Chapter 7
Baptiste
The last few days have followed an upward trajectory. Our Stripes team is finding its footing, and we’re starting to garner some good results on the ice. About time too. First game is in three days with only one practice left beforehand.
I’m now meeting up with Harper for my interview, a moment I’ve both been looking forward to and dreading.
On one hand, the idea of sparring with her feels sharper, more real than any cookie-cutter hockey questions ever could.
On the other, I haven’t been giving interviews about my life for a reason.
My past isn’t a headline, and I have zero interest in watching my early years turn into gossip fodder—even if she’s the one holding the recorder.
One of the hotel’s employees takes us to a small meeting room on the first floor. A ten-seater conference table takes up the center of the room, a white board hanging on one of the walls and a coffee and water dispenser tucked in the corner.
“Would you like me to bring you some snacks, maybe?” the attendant asks.
“No, we’re good,” Harper says, grinning. “I came prepared.”
Yeah. As if I didn’t notice the big bag of Twix she’s carrying.
The woman exits the room, closing the door behind us, and Harper and I take our seats across from each other at the table. She places the bag of snacks between us like it’s evidence.
“Thought it was appropriate,” she says with a wink.
I shake my head, a small laugh escaping me. “I honestly can’t believe you’re willing to share these with me. This interview must really be important to you.”
She bites her lip, a smile peeking through. “Well, I did buy a few extra, so…”
“Why do you like these so much?” I ask, picking a chocolate bar from the bag and unwrapping it.
She arches an eyebrow, crossing one leg over the other. “Aren’t I the one asking the questions?”
“My bad.” I bite into the Twix, my taste buds lighting up with the warm caramel and smooth chocolate.
“So,” she begins, leaning back against her chair and watching me closely. “Why do you like Salted Caramel Twix bars?”
I frown, then smile as realization hits me.
“Stealing my questions, huh?” I take another bite.
“Well, they’re sweet, and salty, and crunchy.
It’s like the perfect combination all wrapped up in a single snack.
They’re easy to eat too—you can keep the wrapper around it so you can eat it anywhere and not get chocolate on your fingers. ”
“Yes!” she says, bolting upright, a gleam in her eyes. “I love that too. And the blend of flavors.”
“Well then.” I recline in my chair. “This isn’t as bad as I thought it would be.”
“Haha. These are just the warm-ups, Mr. Celebrity. I assumed you’d know all about interviews, given your long—and apparently successful—career.”
Unfortunately, I do. I learned the hard way how it all works when I had the misfortune of admitting to a news outlet that I didn’t know my parents. Five different “relatives” came knocking on my door that same year. None were my real family.
“I know how it works,” I finally say.
Her smirk falters. “You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to, you know.”
“I thought I owed you?” I say, but my attempt at humor lands flat.
“I was joking. You know that.”
I smile, softer this time. “Yeah, but it’s fine. We’re here, and besides, you brought snacks.”
Things are different now. I’m older and wiser. I don’t care if my story attracts another round of wannabe family members. I know how to deal with them. And maybe, after learning more about me, Harper will quit calling me Mr. Celebrity.
“All right,” she says after a beat. She grabs a recorder from her pocket and places it between us. “Whenever you’re ready.”
“Where do I start?”
“The beginning. Your childhood. How you first got into hockey.”
I nod. “I was born in Mess—although it’s written M-E-T-Z. It’s a small city in the northeast of France. My parents abandoned me at birth, and I was released to the state. I got placed with an adoptive family a few months later in Strasbourg. That’s where I spent all my childhood.”
“Right,” she says, her forehead creasing. “I actually thought you were born in Strasbourg.”
“That’s because I was only in Metz as a newborn. I lived all my life in Strasbourg and started playing hockey there.” I run a hand through my hair. “Actually, I’d rather you just say I’m from Strasbourg. Don’t mention Metz, okay?”
She wears a crooked smirk. “Sure. We don’t want people to think you might be a mess, Mr. Celebrity.”
I grin, even though that has nothing to do with it. “Definitely not.”
“So, what happened next?”
“The mom from my adoptive family had some health issues and couldn’t look after me.
I got placed into a temporary foster home.
It was supposed to be just until she got better and we could finalize the adoption.
But she never recovered and eventually passed away.
The dad didn’t want to take on a small child on his own, not after the loss of his wife, which is understandable.
Especially since I wasn’t exactly a baby anymore by then. I was three.”
