The space is bright and buzzing with energy, chandeliers casting warm light across several long buffet tables set up along the walls.Steam wafts up from metal trays as servers in crisp uniforms dish food onto plates—scrambled eggs, bacon, fruit platters, pancakes stacked high like small architectural feats. In the middle of the room, more long tables stretch out, already packed on all sides with players and staff. The air is saturated with a mix of chatter, the clinking of cutlery, and the occasional burst of laughter.
I spot the guys easily, between Adler’s boisterous laugh and Miles’ red cap.
“Finally,” Adler says, beaming as I sit next to him and across from Caleb Hawthorne, our New York captain. “Froggy has arrived. Phew! I was starting to think you’d miss the first game.”
I roll my eyes. “First game is a week away.” Not to mention we already grabbed dinner together last night, but teasing is pretty much our group’s second language.
Beaumont drops into the seat beside me. “Is he finally here? Fantastic. We can alert the media. The parade starts in five.”
Hawthorne leans back, calm as ever. “Oh, come on. He got here safely. That’s what matters.”
Miles jabs a finger at him. “That is exactly what someone who drives like a grandpa would say.”
Hawthorne shrugs. “Better than driving like Beaumont.”
Beaumont gasps. “Excusez moi?I am an excellent driver. Graceful. Like poetry.”
Wally aka Noah Wilcott, who’s seated two chairs down, lets out a low, unimpressed grunt. “Poetry that crashes.”
We all stare at him.
“That might be the most words I’ve ever heard you say before breakfast,” Adler says with a chuckle.
Wally sips his black coffee. “Don’t get used to it.”
Adler leans toward me. “Seriously, though, what took you so long? Flat tire? Wrong turn? Stop to buy a souvenir snow globe?”
I give him a deadpan stare. “Nothing happened. I just drove. Like a normal person.”
“And here I thought you’d finally met the love of your life.” Miles sighs loudly, shaking his head.
“Yeah,” Adler chimes in. “The gas station is such a romantic place.”
For a split second, an image flashes in my mind—wavy brown hair, sharp eyes, and an attitude that could outskate half the league.
“Shut up,” I mutter, though there’s no bite in my tone. The guys are all married or engaged, so teasing me about being single has quickly become one of their favorite pastimes. I’m used to it. “I don’t need a girlfriend. What I need is to be at the top of my game, and you’d better be too.”
“Oh, shots fired!” Beaumont yells, sloshing his juice as he lifts his glass in salute. “I’m withmon ami françaison this one. Let’s make our fans proud.”
He and I high five, and I head to the buffet table to fill my plate with energy for the day.
The line smells like every breakfast dream I had as a kid—sizzling bacon, sweet maple syrup, coffee so strong you can taste it from across the room.
I load up my plate with no shame: a stack of blueberry pancakes, scrambled eggs, hash browns, a few slices of bacon, and because I apparently have no self-control, one golden waffle corner dripping with syrup. Fuel. That’s what this is. Strategic fueling.
I take my loaded plate back to the table, and when I sit down, Adler eyes my spread. “Planning to hibernate?”
I smirk, forking a bite of pancake. “I’m carb-loading.”
“For what?” Miles asks. “A nap?”
I point my fork at him. “For winning.”
Beaumont nods solemnly. “He is right. Champions are built on pancakes.” Giving a small shrug, he adds, “Well, I could go for a stack of crêpes instead, but—”
Adler scoffs. “Oh, please. Here we go.”
“What?” Beaumont says, offended. “Crêpes are the elite pan-made pastry. Thin. Elegant. Refined. Not these… fluffy American bricks.”
