First Shift (Breakaway Plays #1)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

Griffin

The fog machine hissed, sending wisps of white vapor curling around my skates as I slid to a stop at center ice in a snow shower.

Red spotlights blazed in the darkened arena and turned the artificial mist into something ethereal—like skating through storm clouds.

After sixteen years in the NHL, I’d done my share of promotional shoots, but there was something different about this one.

Something that made my chest tight with anticipation and dread in equal measure.

“That’s a wrap!” the director of creative services called out, her voice echoing through the empty Portland arena. “Thanks for your cooperation, Captain Lapierre. Those shots are going to look incredible in the campaign.”

I pushed off toward the tunnel, my blades carving clean lines through the fresh ice. “Happy to help.” I flashed the smile that had graced more sports magazine covers than I cared to count. “Whatever the team needs.”

The artificial chill of the arena bit at the exposed skin of my face as I stepped off the ice, my skates squishing against the rubber matting in the tunnel.

The familiar weight of my gear—shoulder pads, thick gloves, the captain’s C emblazoned on my chest—felt heavier today.

Or maybe that was just the weight of expectation settling on my shoulders like Portland’s notorious clouds.

“You looked great out there.”

I turned toward the smooth, deep voice and faced a tall man, maybe a few inches shorter than I was without skates, with warm brown eyes and a perfectly trimmed beard. A sharp medium-blue suit accentuated his athletic build, and when he smiled, a dimple appeared in his right cheek.

Focus, Griffin.

He extended his hand. “Wesley Hutton, PR Manager. We spoke before the roster announcement in July, but I’m sure you met a lot of people.”

“I remember you.” I shook his hand. A beat, then I couldn’t resist saying, “Lesley Button.”

Wesley’s eyes widened, then he groaned. “Oh God, don’t remind me of the autocorrect debacle.”

“How could I forget?” I kept my expression serious. “It was a memorable introduction.”

“That’s one word for it.” Wesley’s cheeks flushed slightly, but he was smiling. “I was hoping you’d forgotten that mortifying first impression.”

Not a chance. I remembered everything about that day—the relief of being named captain, the anxiety before the press conference, and Wesley running into the room, slightly out of breath, horrified that his phone had autocorrected his name in a text introducing himself to me.

I’d teased him about it then too, and he’d threatened to sabotage my presser.

I’d liked him immediately.

Which had been dangerous then and was even more dangerous now.

Wesley held up a Portland Stormhawks hoodie, the stylized logo of the red predator bird with a lightning bolt in its beak crisp and new.

Our logo. My team’s logo. The new city still felt foreign and surreal.

“I brought you something to change into for the press conference this afternoon. We’re pushing the team gear to fans. ”

“Presser?” I accepted the sweatshirt.

He raised an eyebrow. “It’s on your schedule. Captain and alternate captains. You and I are meeting beforehand so I can coach you through some potential questions.” Wesley’s smile was easy, and that dimple made another appearance. “Coaches’ conference room, after you’ve changed. Take your time.”

I nodded, already mentally shifting gears. Pressers were part of the job—had been since I was a rookie. But this was different. Bigger. “Sounds good.”

“Perfect.” Wesley’s eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled. “See you in a few.”

My gaze followed him as he walked away, and I noted the confident set of his shoulders and long stride.

The coaches’ conference room? I should have asked directions—I’d have to find it in this unfamiliar venue.

I shook my head and pushed through the door into the brand-new practice facility’s locker room.

The space still smelled like fresh paint and new rubber floors rather than the familiar cocktail of sweat, tape, and liniment that marked a real NHL locker room.

But give it a few months of practices and games, and it would smell like home.

I was halfway through peeling off my shoulder pads when the door banged open.

“Fucking media days,” Kyle Turner muttered, and dropped his gear bag with a clatter. “Photo shoots and video shoots and all this marketing bullshit.”

I kept my voice level as I pulled the Stormhawks hoodie over my head. The fabric was soft, expensive. “It’s important for promotional and media purposes,” I said. “Especially during the first year of an expansion team.”