“Oh, wow,” she says quietly, swallowing. “That’s sad. I’m so sorry.”
“I didn’t really understand what was happening, to be honest. The foster home I was with was nice, and they took great care of me. I called my foster mom Auntie Mumu, and she really was one. I wanted to stay with her, and she had a permanent spot available, so the state eventually agreed.”
Harper nods gently. “That’s good. Do you still keep in touch with her?”
I smile. “I do. Not too often because of my schedule and the time difference, but there’s always social media, and we email or call each other on a pretty regular basis. I haven’t seen her in a couple of years.”
“Is she the one who got you into hockey?”
I bob my head. “Yes. Her husband worked in a hockey club, and I started at age four before joining the local junior program at six. They were happy they found something I liked that brought me out of my shell. I was kind of a shy kid back then.”
She nods, listening closely, not interrupting.
“I played all throughout my childhood in clubs and eventually for French, then European tournaments. At sixteen, I was selected by a Quebec Major Junior Hockey League team, so I moved to a town near Montreal and lived with a billet family.”
Her eyebrows furrow. “What’s a billet family?”
“It’s a host family for young hockey players who move away from home to play for a team.”
“Wow,” she says softly. “That’s pretty early to leave home. Such a big change.”
“It was, but it was also my dream to play professionally, and not many people get that chance. They knew that, and so did I.”
I shift in my chair before continuing. “At eighteen, I got drafted by a Floridian team, where I spent most of my first season in the AHL honing my game. I made the roster full-time a couple of years later. I got my green card, my game improved, and I got more exposure. I changed teams twice before landing in New York where I am now. Oh—and a few years ago, I passed the citizenship test and now have dual citizenship.”
“Impressive,” she says, grabbing a Twix. “Has this life been everything you dreamed of, so far?”
“It has,” I say honestly. “It’s hard work, but when you love what you do, it doesn’t always feel like work. Playing in the NHL has brought me joy, serenity, a sense of belonging. Friends.”
Her head tilts slightly. “How so?”
“Hockey is a community. We show up for one another, and as we train and play together, we become like family—something I always craved.”
“Yeah,” she says, glancing away for a second, then back at me. “And how do you think playing hockey has shaped you as a human being? As a man?”
“Responsibility is big in hockey. Loyalty too. And even if we have some degree of fame…”
She gives me a pointed look that I ignore.
“Most of us are humble. Everything is designed to keep us grounded. We’re responsible for our own gear from a young age.
We carry our bags. We tape our sticks. If you see kids struggling to haul around giant equipment bags while their parents watch, don’t feel sorry for them. It’s not cruelty. It’s hockey.”
“Interesting. I never knew that.”
I lean my elbows on the table. “Does that mean you’re going to stop calling me Mr. Celebrity, then?”
Her eyes narrow playfully. “Mmm. Not a chance. You’re still benefitting from your fame, Mr. I-get-the-car-and-the-suite.”
I roll my eyes. “Again, I don’t control stock or room availability.”
She laughs, then switches topics. “I just learned that half of your regular season games are away games. It’s a demanding schedule. How do you cope with that?”
I shrug. “I’m used to it. It’s been my life for over a decade. I know I won’t be playing forever, so I want to enjoy it while I can.”
“Right.” She taps a finger on the table. “Do you know what you’ll do after this? Just enjoy your money and retire?”
“Probably,” I say with a smile. “But I hope I’ll have someone to share it with by then. A family, maybe.”
“Speaking of, how is your dating life with such a crazy schedule? Must not be easy. But maybe you’ve managed?”
I pause, then grimace. “I haven’t fared great. But I’m not sure the schedule is to blame.”
“Oh, do tell,” she says, her eyes lighting up. “Is this the part where you finally confess all your dark secrets or the horrible habits you can’t shake? Are you a secret mafia boss?”
I burst into laughter. This girl has way too wild of an imagination for her own good. “You always expect the worst from people, don’t you? You’re one of those.”
“Well, they haven’t exactly proven me wrong. So, tell me, why don’t you have a girlfriend? Is it because you never put the toilet seat down? Or is it more of an Interpol problem?”
I shake my head, laughing again. “Nope. Just bad experiences, I guess. Sorry—it’s a lame explanation and probably not what you were expecting. My life is pretty dull.”
There’s a glint in her eye as she taps her chin. “Wasn’t there a stalker? Or was that a joke?”