My jaw drops.Excuse me?
As the man nods in satisfaction, my eyes narrow.Is he getting a car because he’s some kind of celebrity?
Stuart pivots on his heels and grabs the last pair of keys hanging behind him. “There you go. It’s the red Cadillac, right there on the lot. Good luck in the tournament.”
“Thanks, man,” Mr. Celebrity says, slinging his bag over his shoulder.
“Wait a minute,” I bellow, shooting up from my makeshift suitcase-seat. “I’ve been waiting here for over an hour. So have all these people—some even longer!” I gesture vaguely at the damp, miserable crowd. “Why does he get to go first? Because he’s famous or something? I don’t think so.”
Mr. Celebrity just frowns, his eyes settling on me.
“Ma’am, your car is on the way. I promise,” Stuart says, wringing his hands.
Ma’am?Is that supposed to calm me down?
“You didn’t answer my question,” I snap. “Do we have to be celebrities to be treated like customers here? Because I’m pretty sure the press would love to hear about that.”
Stuart flushes pink from hairline to collar. “No, ma’am—sorry—no. Absolutely not. He just had a car booked in a higher category. But don’t worry, more economy cars will be arriving in less than an hour.”
Terrific.
I wheel around and plop myself back down on my suitcase, arms crossed, jaw tight.
A few seconds later, Mr. Celebrity comes back and knocks on the window, summoning Stuart out into the small lot. I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Maybe they forgot the champagne in his luxury car or something. They talk for a minute, glancing back toward us, but eventually, he slides into his glitzy redmobile.
Then, Mr. Celebrity drives off the parking lot, leaving all of us peasants stuck here with Stuart as our keeper. Yeah, this trip is off to agreatstart.
2
Baptiste
Man, I’m starving.
I hate rushing through my mornings like this. Last night ran late—Deacon hosted a get-together at the bar to celebrate his niece Lola’s graduation, and even though the man is a bit of a grump, once he gets sentimental, nobody leaves until he’s fed them at least twice. I meant to go home early, but my teammate Maxime Beaumont challenged my other teammate James Adler to air hockey, then Adler challenged me, and everything spiraled from there.
Today, I had a few errands to run before leaving for three weeks, including dropping my car off at the shop and grabbing the rental I booked. Adler offered me a ride with him and his wife Beth, but Iturned him down. They’re my friends, my family, really. But three hours trapped in a car with their lovey-dovey energy? That’s a slow and quiet form of torture. Besides, I get carsick in the back seat. And Adler’s taste in music is debatable at best.
Now that I’m finally on the highway, I try to relax, but my stomach keeps growling louder, reminding me that I definitely won’t make it to DC without food. Even though it’s mid-afternoon, I’m seriously craving pancakes—a stack of thick, fluffy flapjacks drowned in syrup. I haven’t really had a chance to sit down and eat today, so when I spot an IHOP sign, I take the exit without a second thought.
This is something I genuinely love about the US.
Everything is open. All the time. Craving a steak at 10 a.m.? No problem. Dinner at 3 p.m.? Done deal. Need a pick-me-up at 3 a.m.? The doors are always open somewhere. Life was so different in France—more rigid, more narrow. I may have been born there, but I never felt truly myself until I stepped foot in the US. Canada was a nice stepping stone, but when I moved to Florida for my first NHL contract, it was like breathing for the first time. Like I was finally right where I belonged.
I pull into the lot and head toward the restaurant. Heat radiates from the pavement, the deafening song of cicadas buzzing in the trees nearby. The air smells like coffee, caramelized sugar, and fried batter even before I step through the doorway. Inside, the place hums with low conversations, clinking silverware, and a gentle sizzle from the open kitchen. Kids are coloring with fat crayons onpaper menus. A guy in a business suit is wolfing down a plate of bacon while typing on two phones.
Within seconds, a hostess with a sunny smile leads me to a booth by the window. The vinyl seat squeaks as I slide in, and I grab a menu even though I already know exactly what I want.
I order blueberry pancakes, scrambled eggs, hash browns, and coffee—the breakfast of champions. Hopefully, it’ll bring me luck for the tournament ahead.
Receiving an invitation to play in the Semiquincentennial Stars & Stripes Tournament is a huge honor. A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. It’s NHL only—men’s and women’s divisions both represented, split into East and West rosters branded as Team Stars and Team Stripes, each stacked with the best players in the league. And I’m one of them.
I won’t lie. I want to win, not just for me, but for my entire East team—the Stripes—and my teammates from New York who are also participating. We’ve been chattering about it for weeks, all fired up, talking strategy like it’s the Stanley Cup playoffs.
I’m proud of what I’ve accomplished so far—two Stanley Cups and an Olympic gold this year—but losing this tournament?
No. Not an option.
This is history we’re talking about, and I intend to be on the right side of it.
