“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, andcrunchy. 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.”