Turner snorted and yanked his T-shirt off with unnecessary aggression.

At twenty-eight, he was younger than me but carried himself like he’d been burned by the league one too many times.

Maybe he had. “Yeah, well, I’ll tell you what I’m not doing.

I’m not sitting down with that gay PR guy for interview coaching.

” He spat a slur. “Wouldn’t be caught dead alone with him. ”

Every muscle in my body went rigid. The familiar spike of panic shot through my chest—the same feeling I got whenever anyone talked about sexuality in the locker room, whenever the conversation veered too close to risky territory. But this time, it was mixed with something else. Anger.

“That kind of talk doesn’t belong in my locker room,” I said, keeping a tight rein on my emotions.

Turner’s laugh was harsh. “Don’t you mean our locker room?

I’m your goddamn teammate, and I get a say.

” He leaned against his stall, arms crossed.

“You want to know what you’re dealing with?

Guy got himself into a whole mess down in Nashville after his relationship with a closeted sports broadcaster blew up.

Broadcaster was the son of some famous TV preacher.

Religious nuts protesting outside Hutton’s house for corrupting the son, vandalism, social media shitstorm, death threats, the works. ”

My throat tightened. That was exactly why no one could know about me. Ever. The image of protesters outside my house, of my mother seeing that on the news, of my agent, Michael, having to field calls from reporters asking about my personal life made my stomach clench with dread.

“And Hutton didn’t have my back when I needed him,” Turner continued, his voice hardening.

“I made one little joke about gays at a bar—just messing around, you know how it is—and some guy took offense. Started a whole thing, threw a punch. I had to punch him back, didn’t I?

” He said it like the answer was obvious, like any reasonable person would agree.

“Could’ve been nothing if Hutton had just done his job and managed it.

But no, he had to be all high and mighty, wouldn’t cover for me.

Told management the truth, made sure I got suspended and fined.

” His jaw clenched. “That’s his job—managing PR, making problems go away.

Instead, he made it worse. The guy’s a prick. ”

“I don’t care about gossip,” I said, though my voice sounded strained even to my own ears. “I won’t tolerate slurs or prejudice. Not from anyone.”

Turner’s sneer deepened. “Right. Whatever you say, Captain.”

I left him there and practically vibrated with disgust—at Turner, at myself, at the whole fucking situation.

After getting turned around a few times, I found the coaches’ conference room. It was blessedly quiet and calming when I pushed through the door, just Wesley sitting at the head of the polished table with a tablet and a cup of coffee, his Pride watchband barely visible below his sleeve.

He looked up when I entered, and his smile was genuine. Warm. “How does it feel to be the face of a two-billion-dollar investment and the hopes of an entire city?”

Despite everything, I smiled back. “No pressure.”

Wesley laughed—a rich, easy sound that made something in my chest loosen. “That’s exactly the kind of response they’ll love. Self-aware but not self-deprecating. Confident but approachable.”

For the next hour, Wesley put me through my paces. His questions were sharp, insightful, designed to probe for weaknesses in my answers.

“How are you going to unite players from twenty different teams under one vision?” he asked, playing the part of a reporter.

I leaned back in my chair and considered the question. “Well, I could try bribery, but the salary cap makes that tricky.”

Wesley’s mouth twitched at the corner.

“But honestly, these guys didn’t choose to be here—they were chosen. But they’re all here for the same reason I am: because someone believed we had something to contribute. My job isn’t to make them forget where they came from, it’s to help them see where we’re going together.”

Wesley nodded approvingly. “Good. You acknowledged the challenge without dwelling on it, then pivoted to the positive while keeping it real. Next question. Your new teammates only know you as an opponent. How do you transition from someone they tried to beat to someone they’ll follow?”

“That’s easy.” I grinned. “I stop letting them beat me.” Wesley raised an eyebrow, and I continued more seriously.

“Look, respect in hockey is earned through play, not speeches. They’ve seen me compete against them for years—that’s actually an advantage.

