Freya spent most of the walk to her first college class pretending her heart wasn’t racing as hard as it did in the last minute of a tied game.
Conte had been easy. Ice always was. She knew where her edges were there.
Gonzaga to Saint Mary's Hall building, though—backpack straps digging into her shoulders, sneakers instead of skates, sun instead of rink lights—that felt like stepping into an entirely different league.
She’d memorized the campus map on her phone anyway, the way she used to memorize plays. COMM 1020 - introductio n dto media studies, circled in her calendar, highlighted, underlined. Requirement for a lot of things, maybe the start of a major, definitely the easiest way to justify binging media studies videos in her free time.
She tugged her headphones down around her neck as she cut across the quad. The bell tower chimed the hour. Freshmen streamed in every direction, nametags and lanyards and nerves.
Inside the lecture hall, rows of narrow desks cascaded down to a whiteboard. The room hummed with first‑week energy: someone comparing schedules, someone else trying to figure out how to connect to the Wi‑Fi.
Freya paused at the back, scanning for a seat. The top rows were already full of clusters that looked like they’d come straight from the same orientation group. No sign of any familiar faces.
And then she spotted him. Mid‑row, center of the room: Will Smith in a BC hoodie, coffee cup parked on the tiny fold‑out desk, talking with two guys who wore the “hockey walk” like a second skin. Right‑side winger posture. Lanky, half‑slouch, legs sprawled like chairs were just suggestions.
Of course he was here.
She shouldn’t have been surprised. Communication was one of the go‑to routes for players with any media attention, and she’d watched enough interviews to know Will was good with a mic. But knowing it in theory and seeing him in a crowded lecture hall were different things.
He looked up as if he’d felt her staring. Their eyes met across the room. His mouth twitched into an almost‑guilty grin.
Freya exhaled, amusement loosening something in her chest. Fine. If the universe wanted to recycle characters, she could work with that.
The only empty seats in that row were the ones on either side of Will’s friend on the aisle. She took the steps down two at a time and stopped beside them.
“You’re everywhere,” she said, tipping her chin at Will.
He blinked, then laughed under his breath. “You followed me here.”
The dark‑haired guy by the aisle looked between them, confused but curious. The blond on her other side—cap backward, grin ready—was already half leaning around Will to see.
Freya nodded at the aisle guy. “Is this seat taken?”
“No,” he said quickly, tugging his bag off the desk. “Go ahead.”
She slid into the space between him and Will, backpack on the floor, notebook out. For a second, the three boys just stared at her.
The blond recovered first. He stuck out a hand across Will, nearly knocking over the coffee.
“Ryan Leonard,” he said. “Leno or Ry."
“Freya,” she said, shaking his hand. “Sedin.”
The name landed like a dropped puck. Both boys flinched; they tried to hide it. It didn’t work.
“Yeah,” Leno said, eyes going a little too wide. “like the Canucks Sedin?”
“Yeah, please don’t make it weird,” she said, half amused, half resigned.
“I won’t,” he promised.
The other guy offered his hand more calmly. “Gabriel Perrault, or Gabe” he said.
She shook his hand too “Nice to meet you.”
The professor started talking at the front—syllabus, grading, attendance. Freya tried to split her attention between the slides and the three very noisy presences around her.
Will leaned closer, voice low. “You didn’t say you’d be in Comm.”
“You didn’t ask,” she replied.
He huffed. “Fair.”
On the slide, the professor pulled up the class roster, their names flashing briefly in columns. Freya caught “Smith, William,” “Leonard, Ryan,” “Perrault, Gabriel,” and, in the same block, “Sedin, Freya.” It felt strange to see the four of them lined up like that on something that wasn’t a lineup card.
“Most of you are still deciding your paths,” the professor said. “Some of you already think you know what you want. That’s fine. This course will be useful either way.”
Leno nudged her with his elbow. “You know your major yet?” he whispered.
“Not really,” she said. “This is me testing waters. Seeing if I can stand listening to people talk about media as much as I like watching it.”
Gabe arched a brow. “You like movies”
She hesitated. Saying it out loud always felt dorkier than it sounded in her head. “A little bit,” she said. “Enough to minor, probably.”
