Chapter 4
Baptiste
The tournament officially kicks off tomorrow with our first practice, but we already have a big day today.
A detailed schedule was waiting for me in my suite last night.
We’ll start with breakfast followed by a bunch of meetings, photo shoots, and some interviews this afternoon.
The fame aspect of the job never really interested me, so it’s not going to be my favorite part of the tournament—no matter what Feisty Brunette may think.
I finish getting ready, then head downstairs to the large ballroom for breakfast.
The space is bright and buzzing with energy, chandeliers casting warm light across several long buffet tables set up along the walls.
Steam wafts up from metal trays as servers in crisp uniforms dish food onto plates—scrambled eggs, bacon, fruit platters, pancakes stacked high like small architectural feats.
In the middle of the room, more long tables stretch out, already packed on all sides with players and staff.
The air is saturated with a mix of chatter, the clinking of cutlery, and the occasional burst of laughter.
I spot the guys easily, between Adler’s boisterous laugh and Miles’ red cap.
“Finally,” Adler says, beaming as I sit next to him and across from Caleb Hawthorne, our New York captain. “Froggy has arrived. Phew! I was starting to think you’d miss the first game.”
I roll my eyes. “First game is a week away.” Not to mention we already grabbed dinner together last night, but teasing is pretty much our group’s second language.
Beaumont drops into the seat beside me. “Is he finally here? Fantastic. We can alert the media. The parade starts in five.”
Hawthorne leans back, calm as ever. “Oh, come on. He got here safely. That’s what matters.”
Miles jabs a finger at him. “That is exactly what someone who drives like a grandpa would say.”
Hawthorne shrugs. “Better than driving like Beaumont.”
Beaumont gasps. “Excusez moi? I am an excellent driver. Graceful. Like poetry.”
Wally aka Noah Wilcott, who’s seated two chairs down, lets out a low, unimpressed grunt. “Poetry that crashes.”
We all stare at him.
“That might be the most words I’ve ever heard you say before breakfast,” Adler says with a chuckle.
Wally sips his black coffee. “Don’t get used to it.”
Adler leans toward me. “Seriously, though, what took you so long? Flat tire? Wrong turn? Stop to buy a souvenir snow globe?”
I give him a deadpan stare. “Nothing happened. I just drove. Like a normal person.”
“And here I thought you’d finally met the love of your life.” Miles sighs loudly, shaking his head.
“Yeah,” Adler chimes in. “The gas station is such a romantic place.”
For a split second, an image flashes in my mind—wavy brown hair, sharp eyes, and an attitude that could outskate half the league.
“Shut up,” I mutter, though there’s no bite in my tone. The guys are all married or engaged, so teasing me about being single has quickly become one of their favorite pastimes. I’m used to it. “I don’t need a girlfriend. What I need is to be at the top of my game, and you’d better be too.”
“Oh, shots fired!” Beaumont yells, sloshing his juice as he lifts his glass in salute. “I’m with mon ami francais on this one. Let’s make our fans proud.”
He and I high five, and I head to the buffet table to fill my plate with energy for the day.
The line smells like every breakfast dream I had as a kid—sizzling bacon, sweet maple syrup, coffee so strong you can taste it from across the room.
I load up my plate with no shame: a stack of blueberry pancakes, scrambled eggs, hash browns, a few slices of bacon, and because I apparently have no self-control, one golden waffle corner dripping with syrup. Fuel. That’s what this is. Strategic fueling.
I take my loaded plate back to the table, and when I sit down, Adler eyes my spread. “Planning to hibernate?”
I smirk, forking a bite of pancake. “I’m carb-loading.”
“For what?” Miles asks. “A nap?”
I point my fork at him. “For winning.”
Beaumont nods solemnly. “He is right. Champions are built on pancakes.” Giving a small shrug, he adds, “Well, I could go for a stack of crêpes instead, but—”
Adler scoffs. “Oh, please. Here we go.”
“What?” Beaumont says, offended. “Crêpes are the elite pan-made pastry. Thin. Elegant. Refined. Not these… fluffy American bricks.”
Miles leans back in his chair. “You mean the bricks that won two Cups and an Olympic gold?”
Beaumont presses a hand to his chest. “That was talent. Not pancakes.”
Wally takes another slow sip of coffee. “Pretty sure it was the pancakes.”
They keep arguing, pitting crêpes against pancakes.
Their voices are overlapping, hands gesturing dramatically as Beaumont defends French culinary honor like it’s a matter of national security.
