Chapter 14
Baptiste
The next afternoon as we pour in from practice, the atmosphere is more relaxed in our Stripes locker room.
Still high from our win, we fall into easy conversation, guys talking over one another, laughing, replaying moments from yesterday’s game and today’s drills.
Music is playing at a low volume from someone’s speaker, the sharp scent of sweat and disinfectant hanging in the air, sticks tapping against benches, skates clattering onto the floor.
I’m brainstorming with Hawthorne and Miles about tightening our neutral-zone coverage—how we can close gaps faster when the Stars team tries to regroup—while Wally is nodding along next to me, arms crossed, his stony expression unreadable as always.
“We just need to put more effort into holding the blue line,” I say before grabbing my water bottle to take a swig. As soon as the liquid hits my lips, I spit it out and wipe my mouth. What the—
The taste is awful. I sniff the bottle again, grimacing at the vinegar tang with an undercurrent of dill. “Is this pickle juice?”
Loud laughs erupt around me, mixed with some incredulous faces. There have been a few pranks going around since the tournament started. Taz Houlihan got pranked last week and Jayce Brady keeps finding ducks everywhere, but it’s way more fun when I’m not on the receiving end.
I zero in on Adler and Beaumont, who are laughing the loudest. “Seriously? You guys suck.”
They grip their sides, faces going red with laughter, then Adler finally says, “It wasn’t me. But I kind of wish it was.”
“Not me either,” Beaumont finally manages between chuckles.
And I believe them. If they were behind this, they’d own it.
Plus, I’m pretty sure the same perpetrator is behind all the pranks.
I glance around the room, eyeing everyone suspiciously.
Reeves and Jayce Brady are laughing a bit harder than the other guys, exchanging looks, but no one is claiming the prank.
“Fine,” I say, shaking my head. “Don’t tell me who it is.”
“What’s the big deal? You should be used to eating weird stuff, Froggy,” Adler chimes in. “A little pickle juice shouldn’t bother you too much.”
“Haha, very funny,” I reply dryly. “Maybe you should have a taste too,” I add, lunging toward him with my bottle.
He bolts, sprinting out of the locker room faster than a breakaway.
“Finally figured out how to get rid of Adler,” Hawthorne says with a nod. “Good job, Marchand.”
More laughs erupt around the room.
After taking a shower—and scrubbing away the lingering scent of pickle—I exit the practice facility and head back to the hotel with the guys.
Harper is standing there, waiting for me as we enter the lobby. She texted me that she has a few questions for her next article.
“Hey,” I say. “What’s up?”
Her eyes flit between all the faces. “Hey, guys. Nothing much. Practice was good today,” she says with a smile. “I’m confident in your chances tomorrow. And I’ve been at the Stars practice too, so I know what I’m talking about.”
“Look who’s taking an interest in the game,” I say, glancing at the guys.
“It’s touching, really,” Adler says with a solemn nod.
“And now she even knows the proper terms and rules,” Miles adds before drilling her with a challenging stare. “What’s a penalty kill?”
Harper frowns, thinking. “Um. It’s when you’ve got a player in the penalty box, so everyone else has to defend and… basically survive until the clock runs out?”
The guys and I cheer and applaud.
“Good job,” Beaumont says, bumping fists with her.
“All right, I gotta get going,” Hawthorne says. “Bye, guys, Harper. See you later.”
They all follow suit, and Harper and I find a quiet corner of the lobby to sit down. She asks me a couple more questions about life as a hockey player and my time at the Olympics.
“Oh, and I have one more,” she finally says, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I noticed you have the American flag on your helmet. Maxime has a half French, half American flag. Why don’t you do the same?”
I pause, considering my answer. To be honest, it never occurred to me to slap the French flag on my gear—not even half of it.
Even if they all call me Froggy, I don’t really feel patriotic when it comes to France.
Which is strange, considering that, unlike Beaumont who had an American mom and a French dad, I’m one hundred percent French.
“I guess I don’t feel French as much as I feel American,” I say slowly. “France never really felt like my home. The first time I felt like I belonged somewhere was when I moved to the US.”
“Interesting. But you had a good experience in France, right? You’re still on good terms with your French foster family.”
“I am.” I nod, making yet another mental note to call them. It’s been a while. “But I don’t know… I always felt like an outsider there. And the USA is the country I chose to represent during the Olympics.”
Truth is, I don’t even know why I kept my French nationality when I became American.
Can a person forgo one of his nationalities?
I’ll have to look into that, because no matter what my birth certificate says, I’m American through and through, and the flag flying proudly in front of my house proves it.
“Excuse me,” a fifty-something woman with dark hair interrupts us, clinging to her handbag like it’s a shield. “Are you Baptiste Marchand?”
I frown, then nod. “I am.”