Will looked over, surprised. “Films?”
“Don’t sound so shocked,” she muttered. “We weren’t allowed to watch game tape all the time growing up.”
Leno’s face lit up. “Okay, that’s sick. So when we’re all old and washed up, you’ll direct the documentary about how we peaked at nineteen.”
“Sixteen,” Gabe corrected.
“Speak for yourself,” Will said.
Freya had to bite back a laugh. “You’re all insufferable,” she decided.
“Get used to it,” Leno said. “We’re stuck together now.”
He wasn’t wrong. When the professor pulled up the list of pre‑assigned semester groups, all four of their names appeared in the same bullet point.
Group 3: Smith – Leonard – Perrault – Sedin.
“Guess we’re teammates in here too,” Will murmured.
The professor asked them to “briefly introduce yourselves to your group.” The four of them half‑turned toward the middle of the row.
“Will,” he said. “ Hockey player. Lexington, Massachusetts. I like… winning faceoffs and not failing classes.”
“Leno,” Ryan said. “ Hockey player too, from Amherst. I like chirping and scoring goals.”
“Gabe,” Perrault added. “ Also hockey player. Born in Quebec but raised in Illinois. I like clean entries and colour‑coded notes.”
Three sets of eyes landed on her.
Freya tapped her pen against the desk. “Freya,” she said. “ Like all of you, I'm a hockey player. From Vancouver and Sweden. I like good movies, clean breakouts, and people who don’t make a huge deal about my last name.”
Leno held up two out of three fingers. “We can try.”
Gabe smiled. “Two is a start.”
After class, the hallway outside the lecture hall was a crush of bodies. The four of them spilled out together, somehow staying in the same little pocket of space.
“So,” Leno said, unable to help himself, “you two just knew each other already?”
“We met at Conte,” Freya said before Will could get weird. “He trespassed. I trespassed also.”
Will groaned. “It wasn’t trespassing. The door was… unlocked.”
“Closed sign still counts,” she said.
Will looks at her, "says you."
Gabe frowned. “Wait, is this the shootout story?”
Will’s silence was answer enough.
Freya took pity on him. “We skated,” she said. “He’s fine. Needs work on his fake, though.”
“Wow,” Leno breathed. “Our franchise guy got bagged by Sedin before orientation even started.”
“Ten–seven,” Freya added, because she was honest.
Gabe actually choked. “You took him for ten?”
“Can we not broadcast the exact score in the hallway?” Will muttered, ears red.
“It’s okay,” Freya said, nudging his shoulder with hers. “He’s teachable.”
Gabe watched the easy contact, the way she said it—teasing but not cruel. Whatever had happened on the ice, it hadn’t scared Will off. If anything, he seemed more grounded standing next to her.
They reached the doors and stepped out into the late‑summer haze. The path toward Gonzaga sloped gently away, brick and trees and too‑bright green.
“You in Upper or Newton?” Leno asked, already dreading the bus if she said Newton.
“Gonzaga,” she said. “Second floor.”
All three boys stopped walking.
Will blinked. “You’re in Gonzaga.”
She nodded. “214. Women’s hall.”
“We’re 314 and 316,” Gabe said slowly. “So we’re… literally stacked.”
“Guess I’m your upstairs neighbour,” she said. “Try not to slam doors at 2 a.m.”
“That’s absolutely going to be Ryan,” Will said.
Leno looked personally offended. “I am a delight.”
Freya raised an eyebrow. “We’ll see.”
They walked the rest of the way with that knowledge settling between them: same rink, same class, same building. It made BC feel smaller in a not‑bad way.
At the Gonzaga entrance, they paused.
“Group‑project meeting tonight?” Gabe asked. “Might as well get a head start before the season gets too crazy.”
“Lounge?” Will suggested. “Third floor?”
Freya thought about her half‑unpacked room upstairs—the ivy she’d already strung across the ceiling, the boxes of DVDs under her bed, the Canada jersey folded carefully in her drawer.
“Yeah,” she said. “Text me the time.”
Freya asks Leno for his phone for her to put her number for them to text her.
She swiped into the building and headed for the stairs. Halfway up, she looked back over the railing.