They know I won’t ask them to do anything I won’t do myself.

The transition happens on the ice, shift by shift, until they realize we’re not opponents anymore. We’re teammates.”

Wesley drummed his fingers against the table.

“I love the confidence, but maybe soften ‘I stop letting them beat me’ to something like ‘I start playing with them instead of against them.’ Same message, less combative tone for the press.” He referred to his tablet.

“Next one. What’s your relationship like with the coaching staff?

” He tilted his head, as if he wanted to know the answer himself.

I scratched my jaw, the day’s growing stubble rough under my fingertips.

“Coach Roberts and I are still in the getting-to-know-you phase, but so far it’s like a good first date—lots of mutual interest and no one’s run away screaming yet.

” Wesley actually smiled at that one. “But all joking aside, we’re building something from scratch here.

The coaching staff brings the system. I bring the experience of a seasoned captain.

It’s a partnership. We’re all learning each other’s languages. ”

“Try sitting forward a bit when you say you’re a seasoned captain,” Wesley suggested. “It shows engagement. But otherwise, those answers are exactly what we want—self-assured without being cocky, substantive without being boring.”

Wesley guided me through question after question, his approval evident in the occasional nod or “exactly right,” while he fine-tuned my phrasing with subtle suggestions and reminded me to lean forward when making key points.

He was an exceptional coach—better than any PR manager I’d worked with in my sixteen-year career.

I admired his sharp mind and intuitive understanding of how the media worked.

How the hell had someone this astute, this composed, gotten caught up in the kind of scandal Turner had described?

And why did I keep noticing the way that dimple appeared every time he smiled?

“Excellent.” Wesley closed the cover of his tablet. “I’m confident you’ll handle whatever they throw at you.”

“Thanks to you,” I said, meaning it. “I appreciate the preparation.”

Wesley waved off the praise, already gathering his things. “That’s what I’m here for. Ready to make some history?”

Twenty minutes later, I sat between my alternate captains, Eric Holloway and Antti Laasko, at a long table facing a room full of reporters.

Camera flashes popped like strobe lights, and the familiar buzz of pre-press conference chatter filled the air.

I’d done this dozens of times before—in Colorado when they’d named me captain, at All-Star weekends.

But never as the first captain in a franchise’s history.

Wesley began the presser, and questions came fast and varied. They were nothing Wesley and I had rehearsed, but I found my rhythm quickly. I talked about building culture from scratch. I emphasized the opportunity to prove doubters wrong. I made it about the team, not about me.

Until a reporter in the third row—a guy with an old-school notebook instead of a phone—raised his hand.

“Griffin, how do you feel about the Colorado Glaciers choosing to protect younger players and trade you instead of giving you a chance to finish your career there?”

The question hit like a puck to the solar plexus.

My stomach clenched, and for a moment, I could feel my carefully constructed composure wavering.

The memory crashed over me—scrolling through Instagram on my couch in Denver, seeing the Glaciers’ tribute video before anyone had told me I’d been traded.

The shock of watching my own career summarized while discovering it was over.

The humiliation of finding out the same time as thousands of fans because marketing had posted too early.

I caught Wesley’s eye from where he stood against the wall. He was already moving, probably ready to jump in and rescue me from my hesitation by ending the presser.

But I didn’t need rescuing. Not from this.

“You know what?” I leaned into the microphone, letting an edge creep into my voice. “I’m going to have a fantastic season for Portland. I’m going to show Colorado exactly what they lost.”

The room erupted in follow-up questions, but Wesley stepped forward. “That’s all the time we have today. Thank you, everyone.”

As we filed out, reporters still calling questions, Wesley appeared at my elbow. “Nice recovery,” he said quietly. “Though next time, maybe we end on something a little less inflammatory?”

I looked at him—really looked. At the way his eyes held genuine concern, not judgment. At the professional smile that couldn’t quite hide what looked like approval underneath.

“I’ll keep that in mind.” I winked.

That dimple made another appearance, as hazardous as a breakaway with no defensemen.