Chapter 6
Baptiste
I’m entering the arena for our second practice, and if I’m being honest, we definitely need it.
I wish we had more time on the ice, but both the men’s and women’s teams share the practice rink, so time is a scarce resource.
We all have teammates we’re used to playing with here, but we’re never all on the ice at the same time, and adapting to the new dynamics has been a challenge.
It’s like starting with a new team all over again, having to learn the strengths and weaknesses of your teammates, find chemistry on the ice, and hone our efficiency.
Even the coach’s orders are hard to catch sometimes, and we had a tough time getting it together yesterday.
Hopefully, today will be better. Especially since Harper is going to be watching from the stands.
At least, I think she will. She’s been living rent-free in my mind since yesterday, a sensation I both welcome and…
resist. It’s been a while since I’ve thought about a woman this much.
Not since I decided I’d been burned too many times and staying single was the best thing for me. It still is.
“Ready, Froggy?” Adler asks, slapping my back.
I jump in surprise. I was so lost in my thoughts, I didn’t hear him sneak up on me.
“Hope you won’t be this spaced-out on the ice, bro. What’s up?” he asks, adjusting the strap of his bag.
“Nothing.” I smile. “I’m good. Hoping for a decent practice. Better than yesterday, at least.”
“Oh yeah,” someone calls behind us.
We turn around to spot Beaumont and Miles walking up.
“You need to get it together,” Beaumont says. “Both of you,” he adds, glancing at Miles.
“What’s wrong with us?” we both say in unison.
“Haven’t been seeing that M&M magic,” Beaumont replies as we shuffle into the locker room.
The familiar smell hits instantly—sweat, detergent, rubber from fresh tape. Guys are talking over one another, stalls clattering as bags hit the floor, and beneath that, the low hum of skate blades being sharpened somewhere in the back.
“Yeah. Because we barely played together yesterday,” I say, rolling my eyes. “We just need to find our groove.”
Miles shakes his head. “And you haven’t exactly been a shining example either, Beaumont.”
We keep bickering and chatting, greeting the other guys with back slaps and fist bumps as we get ready for practice. Soon we’re tapping our sticks on the floor, changing tape, joking around to shake off the nerves.
Coach Sully Paul calls us on the ice, and we file out, blades hitting the frozen surface with that familiar, satisfying scrape.
There are loads of reporters stacked in the bleachers, and I have to scan the room for a few seconds before I spot Harper. She’s wearing a black hoodie, her hair pulled back into a ponytail. Once again, she seems to be absorbed by her phone, not even bothering to look up.
Taz Houlihan, our Stripes captain, slaps my shoulder as he shreds onto the ice and skates past me, merging into position.
Warm-ups are soon underway: simple laps to get the blood flowing, stretching circles, a few edge-work exercises. Adler races Beaumont on the first lap—naturally—and Beaumont cheats by cutting the turn too tight. Adler yells, calling foul, and Miles laughs so hard he almost trips over his own stick.
Then the drills begin.
We run a breakout drill with mixed lines, me paired with a defenseman from Pittsburgh for the first rep. He’s fast, aggressive, dribbles the puck up the ice like it’s an extension of his hand. We quickly fall into a rhythm.
As we rotate, he offers me a two-finger salute and a smile. “Good read, Marchand.”
“Right back at you,” I answer with a nod.
Next, a 3-on-2 rush.
Adler is chaos incarnate—chirping mid-drill, testing out a between-the-legs shot he absolutely should not be trying while Beaumont oversells every deke like he’s auditioning for an energy drink commercial.
Taz Houlihan sends the puck to Wally’s cage. Our trusty goalie blocks the shot with a satisfied grunt.
I take a second to glance up to the bleachers, and my heart falls a few inches.
Harper is still not looking at the ice. Actually, she’s…
reading a book? What on earth? This girl never ceases to surprise me.
Some of the other reporters are giving her a side eye, and I can’t really blame them.
She’s not exactly the picture of work ethic right now.
Harper
Grandma’s right. If dying of boredom is a thing, I’m in serious danger.
I can feel the judgmental glances of the other reporters, probably wondering why I’m reading a book instead of watching the riveting spectacle below us, but I can’t pretend to care.
I honestly don’t understand what they find so interesting.
An old guy is yelling at the jocks with skates and sticks, and they do what he says—big deal.
The only thing cool in here is the AC. Yeah, I’m talking cool in the literal sense of the term.
My boss seems content with the work I’ve sent her so far, so I guess I should call that a win. I do have the tiniest glimmer of hope that the games will be a bit more entertaining. But I’m not holding my breath.
And I can’t hold my bladder much longer either. I’m starting to think drinking a large frozen latte before coming to the arena wasn’t my smartest move. Or maybe it was. At least I’ll have an excuse to stretch my legs a bit.
I squeeze past my fellow reporters and exit the bleachers, trying to find the bathroom, but the people who run this rink seem to be allergic to signage. There’s no one to stop me, either, so I just wander, holding my bladder the best I can.
Finally, I spot the restrooms and go in to relieve myself.