Will, Gabe, and Leno were still standing in the lobby, looking up at her like they’d just realised their roster had changed without anyone telling them.
“See you, boys,” she called. “Try not to get lost without me.”
“Bossy,” Will muttered, but he was smiling.
“Leader,” Gabe corrected.
“Terrifying,” Leno added happily.
Freya laughed, the sound bouncing off cinderblock and bulletin boards as she disappeared onto the second floor.
By that night, when she walked into the third‑floor lounge with a notebook in one hand and a film theory book in the other, it already felt inevitable: four freshmen one Comm class and a dorm whose thin walls would never quite muffle their noise.
By October, nobody on Upper Campus could remember a time when the four of them weren’t moving through BC like one messy, chirpy constellation.
It started quietly that first night.
Freya showed up to the Gonzaga third‑floor lounge with a notebook, a film book half‑hidden under her arm, and her hair still damp from a shower. Will, Leno, and Gabe were already there, sprawled on the sagging couch with their COMM 101 syllabus open and absolutely zero work done.
“You’re late,” Leno said.
Freya checked the clock. “It’s eight‑oh‑two.”
“Exactly.”
She dropped into the armchair, feet curling under her. “How much have you done so far?”
Silence.
Gabe cleared his throat. “We’ve… highlighted the due dates.”
Freya looked at the pristine pages, then at the pile of unopened board games in the corner—someone’s attempt at RA‑approved socializing.
“Right,” she said. “We’re doomed.”
But she opened her notebook anyway, and for an hour they actually worked. Gabe organized, Will translated professor‑speak into normal words, Freya connected everything to movies she’d seen, and Leno provided colour commentary and questions that accidentally led to decent ideas.
When they finally closed their books, the tension in the room snapped.
Leno hopped up and grabbed a worn box from the game pile. “Okay,” he said. “Now that we’ve been responsible, it’s time for Catan.”
Gabe groaned. “You’re insufferable when you win.”
“I’m insufferable always” Leno corrected. “You might as well lose to me with style.”
Freya eyed the box. “I haven’t played that in years.”
“Perfect,” Will said. “He’s easier to beat than he thinks.”
They played until quiet hours, laughing too loud, accusing each other of trading sheep under the table, making alliances and breaking them in three turns. Some warnings came and went. Nobody cared.
By the time Freya padded back up to her dorm, hoodie full of stolen snacks, she’d already agreed to meet them for breakfast at Carney’s in the morning.
“Stole us a good table,” Will said when she arrived, sliding over to make room.
“You mean you got here early because you’re always starving,” she replied.
“Both can be true,” Gabe said mildly, adding hot sauce to his eggs.
They ate, half talking about practice, half strategizing group project roles, Freya sneaking glances at the line of film posters on the dining‑hall wall. Nobody mentioned that it had only been twenty‑four hours since they’d met properly.
It didn’t feel new anymore.
After that, it became routine.
Between‑class coffee If there was a break longer than twenty minutes, someone texted “Chocolate Bar?” and within five minutes they were all there, hunched over tiny café tables, Freya with a notebook full of shot lists, Gabe with flashcards, Will and Leno sharing a muffin like they hadn’t eaten an hour ago.
Dining‑hall runs also became a usual in their routine, they learned each other’s orders quickly—Freya’s habit of mixing salad bar stuff with whatever hot entrée looked least suspicious, Gabe’s obsession with soup, Leno’s commitment to trying every dessert, Will’s embarrassing cereal‑at‑all‑hours thing. Meal swipes blurred together into a shared tab.
Wednesday became unofficial game night in 314. They played Catan, Uno Exploding Kittens or whatever someone’s roommate had brought from home. Half the time, the games devolved into storytelling or gossip sessions where the board sat forgotten while they dissected line combinations, movie endings, and who on campus had the worst haircut.
More than once, Freya looked up from a conversation to realize it was 3 a.m., the fluorescent lights buzzing, and they were still on Gabe’s floor debating which teammate was secretly dating who or whether a certain professor hated athletes on principle. They’d sit cross‑legged on the floor of Leno and Gabe’s room, junk food everywhere, Will stretched out on the rug like his back didn’t hurt. No one reached for their phones unless it was to pull up a clip or a meme.
