Miles leans back in his chair. “You mean the bricks that won two Cups and an Olympic gold?”
Beaumont presses a hand to his chest. “That was talent. Not pancakes.”
Wally takes another slow sip of coffee. “Pretty sure it was the pancakes.”
They keep arguing, pitting crêpes against pancakes. Their voices are overlapping, hands gesturing dramatically as Beaumont defends French culinary honor like it’s a matter of national security. But the whole room is so loud and chaotic, no one is paying any attention to our table. Plates clatter. Coffee cups knock againstsaucers. Chairs scrape the floor as players from both teams come and go in waves of red, blue, and white.
It’s the kind of noise that’s almost comforting—controlled chaos. The calm before the real storm.
Eventually, the coaches call us all out of the banquet room for the first meetings.
We dump our trash, grab our last refills of coffee, and follow the slow migration of players toward the conference rooms downstairs. The energy shifts as we descend the steps in droves—less joking, more focus. Headphones go in. Conversations lower to a murmur. Game faces slide into place.
The meeting rooms are set up like a corporate seminar, complete with long tables, bottled water at every seat, and massive screens glowing with our new Stripes team logo. I take my seat, stretching my shoulders once before settling in.
The next few hours are a blur of schedules, rotations, special teams units, travel logistics, media obligations, and security briefings. Slides flip. Names are called. Lines are tested on whiteboards like we’re studying for finals.
I force myself to focus, even as the carb-heavy breakfast threatens to drag my eyelids down. This tournament might not be the Stanley Cup playoffs, but it matters. It’s history. It’s pride. The kind of thing kids remember watching, even decades down the road.
Once the meetings wrap up, we have some free time to meet the other Stripes team members. Our teammates all come from the Atlantic and Metropolitan Division. I already know a few guys from the Olympics and the previous teams I’ve played for,but apart from them, I don’t know any other guys on the team roster—at least not personally.
Everyone is friendly enough. I’m talking handshakes and back slaps all around. Guys telling stories that start with “remember when we played you in—” and always ending in laughter.
After a quick sandwich for lunch, it’s time for our official photos. We each have to stand in front of a background with our team color—red for the Stripes, blue for the Stars—and the photographers ask us to hold various poses while channeling different emotions, like proud, determined, and happy.
Wally mostly does the same pose for all of the prompts, which is standing still, his eyes on the camera, a frown etched into his face.
Adler and Beaumont turn the charm on, testing every single move to make everyone laugh. Meanwhile, Miles and Hawthorne take the shoot a bit more seriously.
It’s a circus, but a strangely efficient one.
Mid-afternoon has finally arrived, and we’re ushered to a set of meeting rooms where journalists are gathered, waiting for us.
The noise dips the moment we walk in—pens poised, cameras lifted, half the room already calculating angles and headlines.
My eyes are immediately drawn to her—Harper Donnelly. I’m not sure if it’s her wavy brown hair and the way the glossy strands catch the light, or her demeanor that screams cool and confident. She’s on her phone, unlike all her colleagues who are watching our every move, eager to get started.
We dispatch around the room for one-on-one interviews, and I naturally walk toward her.
“So,” I say as I saunter closer. “You’re a sports journalist.”
Her eyes lift to meet mine, still as defiant as yesterday. “No, I’m an investigative journalist.”
I frown. “I’m confused. What are you doing at the press conference, then?” My eyes widen dramatically. “Wait, are we in danger? Or—Oh no, are you stalking me? Because I already did the crazy stalker thing, and I don’t have the bandwidth to do it again.”
She raises an eyebrow, clearly not amused by my lame attempt at humor. “You wish. The world doesn't revolve around you, Mr. Celebrity.”
“So, what is a big-shot investigative journalist like you doing here, then? Is there a scandal I should know about?”
Her lips twitch. “What makes you think I'm a big shot?”
I cross my arms over my chest. “Oh, I can tell. You’re all intense and confident. You're good at your job, I'm sure of it. Which makes your presence here even more mysterious.”
She glances away, then back at me. “Iamgood at my job. Just hit a minor setback.”
“You’re not undercover, then? We’re safe,” I say, pressing a hand to my chest in mock relief.
A hint of a smile finally appears on her lips. “I’m just covering the tournament. Filling the role of a good old sports reporter. It’s a very important job. Apparently.”