I walk back the same way I came, or at least that’s what I think. I’m honestly starting to doubt my sense of direction, because I don’t recognize anything right now. I’m in a corridor with a bunch of doors, smelly equipment, and massive industrial laundry carts that look like they’ve seen war.
The smell of must and body odor grows stronger, and before I know it, I stumble into a large locker room. It’s empty, all the players being on the ice. And though I have a strong feeling I shouldn’t be here, that only fuels my curiosity even more.
I know, I know. I’m not supposed to be investigating anything, but hey, it’s still reporting on the sport, right?
It’s not my fault if I stumble onto a scandal while I’m here.
Actually, it’s my duty. Not to mention I might very well die if I don’t have something juicy to work on.
I avoided yet another seedy conversation earlier as I was waiting for my latte.
I ran out of that coffee shop so fast, I almost fell into an open manhole in the middle of the street.
This assignment is starting to threaten my life.
I take a step back and reenter the corridor, making sure it’s empty. I open a few doors and find an office.
Bingo. If there’s dirt, it’s probably in here.
“Hey,” someone calls, and I freeze, my hand still on the doorknob.
I suck in a small breath and force a bright smile, pivoting to face whoever just caught me red-handed as I crank up the charm to full throttle. “Oh, hi. I’m just—”
My words catch in my throat. It’s Baptiste Marchand, skates still on, arms crossed over the heavy equipment on his chest.
“Oh. It’s you,” I say, dropping the explanation I was cooking up.
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing,” I quickly reply.
A shadow of a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Really? Because from where I’m standing, it looked an awful lot like you were about to snoop in my coach’s office.”
I start brainstorming a clever lie, but the look on his face tells me he won’t believe anything short of the truth. “Fine,” I say, my shoulders sagging. “I’m bored, okay? I hate sports. I hate hockey. I need something to get me going, or I will drop dead, I swear.”
He presses his lips together. “And you think you’re going to find something to spark your interest… here?”
“Don't tell me there's no scandal behind the scenes in the NHL, or I will be highly disappointed.” And it would mean that this sport is even more boring than I thought, if that’s even possible.
“I really don’t think there is.”
“Come on,” I press. “Don’t you know a coach who embezzled charity money or a player who leaked play strategies to impress a girl? Or maybe a mascot who runs an illegal betting pool for extra cash? You’ve gotta give me something.”
He shakes his head, coughing out a laugh. “You're seriously unhinged, you know that? We’re here from different teams, and it’s a temporary tournament. I’m pretty sure you won’t find any big scandals here. You’d have to infiltrate each team separately.”
I cross my arms. “Is that your way of telling me your team have secrets?”
He chuckles. “Definitely not.”
“Great,” I say with a scoff, then pause.
We just stand there, eyes locked, and for a moment, there’s nothing I want more than to understand everything that’s hiding behind those piercing green eyes and that lingering accent.
“Could you at least give me an exclusive interview or something?” I ask, seizing the opportunity. “I noticed you don’t talk about your life much.”
He raises an eyebrow. “You want to investigate my personal life?”
I cock my head to the side, challenging him with my eyes. “Why not? You have something to hide?”
“No,” he immediately says.
“Great.” I clasp my hands. “Then you have nothing to worry about.”
He laughs again. “I don’t have any choice in the matter, do I?”
“Nope.” I bite my lower lip. “Anyway, you owe me. For stealing my snacks, and my room.”
“I did no such thing,” he says, rolling his eyes. “But fine. I’ll give you an interview.”
“An exclusive interview,” I correct. “And you’ll tell me exactly who Baptiste Marchand is. The man, not the player.”
“So, you’re interested in getting to know me better?” He grins, confidence dripping from his tone.
His comeback kicks up the flutter in my stomach, and I shoot it—and Baptiste—down with a glare.
“Don’t flatter yourself. I’m just doing my job. Some people might be interested in what you’re up to. So, we got a deal? Full interview, no holding back?”
“You’re a tough negotiator.”
“Big-shot journalist, remember?” I say with a tight smile. “How about tomorrow afternoon?”
He shakes his head. “Can’t. I have PT and a bunch of meetings. I can do Friday afternoon, if that works for you.”
I nod. “Perfect.”
“Do you want to come to my suite? I have a small living room we can use. You know, since I got the better room.”
I prop a hand on my hip. “I’m not allowed on the VIP floor, remember?” Nor do I have any interest in visiting this guy’s room. I admit, it would be easier to learn more about him that way, but it feels way too intimate.
“Sure you are,” he says. “My teammates’ wives are always there.”
“Well, I don’t quite fit into that category.” I twist my lips to the side. “I’ll see if I can get us a meeting room. The hotel owes me after my check-in disaster. How about two o’clock?”
He dips his chin. “Sounds good.”
“Great. I’ll see you then.”
I spin on my heel and walk away.
“Exit’s that way,” he calls behind me, and I freeze.
I shoot him a forced smile over my shoulder and saunter off—the right way this time.
As I reach the doors to the seating area, my mood brightens. This is good.
My first win since I got here.
An exclusive interview with a hockey player who never talks to the media about his personal life? Score.
And chances are, he has some dark secrets lying around, just like everyone else, and I have no doubt I’ll uncover every last one.