The Prodigious One

01

Lance walked down the stairs of that private jet like he owned the city, and maybe he did. But he hadn't been to Miami in years, and the heat was almost unbearable. He fixed his Persol aviator sunglasses as he walked across the airport while his assistant pulled from his suitcase a few steps behind him; fans had already gathered around and, despite security shielding him with their bodies, the fans weren't going down without a fight. Phone cameras pointed at him like arrows aiming for his best angle, deafening screams and cries echoed in the building, and hands holding those SilverStone Racing caps with the number eighteen were reaching his direction. They wanted an autograph. They wanted a hug, a smile, a nod. Everyone wanted a piece of him.

​"This is insane," the assistant said as he looked around in awe; he must've been younger than Lance, probably eighteen or nineteen, and he had never seen anything like it.

​"Well, this was once my home," Lance explained as he exited through the doors.

​And he had a point. He was currently racing with the UK flag, but he had grown up in the sumptuous Italian-style villa of Coconut Grove, with sidewalk cafes, tasteful shops, sailing clubs, and debonair men and sophisticated women. Yes, he might've had the Union Flag right next to his name on the screen every Sunday, but the people of Miami claimed him as one of their own.

​The first Miami Grand Prix was coming, and Lance Kinglsey was the star of it. The most talented rookie the Formula One world had seen in recent years, the prodigy with unmatched, raw talent and a record yet to be beaten: the youngest winner of a Grand Prix —he was eighteen years and one-hundred-and-sixty-seven days old when he won the British GP. And what a glorious day it had been. He could still picture the incandescent orb of the sun as he looked up, he could still taste the champagne they sprayed on him, and the roaring of the crowd —he could definitely still hear that crowd. There is nothing the British fans love more than a SilverStone Racing British driver winning their home Grand Prix.

​"Finally, you made it," his father said as he opened the door of the suite at The Setai.

​"It was almost impossible to drive out of the airport." Lance walked in, not even paying attention to the beautiful room; he didn't notice the balcony overviewing the Atlantic Ocean, the carefully chosen artwork on the wall, the large flat-screen TV his dad had been watching while waiting for him, or even the Italian linens as he sat on the king-sized bed.

​"Who could've leaked the time you'd be arriving?" His father frowned. "I'm telling you, Lance, it must be someone in your team that's doing this. It can't be a coincidence."

​Lance only shrugged. Yes, his location had been leaked once while he was on vacation with a few of his friends at le Midi, but it hadn't been that big of a deal. Today was different, though. Lance had sent an anonymous tip to one of those fan pages that were so obsessed with his every move. Why, you might ask. Well, I guess one could say he craved the attention, that he loved the spotlight a bit too much. But his carefully calculated plan to steal every headline in the city wasn't about the fans or his image of SilverStone Racing's new golden boy. No, he was targeting one person in particular. Someone he wanted to see him, to know that he was back.

​Camila Bernal. The girl with honey-brown eyes and hazelnut hair that he just couldn't get out of his head. Was it shameless of him to want her to know he was back after leaving without saying goodbye? Yes, it totally was. But he was shameless like that.

​"Oh, you're here!" Rebekah hollered as she ran to her brother, wrapping her thin arms around him. She hadn't seen him since March, at the Saudi Arabian GP. She had turned eighteen last December, which meant her mother didn't have a say in whether she could travel the world with her dad and her brother anymore. Of course, she couldn't go everywhere with them; she had started uni the past fall at Oxford Brookes, where she studied journalism. But she could get away every once in a while to hop on a private jet to spend the weekend somewhere else, especially if it was Miami.
​"Rebekah, what are you wearing?" Her father crossed his arms and raised a brow. She looked down at her tiny bikini —navy blue, little white stars, and red seams.