in Parc Angrignon, nothing here is private."

Lance nods at my words, I recognize nothing of the boy from television or the stories that traveled with him. I climb up the ladder and sit down a few meters from Lance.

He gives me a small smile, "I'm Lance–"

"I know who you are," I interrupt him. "Lance Stroll, son of Lawrence Stroll and a Formula One driver, Montreal's pride and joy." I try not to sound too sarcastic, but it fails me with the last few words.

Lance chuckles, feeling a bit deflated. "I take it you're not a fan."

"Absolutely not." I respond without skipping a beat.

Lance looks taken aback for a moment, but then regains his composure, "Maya Beaulieu, the girl who used to live down the street from me, born November 13th, which makes me 15 days older and is the only reason I can remember your birthday. You haven't changed a bit."

"Thanks, I think." I reply, crossing my arms.

"I'm sorry if I've taken up your place, I just needed to get away from my household for a bit and this treehouse seemed like the perfect place. Your treehouse, I assume. I will go if you want me to."

I soften a bit at his words. I know what it's like to need a quiet place to escape to, "It's fine, you can stay here for now, but don't expect us to become friends again or for me to even enjoy this one bit."

Lance grins, "I wouldn't dream about it."

We sit in silence for a few minutes, both watching the sun sip below the horizon. I can feel Lance's eyes on me, but I refuse to look back at him.

"How long have you been coming here?" Lance finally asks, breaking the silence between us.

"Ever since my dad built it for me, 12 years ago. And you?"

"Since I found it last December. Do you come here every day?"

"Yes. In the summer at least." I look at him shortly, his eyes still focusing on me.

"Why?"

I roll my eyes, "To escape." I try to keep my answers short, hoping that Lance would pick up the hint that I have no interest in a conversation with him.

"From what?"

He does not pick up the hint.

"From the noise of the city, from the pressure of writing, from everything actually." I admit, looking him properly in the eyes for the first time.

He nods in understanding, "I get it. Racing can be very overwhelming too sometimes. But you know what they say, pressure makes diamonds."

"Yeah, well, I'm not feeling very diamond-like lately." I grumble back at his words.

Lance laughs, "I am sure you'll get your sparkle back soon enough."

I can't help but smile at his words, but then remember that he's like this to probably every other girl; he has gotten his reputation for a reason.

The silence creeps in again, and I no longer feel Lance's eyes on me, so I carefully turn to look at him. He looks nothing like the guy portrayed by the media, or like the stories that travel around.

"Why do you come here?"

"To escape the pressure driving gives," He looks at me again and gives me a light smile. "Today specifically, because I had a fight with my dad."

I nod, understanding the need to run away from family drama, but I can't say I am surprised he had a fight with his dad, the same man who invested million of dollars into his racing career. "That must to tough."

"It is what it is." Lance shrugs nonchalant, giving glimpses of the boy I've seen in the tabloids.

"Would it make you feel better to talk about it?" I ask, trying to be civil, but it honestly can not bother me if he wants to talk to me about it or not.

Lance shrugs again, "It was just a common fight. My dad's pissed about the leaked photos, claiming I don't value the reputation of the family and that I am jeopardizing my own career. Nothing you'd care about."

My eyes are fixed on the last bits of sun at the horizon, before I slowly turn my face to him. He is right, it is nothing I would care about. But that doesn't mean I can not offer a listening ear. It is something my dad taught me. Because no matter how bad a person is, or how bad you think he is, they might still need help.

"I'm still a great listener."

"I don't need it." His eyes are fixed on the horizon, his body language clearly stating that he is lying. And suddenly I feel for him, because it must be tough to live up to your parents' standards and to be constantly surrounded by the media, to not have privacy during the greater part of the year.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes." He replies, standing up and cleaning his trousers. Without another word he moves and climbs down the ladder. With a soft thud he lands on the floor.

I lean forward and look at how Lance is walking away, "Lance?"

He turns around, looking at me with a questioning gaze, "Yeah?"

"Bring coffee tomorrow."

He gives me a light smile and nods."