Chapter 2
Baptiste
Man, I’m starving.
I hate rushing through my mornings like this.
Last night ran late—Deacon hosted a get-together at the bar to celebrate his niece Lola’s graduation, and even though the man is a bit of a grump, once he gets sentimental, nobody leaves until he’s fed them at least twice.
I meant to go home early, but my teammate Maxime Beaumont challenged my other teammate James Adler to air hockey, then Adler challenged me, and everything spiraled from there.
Today, I had a few errands to run before leaving for three weeks, including dropping my car off at the shop and grabbing the rental I booked.
Adler offered me a ride with him and his wife Beth, but I turned him down.
They’re my friends, my family, really. But three hours trapped in a car with their lovey-dovey energy?
That’s a slow and quiet form of torture.
Besides, I get carsick in the back seat.
And Adler’s taste in music is debatable at best.
Now that I’m finally on the highway, I try to relax, but my stomach keeps growling louder, reminding me that I definitely won’t make it to DC without food.
Even though it’s mid-afternoon, I’m seriously craving pancakes—a stack of thick, fluffy flapjacks drowned in syrup.
I haven’t really had a chance to sit down and eat today, so when I spot an IHOP sign, I take the exit without a second thought.
This is something I genuinely love about the US.
Everything is open. All the time. Craving a steak at 10 a.m.?
No problem. Dinner at 3 p.m.? Done deal.
Need a pick-me-up at 3 a.m.? The doors are always open somewhere.
Life was so different in France—more rigid, more narrow.
I may have been born there, but I never felt truly myself until I stepped foot in the US.
Canada was a nice stepping stone, but when I moved to Florida for my first NHL contract, it was like breathing for the first time.
Like I was finally right where I belonged.
I pull into the lot and head toward the restaurant.
Heat radiates from the pavement, the deafening song of cicadas buzzing in the trees nearby.
The air smells like coffee, caramelized sugar, and fried batter even before I step through the doorway.
Inside, the place hums with low conversations, clinking silverware, and a gentle sizzle from the open kitchen.
Kids are coloring with fat crayons on paper menus.
A guy in a business suit is wolfing down a plate of bacon while typing on two phones.
Within seconds, a hostess with a sunny smile leads me to a booth by the window. The vinyl seat squeaks as I slide in, and I grab a menu even though I already know exactly what I want.
I order blueberry pancakes, scrambled eggs, hash browns, and coffee—the breakfast of champions. Hopefully, it’ll bring me luck for the tournament ahead.
Receiving an invitation to play in the Semiquincentennial Stars & Stripes Tournament is a huge honor.
A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. It’s NHL only—men’s and women’s divisions both represented, split into East and West rosters branded as Team Stars and Team Stripes, each stacked with the best players in the league. And I’m one of them.
I won’t lie. I want to win, not just for me, but for my entire East team—the Stripes—and my teammates from New York who are also participating. We’ve been chattering about it for weeks, all fired up, talking strategy like it’s the Stanley Cup playoffs.
I’m proud of what I’ve accomplished so far—two Stanley Cups and an Olympic gold this year—but losing this tournament?
No. Not an option.
This is history we’re talking about, and I intend to be on the right side of it.
The sun dips toward the horizon, streaking the highway in soft orange, and I know I’m getting close. Unfortunately, the unlimited coffee from IHOP is catching up with me.
A pit stop won’t hurt, and not just because my bladder is begging for one. Getting gas in the city will be a nightmare, and I won’t have time to hunt for a station once the tournament schedule kicks in.
I stop at the next station, fill the tank, and stretch out my back before heading inside to use the restroom. On the way out, I grab a couple bottles of water and some snacks
I’m standing in line at the cashier when someone steps behind me. A faint amber perfume drifts toward me—warm, spicy, and familiar in a way that hooks something at the back of my mind. With furrowed brows, I glance sideways and catch a glimpse of wavy brown hair and sharp posture.
Where have I seen this woman before?
“Next,” both cashiers call at the same time.
I walk to the nearest cashier and drop my purchases on the counter. As I reach for my wallet, my eye snags on a bag of Salted Caramel Twix bars hanging below the register—the last one.
“I’ll grab those too,” I say to the cashier, adding them to the pile. I love these things, and you don’t find them everywhere.
“Do you need a bag?” the cashier asks.
“Yes, please.”
I press my card on the receiver as she bags my items.
“Don't you have more in the back?” The girl next to me grumbles to her cashier, frustration lacing her tone.
“Sorry, we don’t,” he replies with a small shrug. “We get our delivery on Monday.”
“Great,” she mutters, then shoots me an icy glare before dropping a few bills on the counter. “Keep the change.”
She storms off, and I stare after her, blinking in confusion.
What on earth did I do to offend her?
“Sir, your bag.”
“Oh—right.” I turn back to the cashier and take it with a nod. “Thanks. Have a good one.”
I follow the brunette toward the door, and when she glances back, our eyes meet. Hers are a molten, deep brown—warm but piercing, like she sees everything and tolerates little. She immediately swings the door shut behind her, and I almost crash into the glass.
“Hey!” I push the door open and step out into the sticky heat after her.
“Oops,” she says casually, not slowing down. “Didn’t see you.”
I let out a scoff. “Really? I’m a six-foot-three hockey player. I’m not exactly easy to miss.”
“Yes, really,” she fires back, turning around and shooting me a dry look. “Not everyone follows sports or whatever, Mr. Celebrity.”
I freeze, swept up by the familiarity of that nickname. And just like that, it clicks. She’s the girl from the rental place.
“I see you finally got your car.”
She gestures to a black sedan. “Yep, the peasants were thrown a few breadcrumbs once the royalty departed.” She pivots on her heel and marches toward her car.
“Hey! What’s your problem?” I call after her, unable to let it go. “It’s not my fault your rental wasn’t there and mine was, okay?”
She throws a sneer over her shoulder. “Yeah, and it wasn’t your fault you grabbed the last Salted Caramel Twix bag either.”
My eyes widen. “Um, yeah. That’s literally not my fault. I don't control the stock of gas station convenience stores.”
She just rolls her eyes. “Forget it.”
She continues skulking away, mumbling something about a crappy day, when my phone buzzes. After stealing one last glance at her retreating figure, I accept the call, and Adler’s face fills the screen.
“Where are you, Froggy?” He shoves his face comically close to the camera.
Now it’s my turn to roll my eyes. “Almost there.”
“Maybe we should switch your nickname to Snaily instead,” he says. “Works both for your French roots and your driving speed.”
“Yeah, yeah. I know you all can’t function without me. Don’t worry—I’ll be there soon.”
I climb into my car, unwrap a Twix bar, and bite into the chewy, crunchy candy just as Feisty Brunette roars out of the parking lot, tearing away like she’s got a vendetta against the asphalt.