They made a tradition to visit almost cafeteria in Campus and disvover others in town, they’d claim a table; Gabe would actually work, Freya would alternate between editing a film paper and storyboarding in the margins, Will would half‑do readings and half‑spin his pen, and Leno would somehow finish nothing but still be the loudest one there.
On weekends, when they weren’t traveling for games, they discovered the campus bar scene together. They squeezed into crowded off‑campus pubs on game‑free Saturdays, Freya tucked between Gabe and Will at tall tables, Leno telling increasingly dramatic stories with his hands.
“You’re a menace,” she told him once, after he’d nearly knocked someone’s drink over miming a hit along the boards.
“You love me,” he said confidently.
She rolled her eyes. “I tolerate you.”
“Progress,” Gabe observed.
They also went shopping together in bursts—Target runs for dorm supplies, thrift‑store trips where Freya hunted for old movie T‑shirts and the boys tried on the ugliest jackets they could find. Back in Gonzaga, she’d sit on her bed under the ivy, new posters spread out around her, while Will lay on the floor critiquing her choices like he hadn’t worn the same hoodie three days straight.
“You’re not hanging that by your desk,” he said once, pointing at a particularly grim Swedish film poster.
“Watch me,” she replied.
He did. He always did.
By mid‑semester, people on campus just knew: if you saw one of them, the other three were probably close.
Freya and Will arguing about which movie they should watch for her Film assignment, Leno in the middle, refereeing. Gabe walking beside them, quietly listing off due dates so no one forgot a quiz.
Freya in women’s hockey team merch, jogging back from Conte with headphones in, only to be intercepted by three guys in men’s gear who’d waited an extra ten minutes so they could walk back together.
Will dropping a coffee on her desk in Comm before sliding into his own seat, like it was just part of the lecture set‑up. Gabe handing her a neat stack of notes if she’d missed anything during an away weekend. Leno leaning back in his chair to whisper, “We’re getting Stu fries after this, right?” until she caved.
They kept “almost everything” together without really planning it.
When Freya got her first film paper back with a higher grade than she’d expected, she went straight to 314, waving it in the air. Gabe insisted on reading the comments; Will insisted on framing it; Leno insisted they celebrate with late‑night trip to the Domino's pizza up campus in Rogers Park.
When Will had a rough practice, when he fumbled a pass and his head felt too full, Freya dragged him to her dorm and set up her laptop. “You’re watching this,” she said, pulling up a black‑and‑white movie about nothing and everything. Halfway through, his shoulders had dropped, the noise in his brain replaced by subtitles and soft music.
When Leno took a big hit in a game and came back sore and quiet, they all ended up on the floor of his dorm, Freya dealing out cards for some ridiculous party game, Will chirping him just enough to make him roll his eyes instead of wince.
When Gabe’s homesickness hit out of nowhere in November, it was Freya who knocked on his door with a stack of DVDs and a bag of microwave popcorn, saying, “Pick anything. I’m not going back upstairs until you do.”
By the end of the year they had developed a rhythm, breakfast together. Practice whenever they had it. Quick cafeteria stop, Comm lecture, coffee in between. Study sessions that turned into movie nights, board‑game nights that turned into group‑therapy sessions.
They were still four different people but freshman fall squeezed them into something shared.
From that first day in Comm, the joke was that they’d become inseparable.
The air inside Conte Forum carried that faint chill only hockey arenas have — the mixture of ice shavings, adrenaline, and stale popcorn.
Freshman orientation had ended hours ago, but Will Smith was still hanging around the rink, restless, stick twirling between his hands as he waited for open ice.
Boston already felt bigger and faster than anything he’d known in Minnesota, and he wanted to prove he belonged here. The sound of skates cutting into the ice snapped him from his thoughts. Someone had slipped past the “Closed for resurfacing” sign and was already skating across the far end of the rink.
“Hey! Ice isn’t open yet,” Will called, but the skater either didn’t hear him or didn’t care.
Her movements were sharp, confident, fluid — the kind of skating you couldn’t fake.When she finally coasted to a stop in front of him, pulling off her helmet, blonde hair spilled over her shoulders and clear blue eyes met his.
