Chapter 5
Harper
I somehow survived my first day as a sports reporter. It was just as awful as I expected, and I haven’t even stepped foot in the actual arena yet. But being in a room full of entitled and overpaid athletes was exactly what I had envisioned for my first day.
My phone rings on the bed, and I lie down to pick up, letting my limbs sprawl dramatically across the mattress. “Hey, Grandma, what’s up?”
“How are you? Still alive, I take it?”
“Haha, very funny. It was pretty terrible, though. I’m not going to lie. But yeah, I’m surviving. Barely.”
“You’ll be fine,” she says curtly—the way she says everything. “You’ve been through worse ordeals in your life. So, how’s the room?”
I sigh, glancing around my standard hotel room. Neutral beige. Polite lamps. A single sad chair. “Boring. I mean, it’s nicely decorated, I guess, but it’s just a room. Small, no bathtub, no view.”
“Wait, I thought you were getting a suite. What happened?”
“The usual. I’m not famous enough to deserve a better room. You know how it is.”
It’s not the first time a celebrity has taken something away from me, after all.
“Yes,” she says softly, and that one gentle note hits me deeper than any stab of sarcasm ever could. “What are you doing today?”
“I have to work on my interviews from yesterday, and then I’ll go to the women’s practice. Press is allowed there—lucky me. How about you? How’s life at Golden Age?”
She scoffs. “Boring and dull. The only thrill is knowing that anyone can drop dead at any moment, but so far no sudden deaths. Unfortunately.”
“Grandma!” I scold, pushing myself upright. Can you guess who I got my legendary sass from? Still, she is even more intense than I am.
“What? It’s true. Isn’t that why you put me in this awful place? So I can wait for death without bothering you?”
I shake my head. “Don’t be like that. First, Golden Age isn’t that bad, and second, you know I didn’t have a choice. It’s better for you. And I know you’re safe there.”
She’s been forgetting stuff more and more often these past few months, and when she forgot to turn off the stove—not once but twice—I knew it was urgent we found a solution. There were no home care aids with open schedules available, so a nursing home was our only option.
“Yeah, unless I die of boredom. There’s nothing to do here except play cards and watch TV.”
“You love cards,” I say with the most encouraging tone I can muster. “That sounds like fun.”
“Nice try,” she says simply, her tone clipped. “Well, I have to go. They’re taking us on a walk like a bunch of geriatric dogs. Beware, the canes and walkers are out!”
I press my lips together, trying not to laugh. “All right. Try to enjoy it. It’s a nice summer day, at least.”
She hangs up without saying goodbye, and a mix of hollowness and guilt sinks into my chest.
Putting her in a home wasn’t an easy decision. We’re all one another has—family, friend, or confidante. We’re both loners, but we’ve always had each other. Moving her into the home was gut-wrenching, not to mention a stark reminder that I can lose her at any moment.
Focusing on work after our call is a struggle. I know I’m not doing a great job at sorting these interviews, but honestly, nothing sounds that interesting to me. What do hockey fans want to read about? Favorite stick tape? Favorite smoothie flavor? Who knows.
I try my best to concentrate, but my mind keeps drifting to the one player I didn’t even interview yesterday: Baptiste Marchand.
There’s just something extra annoying about that guy. I don’t know if it’s his cool attitude, his easy smile, or the way people seem drawn to him. He had one of the longest lines of reporters yesterday, everyone wanting to talk to him and get his perspective.
Finally, curiosity gets the best of me. I open a tab on my browser and type in his name.
Baptiste Marchand. Age 30, born in France but moved to the US at 19 to play in Florida. Now has dual citizenship in the USA and France.
He seems to have a pretty impressive resume, with lots of boring stats and trophies.
All of the articles I come across mention his hockey prowess, but I’m not seeing anything about the man himself.
It’s like he doesn’t have a personality outside of hockey—which, to be fair, could be true—no family, no hobbies, nothing.
I spend the next few minutes digging, and irritation starts to gnaw at me like a tiny rodent with a caffeine addiction.
Why can’t I find a single fact about his personal life? An old flame, a favorite restaurant, anything! This doesn’t make sense.
I let out a frustrated groan. “Ugh, why do I even care?”
Because you care about anything you can’t find, whispers a small voice in my head.
She’s not wrong.
When I look for something and can’t find it, alarm bells go off. And it’s like I’ve just been personally challenged to uncover the truth.
Like in ninth grade when I stumbled on a school budget report that listed funds for “new sports equipment,” but I noticed that the basketball team was still dribbling on warped floors and tossing duct-taped balls through mended baskets.
Two weeks later, an article in my school paper on how the superintendent used that money to repaint her office got published, and the rest is history.
Since then, I haven’t come across a single mystery I couldn’t solve.