Her green eyes widen slightly, and she wets her lips. “Um… can I talk to you in private? It’s important.”
“What is it?” I ask, standing up.
The woman glances at Harper, who’s now standing too, a curious expression on her face.
“It’s okay,” I say to the woman, trying to reassure her.
“Well,” she says, biting her lip. “What I have to say isn’t easy. It’s—You’re—My name is Helen Fletcher, and I’m your mother.”
All the blood drains from my face, and I almost stumble back.
But my shock quickly turns into rage. Yet another money-hungry woman looking for a payout. Don’t people have anything better to do with their lives?
“Sure you are,” I say coldly.
Her gaze falls to the marble floor. “I know it’s not easy to believe, but if you let me explain, you’ll see that—”
“I have no interest in wasting my time listening to your lies, lady,” I snap. “Nice try, but this isn’t my first rodeo.”
Three women have already claimed to be my mother. Three scammers. Three heartbreaks. Three moments when I’ve had to relive my abandonment all over again. Three reminders that my real family never cared enough to seek me out.
Harper places a gentle hand on my shoulder. “Baptiste, maybe you should—”
“No,” I say louder than intended, cutting her off. “I’m out of here.” I direct my glare at the woman, who looks stunned. “Don’t ever come near me again, or I’m calling the cops.”
Without another word, I storm off toward the elevators, trying to ignore the deep ache in my chest.
Harper
“Baptiste, wait,” I call out, scurrying after him. That was hands-down one of the weirdest encounters of my life—and I’ve had plenty.
He punches the elevator button several times in quick succession, jaw tight, but I manage to slip in just as the cabin opens and climb inside with him.
“What was that about?” I ask, slightly out of breath. A reminder that I really have to start doing some cardio again. It’s been a while.
He throws me a dark look. “This is why I don’t do interviews about my personal life.”
My heart stalls. “What do you mean?”
“Every time I talk about my upbringing in an interview, this happens. Your article was published a couple of days ago, and here we are—like clockwork.”
My stomach plummets as understanding dawns on me. “Baptiste, I’m so sorry,” I mumble as the elevator doors slide open.
He pushes through as soon as there’s a sliver of space, shoulders rigid. After a second of hesitation, I follow him.
“So,” I ask cautiously, keeping pace as he marches down the hallway. “This has happened before, then.”
“More than once,” he mutters, stopping in front of his room and snatching his key card from his pocket. He opens the door and leaves it ajar for me as he stomps inside.
I guess I’m going into his room.
Well—his suite.
I can’t suppress the twinge of jealousy that bubbles up as I take in the size of it—the clean lines, the sitting area, and especially the freestanding bathtub visible through the bathroom door that’s slightly ajar.
He drops onto the couch, resting his elbows on his knees, hands clasped.
I sit across from him on the armchair, perching on the edge.
I’m not sure what to say. He’s wound up so tight, like he could burst at any minute.
I’ve never seen him lose his cool like that.
Even when he’s aggressive on the ice, his fury is controlled, intentional.
“I’ve been through this five times, Harper,” he finally says, not looking at me. “Three mothers, one brother, and one sister. All frauds.”
My mouth falls open. “That’s… that’s horrible. I’m so sorry people would do something like that.”
“Yep. People are capable of anything when money is involved.”
Don’t I know it.
“She didn’t look like she was after a handout, though.” The words spill out before I can stop them.
“Of course she was,” he fires back defensively. Then, more sharply, “Why do you say that?”
“Did you see her bag? It was Chanel—probably worth between eight and ten thousand dollars.”
He shakes his head. “I’m sure it was a fake. Probably not hard to find.”
“Right,” I say, not wanting to push him further, even though I’m fairly sure it wasn’t a knockoff. Everything about that woman screamed polished—tailored jacket and slacks, discreet jewelry, perfectly blow-dried hair that probably came straight from a high-end salon.
Baptiste’s knee starts bouncing. “Sorry,” he murmurs. “I won’t be the best company right now. Do you mind if we catch up later?”
I want to stay, to say something that will fix this. But I don’t know what he needs—and he’s clearly asking for space. “No, of course not,” I say, standing.
“Thanks. See you later,” he adds, forcing a small, tired smile.
I close the door behind me and shuffle toward the elevator. But when I step inside, I don’t press the button for my floor.
My finger gravitates to the Lobby button.
Who knows? Maybe the woman is still there.
I know Baptiste wants nothing to do with her, but something isn’t adding up. The quiet luxury. The anxious demeanor. The way her lips trembled—not theatrically, but like she was bracing herself for something.
I’ve seen my fair share of scammers over the years. I know the tells. And this woman doesn’t strike me as a swindler.
And there’s one more thing I can’t shake.
She had the exact same emerald-green eyes as Baptiste.