“Then we’re both breaking the rules,” she said with a smirk, tapping her stick against the ice.
“Freya Sedin.”The last name hit him like a puck to the shin. Sedin. He’d seen it before — Vancouver, twins, legends.
“Wait… are you—?”
“Related?” she cut in, rolling her eyes.
“Yeah. But luckily, I actually talk to people outside my line.”He laughed — a little too loudly — and offered his hand.
“Will.”
“I know,” she said, shaking it, a teasing edge to her voice. “Every scout here knows who Will Smith is. You’re the freshman promise.”
”In hockey? It always does.” She skated a lazy circle around him, her tone light but assessing. “So, are you just going to stand there, or are you going to show me what all the hype’s about?”
”Oh, I will show you”
“Cocky”
“Confident.”
Her words came with a little challenge, like she enjoyed poking at the reputation he hadn’t even earned yet. She leaned casually on her stick. “So, Smith, are you going to stand there, or are you going to skate?”
“You’re not supposed to be here,” he reminded her, climbing over the boards anyway.
“I’ll pretend I didn’t see you if you do the same.” The deal was unspoken, but real. Within seconds, their blades cut into the ice side by side.
They started small, half-speed drills that turned quickly competitive. They matched each other stride for stride — bursts down the wing, shoulder fakes, laughing when one slipped or spun too wide on a curve.
Freya was relentless, playful, and annoyingly good.When she challenged, “First to ten in shootouts?” Will grinned. “You’re on.”
She scored the first goal off the crossbar. Then the second. By the sixth, she was smirking every time he missed.
“You’re supposed to be the goal scorer,” she called out. “What happened, superstar?”
“Tired,” he said, panting, though he’d admit later that she was just better tonight.
When the puck finally clattered against the boards at 10–7, Freya skated past him, laughing, breathless and flushed. “Guess the freshman star still has a few things to learn.”
He leaned on his stick, watching her circle back, her cheeks pink from the cold, eyes gleaming under the arena lights. “Yeah? Maybe you can teach me.”
“Maybe,” she said, drawing the word out like a secret. “If you can skate fast enough to keep up.”
At the door, she turned to him, smirking. “Tomorrow. Same time. Let’s see if you can win one.”
“First lesson,” she teased, panting. “Never underestimate a Sedin.”
He leaned on his stick, grin tugging despite his pride. “Rematch?”
“Not tonight. You already lost twice — once by skating, once by ego.”
They started fooling around then — shooting at an empty net with dull pucks, trying trick shots, mocking each other’s form. Somewhere between laughter and exhaustion, they forgot why they came here alone in the first place.
When she finally dropped onto the bench beside him, she tugged off her gloves and flexed her cold fingers. “So where are you from, superstar?”
“Lexington. Massachusetts born and raised.”
“Close to home then.”
“Too close sometimes.”
"I know what you mean"
They left the rink together later that night, bags slung over their shoulders, the city hum faint in the distance.
"See you around, Smith"
"See you tomorrow, Sedin"
And she walked off, skating strides traded for long confident steps.
New Teams: Florida Storm (Miami, FL), Colorado Wranglers (Denver, CO), Detroit Icewaves (Detroit, MI), Philadelphia Liberty Blades (Philadelphia, PA), Texas Lone Stars (Austin, TX) and San Jose Quakes (San Jose, CA)
Freya was already skating since she could walk with her dad, uncle and brother
Her parents emphasized balance, she also played soccer and did figure skating before committing fully to hockey.
She played in the North Vancouver Minor Hockey Association U6, U7 and U9.
Played for North Shore Avalanche U11 and U13 programs
By age 13, she was selected for the BC Hockey Female U14 High Performance Program.
Went to Shattuck-St. Mary’s in 2020 for its elite hockey development program, and later the Celebrini brother's joined her and stayed there for 3 seasons.
Named to Team Canada U18 in 2021–22
Committed to Boston College (NCAA Division I) in 2023
In 2026 she is selected to the PWHL Draft 1st overall to the new team the San Jose Quakes.
