Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Wesley
The gleaming chrome and glass of the Stormhawks’ brand-new headquarters still felt peculiar for someone who’d come from an older, established franchise.
Heck, even the noise-dampening carpet smelled new.
I powered down the laptop in my office—floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the practice rink, ergonomic everything, and the team’s logo on the wall behind my desk.
Yet I packed up my gear, plotting my escape.
My brain was already three steps ahead, cycling through tomorrow’s media schedule, Griffin’s upcoming interview requests, and the dozen other fires that smoldered in the background of an expansion team’s first season. The buzz of possibilities and plans swirled through my mind.
But first, caffeine.
The walk to Beaverton Beans took four minutes—I’d timed it on my first day, because knowing the quickest route to quality coffee felt essential to survival in this job.
The hot September sun beat down on me, but the dry air made me grateful I’d left Nashville’s humidity behind.
The coffee shop’s welcoming lights shone through the windows, and the rich aroma of roasted beans hit me when I opened the door.
“Large caramel latte, please,” I told the cashier, a college-age guy wrapped in an apron. The ritual of ordering grounded me after the chaos of Griffin’s earlier presser.
I climbed the narrow wooden stairs to the loft area, my favorite spot when I needed to think.
The exposed brick walls and mismatched vintage furniture gave the space a cozy, lived-in feel that the sterile perfection of the team facility couldn’t match.
I claimed a small table by the window and spread out my laptop, phone, and tablet—my mobile command center.
The caramel latte was perfect—sweet and strong—with just enough foam. I took a long sip and my shoulders relaxed for the first time since this afternoon’s media circus.
My phone sat face up on the table, its screen dark but ready.
I’d set up alerts for any mention of the Stormhawks across Google and social media—part of staying ahead of the narrative in real time.
It was a necessary evil in modern sports PR, even if it meant my phone buzzed constantly with updates ranging from crucial to completely ridiculous.
The screen lit up with a notification from social media.
I tapped the screen, expecting another routine mention or maybe a recap of Griffin’s press conference. Instead, my stomach dropped as I read the post by Cory Boucher, the player who’d replaced Griffin as captain in Colorado.
“Oh, hell no,” I muttered, loud enough that the girl at the next table looked over. Energy rushed through me—the kind that came with a crisis that needed solving immediately.
@Griff_Lapierre, we didn’t lose anything—we upgraded. Youth over age every time. Hope Portland’s retirement home treats you well. Can’t wait to school you this season. #NewEra #MovingOn
The petty, juvenile tone made my jaw clench.
This wasn’t good-natured ribbing between former teammates—this was a calculated hit designed to undermine Griffin’s confidence and generate controversy.
My mind immediately started spinning through response strategies, damage control scenarios, and ways to turn this into a positive narrative for our side.
But first, Griffin needed to know.
I scrolled through the team directory on my phone until I found his number, then fired off a quick text.
Wesley
It’s Wesley. Are you free? Something came up we should discuss.
The response came back within seconds.
Griffin
Sure. Everything okay?
Wesley
Can you meet me at Beaverton Beans? I’m in the loft.
Griffin
OMW
I spent the next ten minutes refreshing Boucher’s post, watching the reposts and replies multiply.
Colorado fans were eating it up, Portland fans were getting defensive, and hockey media accounts were already posting screenshots for their own content.
The situation was snowballing exactly the way these things always did in the social media age.
My mind was already three moves ahead, calculating angles and spinning possibilities. We could ignore it completely and let it die down. We could craft a clever comeback that put Boucher in his place. We could take the high road and use it as motivation. Or we could—
“Am I in trouble?”
Griffin’s voice cut through my strategic spiral.
He stood at the top of the stairs, tall and solid in dark jeans and a gray T-shirt that made his ice-blue eyes even more striking.
His buzz cut was slightly damp, like he’d just showered after a workout, and he carried a large cold brew that looked tiny in his hand.
Despite the crisis, a flutter of attraction I’d been trying to ignore since we’d met skittered through my stomach. Griffin Lapierre was objectively sexy—the kind of classically handsome that looked effortless. And those eyes… focus, Wesley. Griffin was straight. And my colleague.
“Sit down, please.” I gestured to the chair across from me. “And no, you’re not in trouble. But we have a situation.”
He settled into the chair with fluid athletic grace despite his size and bulging muscles, all controlled power and easy confidence. “What’s up?”
I turned my phone around and slid it across the small table. “Cory Boucher decided to take a shot at you on social media.”
Griffin picked up the phone, and I monitored his expression carefully as he read.
For just a moment, his composure slipped.
I caught a flash of hurt, sharp and real, before his features smoothed back into neutral professionalism.
But I’d seen it, that wounded look that made something protective flare in my chest.
This wasn’t just about PR anymore. Griffin didn’t deserve this cheap-shot bullshit from his former teammate.
“Classy,” Griffin said finally, and set the phone back down. His tone was carefully controlled, but I could hear the edge underneath.
“I’m going to make sure you come out on top of this.” I surprised myself with the intensity of my voice. “Boucher just made a tactical error, and we’re going to use it to our advantage.”
Something flickered in Griffin’s eyes—surprise, maybe, or gratitude. “Okay. What do we do?”
“How well did you know Boucher? Were you two close?”
Griffin leaned back in his chair and sipped his cold brew.
