“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 birthcertificate 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.