Hi everyone, I made myself a hockey fan (I watched only skates hockey like on hwrb) that what I have near me in spain :)) but I started to follow NHL
So im wanna make a series inspired by @lilhughesy 's about the umich Boys and I was thinking BC like will smith ryan leonard, gabe perrault, maybe incluye like macklin there,
Or 2019 USNTDP ( United States National team development program) with a male reader being friends with jack hughes, trevor zegras, cole caufield, alex turcotte, ...
I liked the umich idea but I don't want to give the idea that I copying :(((
Don't worry I will do more behind the camera :) (would yo like like more ig post post ideas like events, text tipe (leclerc siblings chat), leclerc family chat with everyone, the Girls chat with alex and charlotte, with joris....)
do you want it?
BC guys
Umich
2019 USNTDP
don't do anything stick with f1
Voting ended onJul 7, 2025
Love for everyone, I know i dissapeared im sorry AHDH, uni and chronic sickness is a nightmare and have been kicking my ass :))
hellooo beautiful people, how are you? hope you like the episode, comment if you want to be in the taglist
The episode kicks off with a chaotic scene at a Monaco supermarket. You, Charles, and Joris are pushing a cart down the aisles, filling it with essentials (and, in Charles’ case, a ridiculous amount of pasta and cheese).
"Charles, on a littéralement une cuisine pleine de pâtes," you say, eyeing the groceries. (Charles, we literally have a kitchen full of pasta.)
"C'est une semaine importante, je dois manger correctement!" Charles defends, tossing another pack into the cart. (It’s an important week, I need to eat properly!)
Joris smirks, glancing at the overstuffed cart. "Correctement ou comme un homme qui se prépare à l'hibernation?" (Properly or like a man preparing for hibernation?)
Cut to the checkout line. Charles confidently inserts his credit card into the machine,
only for the machine to beep. Declined.
Silence.
You and Joris exchange looks before bursting into laughter.
"Leclerc, multimillionaire Ferrari driver, can't pay for his own groceries!" you tease, pulling out your own card. "Sérieusement, c’est quoi ce bordel?" (Seriously, what the hell is this?)
Charles groans, rubbing his temples. "C'est la banque, ils bloquent parfois ma carte quand j'achète trop à Monaco." (It’s the bank, they sometimes block my card when I buy too much in Monaco.)
Joris leans in. "Ou peut-être qu'ils savent que tu dépenses trop." (Or maybe they know you spend too much.)
The cashier chuckles as you hand over your card. "T’inquiète pas, Charlie, je t’enverrai la facture." (Don’t worry, Charlie, I’ll send you the bill.)
Charles rolls his eyes as you and Joris high-five.
Then the episode shows old footage: a young Charles, Y/N and Arthur Leclerc, karting together on a track. Their father, Hervé Leclerc, stands by, smiling. His voice, captured in an old interview, echoes through the scene.
"Ils ont toujours été rapides, mais Y/N aussi. Ils ont la course dans le sang." (They have always been fast, but Y/N too. They have racing in their blood.)
Charles, Yn and their childhood friends are on his yacht.
You and Alexandra are lounging on the deck, sunglasses on, watching the guys fool around and dare each other to jump into the water in the most ridiculous ways possible.
Riccardo stands on the railing. "Cinq euros si je saute en faisant un backflip." (Five euros if I jump with a backflip.)
Charles leans back. "Je te paie dix si tu rates et tombes comme un idiot." (I’ll pay you ten if you fail and fall like an idiot.)
Alex turns to you, shaking her head. "Ils n'ont pas changé depuis l'école, hein?" (They haven’t changed since school, huh?)
You smirk. "Pas du tout. Juste plus d'argent pour faire des conneries." (Not at all. Just more money to do dumb things.)
Riccardo jumps—flailing, belly-flopping straight into the water. The entire yacht erupts in laughter.
Charles claps dramatically. "Dix euros pour la pire tentative de l’histoire." (Ten euros for the worst attempt in history.)
Hugo and Nico grab Riccardo’s towel and refuse to give it back, leaving him shivering.
It’s midweek, and tradition dictates one thing: Charles gets his pre-Monaco GP haircut from Pascale, your maman.
The scene opens inside Charles’ Monaco apartment. He’s seated on a chair, cape around his shoulders, while Pascale meticulously trims his hair. You, meanwhile, are on the floor with Léo, Charles and Alexandra’s tiny dachshund, rubbing his belly.