“He was my alternate captain for two years. I thought we were friends, or at least teammates who respected each other. We went to dinner sometimes, grabbed drinks after winning. I recommended him for the A when the previous alternate retired.”
The hurt was there again, carefully buried but audible to someone who knew how to listen. I tried to consider Boucher’s perspective—maybe he was trying to establish his own leadership by tearing down Griffin’s reputation. But it was unprofessional as hell.
“Is there any chance this could be good-natured ribbing?” I asked, though I already suspected the answer.
Griffin shook his head, his expression grim. “If Boucher wanted to chirp me, he’d send a text or call me directly. That’s how we’ve always handled things between us. This…” He gestured at the phone. “This is for public consumption. He wants everyone to see him taking me down a peg.”
“Is this typical behavior for him, or is he trying to prove something as the new captain?”
“Boucher’s always been competitive,” Griffin said slowly. “On the ice, in practice, in poker games. But this feels different. More personal.” He gestured at my phone. “He’s not joking around here.”
I nodded, making mental notes. “How do you think the rest of your former team will react? Are they going to pile on, or will they stay quiet?”
Griffin was quiet for a long moment, staring into his cold brew. “It’ll be a mix. Some guys will support Boucher—he’s their captain now, and team loyalty runs deep. Others will think he crossed a line. But most will probably stay out of it publicly and let us handle our own business.”
“Smart,” I said. “I think Boucher went rogue on this one. Based on what you know about Colorado’s PR team, will they rein him in?” I wasn’t familiar with their PR manager.
“If they were going to stop him, they would have prevented the post in the first place,” Griffin said. “Their media team is good—they know how to manage their players’ social media when they want to. This either slipped through the cracks, or they’re okay with it.”
I was already calculating probabilities and responses. “Should we expect more of these kinds of posts?”
“Probably.” Griffin’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “Especially if he thinks he’s getting under my skin.”
“Is this personal or professional?”
“Personal.” The word came out flat and certain. “This is about more than hockey.”
I leaned forward, curious about the background of Griffin’s trade. “How did you find out Colorado was trading you?”
Griffin was quiet for so long I thought he might not answer.
When he finally spoke, his voice was tight.
“Social media.” He let out a bitter laugh.
“I was at home, scrolling. The Glaciers posted a tribute video—highlight reel, emotional music, ‘Thank you for sixteen years, good luck in Portland.’ I found out at the same time as everyone else. Marketing was supposed to wait until after the GM told me and after the Portland roster announcement, but they posted early.”
“Jesus.” I couldn’t imagine the humiliation. “That’s—”
“Brutal?” Griffin’s smile was humorless.
“Yeah. I watched my entire career with Colorado summarized in a two-minute video before anyone told me I’d been traded.
The comments were already flooding in—fans saying goodbye, debating whether it was the right move, Cory Boucher posting about ‘looking forward.’ All while I was sitting on my couch trying to figure out what the hell was happening. ”
“That’s unprofessional.”
“It was a mistake. Communication failure.” Griffin shrugged, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed him.
“I had less than twenty-four hours to get to Portland for the roster announcement. Packed a bag, caught a ten p.m. flight, met with GM Davidson and Coach Roberts the next morning.” He paused. “Then I met you. And your autocorrect.”
The last part was said with the hint of a smile, like the memory helped ease the sting of everything else.
But the injustice of it hit me like a physical blow, even though trades were a way of life in the NHL. I hated feeling powerless, and hearing about Griffin being blindsided like that—treated like a commodity instead of a person—made something fierce and protective rise in my chest.
“That’s inexcusable,” I said. “You deserved better than that.”
Griffin met my eyes, and for a moment, the careful professional distance between us felt less important than the simple human connection of someone understanding your pain.
“Does that make you want to prove something when you play the Glaciers?” I asked.
“Yes.” No hesitation. “I want to show them what they gave away. I want to make them regret that trade every time they see the highlight reel.”
His competitive fire was clear, burning just beneath the surface. This was what made Griffin Lapierre the kind of captain who’d led the Glaciers to win the Cup—the ability to channel hurt into motivation, to transform disappointment into fuel.
“All right.” I shifted back into professional mode. “Let’s prepare a response strategy. First rule: we’re not engaging with Boucher or anyone from Colorado on social media. No responses, no posts, nothing. If they want to throw punches in the media, they’ll be pulling their own penalties.”
Griffin nodded. “And when reporters ask me about it directly?”
“‘No comment.’ Every time. We’re not giving this story any more oxygen than it already has. Let Boucher look petty while you take the high road.”
Griffin leaned back and propped an ankle on a knee. “You think staying quiet is the right move?”
“I think responding gives him exactly what he wants—proof that he got under your skin. The best revenge is success, right? Let your play do the talking.”
Griffin’s smile was sharp and determined. “I can do that.”
“I know you can.” I started packing up my laptop, energy coursing through me that came with having a plan in place.
“We’re going to get past this, Griffin. Boucher just gave us material and motivation for the next six months.
By the time we’re done, Colorado’s going to be the team that looks foolish. ”
“Good.” Griffin stood and extended his hand to shake mine. “Because I’m going to show them on the scoreboard.”
His handshake was firm and warm, lasting just a beat longer than strictly professional. As he walked away, I realized Cory Boucher had made a serious miscalculation.
He’d just given Griffin Lapierre and the Portland Stormhawks exactly what they needed—a reason to prove the doubters wrong.
And Griffin was going to make sure they did exactly that.