What So Proudly We Hail (Stars, Stripes, and Hockey Nights #3)

Chapter 1

Harper

I’m being punished. There’s no other way to describe it. My boss is shipping me off to DC to cover a dumb hockey tournament, all because I’m too dedicated at my job. Never heard that one before, huh? Well, there you go. There’s a first time for everything.

So what if I disobeyed orders? If it weren't for my rebellious streak, I wouldn’t have helped uncover yet another huge scandal and consolidated the prestige of our journal as one of the best in the country. You don’t get to the top without digging deep.

I drag myself out of the subway station and trudge toward the counter of the rental car company.

The heat hits me first—thick, sticky, relentless—then the rain starts to pour.

Fat, unwelcome drops that seep right through my already sweat-soaked shirt, plastering fabric to skin and curling the ends of my hair instantly.

Perfect. Looks like the universe has a flair for dramatic timing.

Three weeks in the capital watching players skate around an ice rink, chasing a puck for hours on end, is going to be pure torture.

But the paper is short on reporters, and apparently, I was my boss’s first choice for the gig. A way to “redeem myself.”

My first thought when she told me I was headed to the Stars and Stripes hockey tournament for the US semiquincentennial?

It’s not that bad.

I was already brainstorming how I might dig up a nice DC scandal to feed my investigative-journalist thirst. Politics, money, corruption—the city practically runs on the stuff.

But then she added, “It’ll be the perfect break, an opportunity for you to gain back my trust. I need to know you can follow orders and not get into trouble again, Harper.”

My second thought? Kill me now.

So, here I am, on my way to cover a mega-sized sports tournament, already sweating under my jacket and regretting every single item I crammed into the large suitcase that’s now bumping against my ankle.

Finally, the neon RENTAL CAR sign buzzes and flickers just up ahead, illuminating a room packed with damp, irritated travelers. The air smells like wet carpet, overheated bodies, and collective misery.

The guy in front of me curses under his breath, stalks away from the reception desk, and slumps into a corner to wait. I couldn’t hear what the lanky kid behind the counter told him. And when I say “kid,” I mean it. He looks like he’s barely out of high school. A name tag on his chest says Stuart.

I step up to the counter and force a smile. “Hi, I have a booking. My name’s Harper Donnelly.”

Stuart types something into his computer, squints at the screen, then grimaces. “I’m so sorry. Your car isn’t here yet. We’re having, um… an issue. It seems some of our cars were double-booked.”

Frustration spikes under my damp clothes. “Not my problem, Stuart. I rented a car with your company. I’ve already paid for it, actually.”

He nods so fast, I worry his head will fall off. “Yes, and it’s coming. I promise. We’re coordinating with our other locations to bring in more cars. Can I get you coffee in the meantime? Water?”

I press my lips tight. “I’m good.”

Better not to add caffeine to my already volatile mood.

I drag my suitcase to an empty corner and perch on it. The plastic handle digs into my thigh, making me wince. I scan the room—a habit I can’t seem to kick, even when I try shutting my journalist brain off.

A businesswoman in a soaked blazer is whisper-arguing on the phone. A college kid is doomscrolling on his phone with the dead eyes of someone who’s lost hope. A toddler is screaming at the top of his lungs as his exhausted mom rocks him.

Yeah, kid. You and me both.

At least you want to go wherever you’re headed. This stupid tournament is the last place I want to be. But if I want to keep my job, I have no choice.

I’ve been waiting for over an hour when the door swings open again.

In strides a tall, broad-shouldered guy—easily six-foot-three, pushing 200 pounds of pure sculpted muscle.

Striking green eyes and dark brown hair that’s pushed back effortlessly, raindrops glistening on the ends.

He’s hauling a duffel bag with a dinosaur stamped on it.

Something else that grabs my attention? I’m not the only one who’s watching his entrance.

Conversations pause. Phones lower. Both men and women stop to look.

I guess it makes sense—the guy’s not exactly discreet.

He walks to the counter, and Stuart does a double take.

The newcomer braces his hands on the countertop. “Hi, I have a car rental. My name is—”

“Of course,” Stuart practically squeals. “I know who you are. I’m a big fan.” His fingers fly on his keyboard, and he smiles brightly. “We have your car ready and waiting for you.”

My jaw drops. Excuse me?

As the man nods in satisfaction, my eyes narrow. Is he getting a car because he’s some kind of celebrity?

Stuart pivots on his heels and grabs the last pair of keys hanging behind him. “There you go. It’s the red Cadillac, right there on the lot. Good luck in the tournament.”

“Thanks, man,” Mr. Celebrity says, slinging his bag over his shoulder.

“Wait a minute,” I bellow, shooting up from my makeshift suitcase-seat. “I’ve been waiting here for over an hour. So have all these people—some even longer!” I gesture vaguely at the damp, miserable crowd. “Why does he get to go first? Because he’s famous or something? I don’t think so.”

Mr. Celebrity just frowns, his eyes settling on me.

“Ma’am, your car is on the way. I promise,” Stuart says, wringing his hands.

Ma’am? Is that supposed to calm me down?

“You didn’t answer my question,” I snap. “Do we have to be celebrities to be treated like customers here? Because I’m pretty sure the press would love to hear about that.”

Stuart flushes pink from hairline to collar. “No, ma’am—sorry—no. Absolutely not. He just had a car booked in a higher category. But don’t worry, more economy cars will be arriving in less than an hour.”

Terrific.

I wheel around and plop myself back down on my suitcase, arms crossed, jaw tight.

A few seconds later, Mr. Celebrity comes back and knocks on the window, summoning Stuart out into the small lot.

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Maybe they forgot the champagne in his luxury car or something.

They talk for a minute, glancing back toward us, but eventually, he slides into his glitzy redmobile.

Then, Mr. Celebrity drives off the parking lot, leaving all of us peasants stuck here with Stuart as our keeper. Yeah, this trip is off to a great start.