Alexandra sits beside you, scrolling on her phone as you gossip.
Léo suddenly jumps onto Charles' lap, causing Pascale to huff. "Léo, arrête! Il va finir avec une coupe asymétrique!" (Léo, stop! He’s going to end up with an uneven cut!)
You and Alex burst into laughter as Charles tries to hold Léo still.
Then the episode shows all the Leclerc siblings—Lorenzo, Charles, Y/N, and Arthur—sit together on a Monaco rooftop terrace, sharing a meal.
Lorenzo pours the wine, acting like the responsible older brother he always is.
"C’est fou de penser que cette semaine, tu pourrais enfin gagner à Monaco," he tells Charles. (It’s crazy to think that this week, you could finally win in Monaco.)
Arthur smirks. "Ouais, ou bien il va encore maudire cette course." (Yeah, or he’s going to curse this race again.)
You laugh, nudging Charles. "Si tu maudis encore Monaco, je te déshérite." (If you curse Monaco again, I’m disowning you.)
Charles groans. "Pourquoi vous êtes toujours contre moi?" (Why are you always against me?)
Lorenzo chuckles. "On n’est pas contre toi, on est réalistes." (We’re not against you, we’re just realistic.)
Arthur raises his glass. "Allez, à la chance, parce que tu en auras besoin." (Cheers to luck, because you’re going to need it.)
Charles rolls his eyes but clinks his glass anyway. "À la famille." (To family.)
Then, Netflix transitions into dramatic music—because next comes the real test.
Cut to: Monaco, 2024. The weight of expectation hangs heavy over the weekend. Ferrari has given Charles a car capable of winning, but the question remains—can he finally break the Monaco curse?
"We were born eighteen minutes apart," you say in your Drive to Survive interview. "Charles has always been ahead. He was always ahead in karting… and now, he had the chance to be ahead of history too."
The Ferrari garage is suffocating with tension. You grip Arthur’s hand so tightly it’s cutting off his circulation, but he doesn't care. Your eyes are locked on the screen as Charles navigates the final laps of his home race.
Joris is beside you, pacing, muttering curses under his breath. Alexandra, Charles’ girlfriend, is clutching your arm so hard you think she might leave bruises.
"If something happens now, je jure que je casse tout." Arthur mutters. (I swear I’ll break everything.)
"He’s got this," you whisper, willing it to be true.
Then—the checkered flag.
Silence for a second. Then the Ferrari pit wall erupts. Engineers throw their headsets, people scream, and you—you can’t breathe.
"He did it," Joris says, stunned.
You don’t even think before sprinting towards the pit lane, pushing past Ferrari personnel until you see the monitors displaying the leaderboard: P1 – Charles Leclerc.
He won.
Charles steps out of his car to deafening cheers, his hands shaking as he pulls off his helmet. He looks around, eyes wide with disbelief, before covering his face with both hands.
Netflix cuts to the post-race interviews. Charles stands in front of the cameras, still breathless, the Monegasque flag draped over his shoulders. His voice wavers.
"The last laps… I was thinking about my dad," he says, swallowing hard. "It was our dream."
The camera zooms in as his eyes glisten under the harsh lights.
"The emotions started coming up two laps from the end, and I was struggling to see." He lets out a soft, breathy laugh, shaking his head. "On the last lap, coming out of the tunnel, I couldn’t see anything. I was crying."
You watch from the sidelines, biting your lip to keep from crying yourself. Your mother, Pascale, stands beside you, eyes glassy with emotion.
"Il l’a fait, Maman," whispers Yn. (He did it, maman.)
She nods, voice thick. "Oui. Papa aurait été si fier." (Yes. Papa would have been so proud.)
Charles looks over, eyes finding yours, and in that moment, you know—this isn’t just his victory. It’s yours, Arthur’s, your maman’s. It’s your father’s.
The curse is broken.
Later that night, Monaco is drowning in red. Jimmy’z is packed and half the F1 grid is there
And Charles? Charles is absolutely wasted.
You lean against the bar, watching your twin brother stumble onto the dance floor, a massive Monegasque flag draped over his shoulders like a superhero cape.