Remember when I said I was good at my job, and my boss benching me was basically the peak of injustice? That’s the truth.
Once I set my eyes on something that doesn’t add up, I don’t stop until I have everything I need to expose it.
It’s called dedication—I even got an award for it.
Finally, after twenty pages of search results, I find an older article about him.
Baptiste looks young in the picture, clean-shaven and wide-eyed, like a kid on Christmas morning.
He talks about growing up in Strasbourg, France, in the foster care system.
He insists he had a happy childhood despite not having any family of his own, his foster family having welcomed him into a loving home and even getting him into hockey.
Uh, hold on. Mr. Celebrity was a foster kid?
I would have never guessed that.
He seems more like the type who grew up spoiled rotten—the kid who got a Lambo for his sixteenth birthday and had a whole room just for video games—when in a way, we had a somewhat similar experience.
There must be more to this story; there always is.
You’d never believe what kind of skeletons people have in their closets.
Professional athletes usually have something they’re trying to keep from the press.
An ex. A messy contract dispute. A questionable investment.
A cousin who runs their “foundation” and siphons money.
A cryptic tweet. A lawsuit that got buried.
But something always slips through the cracks. You just need to know where to look.
I start typing furiously on my keyboard, then stop myself.
Nope.
I need to quit—now. I don’t care about stupid Mr. Celebrity and what he might be hiding.
At least not more than I care about the other athletes I’ll be interviewing during this tournament.
So what if his voice sends chills down my arms, or if he’s built like a Greek statue?
They all are. And besides, I'm just here to pay my dues.
Bide my time until I can get back into action again.
And I won’t let some pretty boy with a murky past pull me back into the investigation vortex.
Unable to focus on these boring interviews, I decide to grab lunch to clear my head and get some fresh air.
I order a sandwich at a local bakery before taking a stroll around the block.
I spot a pharmacy, and after a moment of deliberation, I head inside.
I forgot to pack Tylenol—I’m sure I’ll need some if I’m going to survive this—and snacks would be nice to have around.
Maybe they even have my favorite Twix here.
None of the vending machines at the hotel had them.
Mr. Celebrity probably cleared them out.
I’m scanning the candy section when I overhear two women speaking in hushed voices. My ears perk on instinct.
“I’m telling you, he was back again this morning,” one whispers, clutching a shopping basket to her chest.
“Don’t say that here,” the other murmurs, glancing over her shoulder. “If anyone hears us, we’re in trouble. They said to keep quiet until they sort it out.”
Needles of unease prickle down my spine.
I try not to eavesdrop on their conversation, but I’m hooked.
What are they talking about? Who told them to keep quiet?
Could it be a piece of local news that can’t be leaked yet, or someone showing up where he shouldn’t be?
No. I force my attention away as they continue swapping whispers and murmurs, focusing instead on the big display of sugar and fat in front of me. Then, a familiar bright package catches my eye—Salted Caramel. Yes. I grab a bag, but the women distract me again.
“Honestly, someone’s going to notice,” the first woman hisses.
“Keep your voice down,” the second mutters. “We’ll lose our jobs if this gets out.”
Resisting the urge to start humming loudly to cover their voices, I grab all the Twix bags from the shelf and hurry to the cashier.
I bag my purchases and practically sprint back to the hotel. Okay, maybe going out wasn’t such a good idea after all. Well, it wasn’t a complete mistake, since I’m now cradling a heavy bag of chocolate caramelly goodness in my arms.
I barely take two steps in the hotel before a familiar towering figure fills my vision. Baptiste is sauntering in the opposite direction, on his way out. He’s wearing a fitted navy jacket over a white T-shirt, sleeves pushed up to reveal forearms that should really come with a warning label.
His eyes rove over me before dropping to my overflowing bag. A small grin pulls at his lips.
“Sure you have enough there? I still have some in my room, in case you need more.”
I roll my eyes in lieu of an answer and keep walking.
“Hey,” he calls after me, forcing me to turn around. “I didn’t see you at practice today. You know the media is allowed to watch from the sidelines, right?”
I cock my head. “Why, you missed me? Didn’t have enough fans there to watch your every move, Mr. Celebrity?”
He just looks at me, still expecting an answer—steady, unbothered, annoyingly patient. There’s something infuriating about the way he refuses to take the bait. Most people either snap back or laugh a little too hard. But this guy, he just waits. Like he knows I’ll cave first.
“I’m covering the women today,” I finally say, switching my bag to my other hand. “They have practice this afternoon. There’s only so much hockey I can take in one day.”
“In that case, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says, his gaze not leaving mine.
Ugh. Don’t remind me. Another day of hockey drills and locker room interviews, pretending I care about this sport.
I don’t even bother to hide my grimace. “I can hardly wait.”