But the whole room is so loud and chaotic, no one is paying any attention to our table.
Plates clatter. Coffee cups knock against saucers.
Chairs scrape the floor as players from both teams come and go in waves of red, blue, and white.
It’s the kind of noise that’s almost comforting—controlled chaos. The calm before the real storm.
Eventually, the coaches call us all out of the banquet room for the first meetings.
We dump our trash, grab our last refills of coffee, and follow the slow migration of players toward the conference rooms downstairs. The energy shifts as we descend the steps in droves—less joking, more focus. Headphones go in. Conversations lower to a murmur. Game faces slide into place.
The meeting rooms are set up like a corporate seminar, complete with long tables, bottled water at every seat, and massive screens glowing with our new Stripes team logo. I take my seat, stretching my shoulders once before settling in.
The next few hours are a blur of schedules, rotations, special teams units, travel logistics, media obligations, and security briefings. Slides flip. Names are called. Lines are tested on whiteboards like we’re studying for finals.
I force myself to focus, even as the carb-heavy breakfast threatens to drag my eyelids down. This tournament might not be the Stanley Cup playoffs, but it matters. It’s history. It’s pride. The kind of thing kids remember watching, even decades down the road.
Once the meetings wrap up, we have some free time to meet the other Stripes team members.
Our teammates all come from the Atlantic and Metropolitan Division.
I already know a few guys from the Olympics and the previous teams I’ve played for, but apart from them, I don’t know any other guys on the team roster—at least not personally.
Everyone is friendly enough. I’m talking handshakes and back slaps all around. Guys telling stories that start with “remember when we played you in—” and always ending in laughter.
After a quick sandwich for lunch, it’s time for our official photos. We each have to stand in front of a background with our team color—red for the Stripes, blue for the Stars—and the photographers ask us to hold various poses while channeling different emotions, like proud, determined, and happy.
Wally mostly does the same pose for all of the prompts, which is standing still, his eyes on the camera, a frown etched into his face.
Adler and Beaumont turn the charm on, testing every single move to make everyone laugh. Meanwhile, Miles and Hawthorne take the shoot a bit more seriously.
It’s a circus, but a strangely efficient one.
Mid-afternoon has finally arrived, and we’re ushered to a set of meeting rooms where journalists are gathered, waiting for us.
The noise dips the moment we walk in—pens poised, cameras lifted, half the room already calculating angles and headlines.
My eyes are immediately drawn to her—Harper Donnelly. I’m not sure if it’s her wavy brown hair and the way the glossy strands catch the light, or her demeanor that screams cool and confident. She’s on her phone, unlike all her colleagues who are watching our every move, eager to get started.
We dispatch around the room for one-on-one interviews, and I naturally walk toward her.
“So,” I say as I saunter closer. “You’re a sports journalist.”
Her eyes lift to meet mine, still as defiant as yesterday. “No, I’m an investigative journalist.”
I frown. “I’m confused. What are you doing at the press conference, then?” My eyes widen dramatically. “Wait, are we in danger? Or—Oh no, are you stalking me? Because I already did the crazy stalker thing, and I don’t have the bandwidth to do it again.”
She raises an eyebrow, clearly not amused by my lame attempt at humor. “You wish. The world doesn't revolve around you, Mr. Celebrity.”
“So, what is a big-shot investigative journalist like you doing here, then? Is there a scandal I should know about?”
Her lips twitch. “What makes you think I'm a big shot?”
I cross my arms over my chest. “Oh, I can tell. You’re all intense and confident. You're good at your job, I'm sure of it. Which makes your presence here even more mysterious.”
She glances away, then back at me. “I am good at my job. Just hit a minor setback.”
“You’re not undercover, then? We’re safe,” I say, pressing a hand to my chest in mock relief.
A hint of a smile finally appears on her lips. “I’m just covering the tournament. Filling the role of a good old sports reporter. It’s a very important job. Apparently.”
I nod. “It is. Fans are counting on you.”
“Oh no,” she says in a flat tone. “Will I ever be able to handle the pressure?”
A chuckle bursts out of me. “Only time will tell.”
“Yep. Three full weeks, but who’s counting?” She lets out a quick sigh. “All right, I guess I should get started with my interviews.”
“Sure.” I nod. “Where do you want me?”
“Um,” she says, tapping a finger on her lip. “I think I’ll start with the star players first. I’ll see if I have time for you later.”
With that, she turns on her heel, leaving me to catch my jaw that has dropped to the floor.
Who is this girl?
And why do I suddenly want to know everything about her?