Pierre, already tipsy, claps him on the back. "Le Prince de Monaco!" (The Prince of Monaco!)
"Arrête, il va plus passer les portes de Maranello à cause de son ego!" you joke, shaking your head. (Stop, he won’t fit through the doors at Maranello because of his ego!)
Charles, oblivious to everything, wraps an arm around your shoulders, grinning like a madman.
"YN, j’ai gagné," he slurs, his voice thick with emotion. (YN, I won.)
Your heart clenches.
"Je sais, Charles," you whisper, reaching up to push a damp curl from his forehead. (I know, Charles.)
His green eyes shine under the club lights, and suddenly, the music, the people—it all fades away.
"Papa serait fier." (Papa would be proud.)
Charles nods slowly, pressing his forehead to yours for a second, then pulling away when Pierre drags him off for another shot.
Joris slides an arm around your waist, pressing a kiss to your temple. "He did it."
You glance back at your twin, now dancing like an idiot in the middle of the club, his long-awaited victory finally sinking in.
"Yeah," you murmur, the weight of years lifting from your shoulders. "He did."
And then the credits roll.
Bonus: Singapore GP Dinner
At a restaurant in Singapore, with a view of the Marina Bay, the Leclerc family is seated—except Pierre Gasly, who is late.
And tonight, Charles is not in a good mood.
He did badly in qualifying, and it’s written all over his face—arms crossed, jaw clenched, tapping his fork against his plate.
Arthur, already sensing his bad mood, leans over to Y/N and whispers:
"Il va exploser sur quelqu’un, c’est sûr." (He’s going to explode on someone, for sure.)
Y/N sighs, watching Charles angrily flip through the menu. "Ouais, et ce sera Pierre." (Yeah, and it’ll be Pierre.)
Charles? Already ordering the food.
Alexandra looks around. "Euh… on n’attend pas Pierre?" (Uh… aren’t we waiting for Pierre?)
Without even looking up from his phone, Charles answers "Non." (No.)
Arthur snorts. "Pierre est toujours en retard, on sait comment ça finit." (Pierre is always late, we know how this ends.)
Charles doesn’t even hesitate—he calls Pierre.
The camera zooms in on his phone screen:
📞 Calling: Pierre
Pierre picks up on the third ring.
"Ouais, Charlie?" (Yeah, Charlie?)
Charles doesn’t even say hi.
"T’ES OÙ?!" (WHERE ARE YOU?!) he answers angrily
Pierre pauses for a second, like he’s debating whether to lie. Then:
"J’arrive, j’arrive! Deux minutes!" (I’m coming, I’m coming! Two minutes!)
Charles rolls his eyes. "Ça fait vingt minutes que tu dis ça, Calamar." (You’ve been saying that for twenty minutes.)
Pierre laughs nervously. "Je suis littéralement en route." (I’m literally on my way.)
Charles, completely done: "Ouais, bah moi j’attends pas." (Yeah, well, I’m not waiting.)
And with that, he orders the starters.
Fifteen minutes later, the restaurant doors swing open.
Pierre walks in with Kika and his trainer. He immediately spots the table—and Charles, who is already drinking and eating.
Pierre’s face drops.
"T’AS PAS ATTENDU?!" (YOU DIDN’T WAIT?!)
Charles, completely unimpressed, takes another sip of his drink. "J’avais faim." (I was hungry.)
Pierre drops into the seat next to Y/N, still offended.
"T’avais faim ou t’étais juste énervé après ta qualif?" (Were you hungry, or were you just mad after quali?)
Silence.
Arthur snorts. "Il va te tuer." (He’s going to kill you.)
Charles sets down his glass. "Tu veux vraiment me parler de qualifications, Pierre?" (Do you really want to talk to me about qualifying, Pierre?)
Pierre raises his hands defensively. "Okay, okay! Pas besoin de m’agresser." (Okay, okay! No need to attack me.)
Pierre finally starts eating, still shaking his head.
"Tu sais, je suis vraiment blessé, Charlie. J’aurais attendu pour toi." (You know, I’m really hurt, Charlie. I would have waited for you.)
Charles raises an eyebrow. "C’est faux." (That’s false.)
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