Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Wesley
I stared at my phone for a solid thirty seconds before typing the text, my mind already steps ahead, planning Griffin’s public image strategy while simultaneously wondering if I was finding excuses to spend more time with him.
Wesley
Are you available at 3:00 for a planning session? We should go over your appearance schedule and media strategy.
A reply popped up almost immediately.
Griffin
Sure. Your office?
Wesley
Beaverton Beans. The loft is quiet in the afternoon.
Griffin
See you then.
I closed my laptop and slid it into my messenger bag, along with my tablet.
I stopped at the neighboring office where my PR Specialist, Natalie, sat surrounded by three monitors. “I’m heading to Beaverton Beans to meet with Griffin Lapierre. We’re going over his appearance schedule and media strategy.”
She glanced up from her screens, dark hair pulled back in a severe ponytail. “Got it. Need me to sit in?”
“No, I’ve got this one. Just call if anything urgent comes up.”
“Will do. Good luck with the captain.”
I arrived twenty minutes early and claimed my favorite corner table in the loft, where the afternoon light streamed through tall windows. The rich aroma of roasted coffee beans and the gentle hum of conversation from below created the perfect backdrop for productive work.
I spread out my laptop, tablet, phone, and caramel latte across the small table.
Griffin appeared at the top of the stairs at exactly three o’clock, punctual with the kind of leadership that marked him as the captain he was—someone who understood that being on time was the first step in earning respect.
Dark jeans and a navy T-shirt clung to his muscular frame in a way that shouldn’t have been distracting but absolutely was.
I’d been around athletes for years, had grown immune to impressive physiques as just part of the job.
But something about Griffin—the confident way he carried himself, the easy athleticism even in casual movement—quickened my pulse in ways that had nothing to do with professional admiration.
I forced myself to look away. He was straight, not available.
And even if circumstances were different, he was a colleague—the franchise player I was supposed to be managing professionally, not fantasizing about.
He nodded and settled into the chair across from me. “Afternoon.” Away from the team facility and his responsibilities, Griffin seemed more relaxed—shoulders less rigid, expression softer.
“Thanks for meeting with me.” I pulled up my notes on the tablet. “We’ve got a lot to cover.”
Griffin took a long sip of his cold brew and leaned back in his chair. “Hit me with it.”
“Let’s start with something that affects your image—the NHL’s dress code policy.” I turned my tablet so he could see the instructions I’d pulled up. “They’re calling the guidelines ‘contemporary fashion norms.’ Suit and tie are no longer required, and the team can’t dictate what you wear.”
Griffin raised an eyebrow. “What are the implications?”
“You have choices. Standard suit and tie, business casual, designer streetwear, whatever feels right to you.” I leaned forward, warming to the topic. “But as the face of the franchise, your clothing choices send a message. We need to decide what that message should be.”
“What are my options?”
“Traditional suit and tie projects authority, respect for the city, old-school leadership. Business casual makes you more relatable, approachable, like you’re one of the guys who just happens to be really good at hockey.”
Griffin furrowed his brow, his expression thoughtful. “What do you think?”
“I think,” I said carefully, “that Portland respects authenticity over everything else. But they also want their captain to look like he belongs on the national stage. You’re representing a massive investment and an entire city’s hockey dreams.”
He was quiet for a long moment, absently running his thumb along the condensation on his cold brew cup. “Suit and tie,” he said finally. “I want kids in this city to see their captain and think he belongs in the same conversation as the league’s best. Respect first, relatability second.”
I felt a flash of admiration for his instincts. “That’s a good call. Classic, professional, but we can work in some relaxed elements—maybe interesting pocket squares, ties that aren’t quite as formal.”
“You think that’ll work?”
“I think you just showed me why management made you captain,” I said, and meant it. “You understand that representing something bigger than yourself matters.”
Griffin’s smile was small but genuine, and an unexpected warmth tickled my gut.
“Okay, next item.” I opened my calendar app and scrolled through the packed schedule I’d been building. “Did you get the calendar of appearances I emailed you this morning?”
“Yeah, I looked through it. Seems busy.”
“It is busy.” I moved to the chair beside him so we could both see the tablet screen properly. “But every appearance is strategic.”
I handed him the tablet, and our fingers brushed as he took it from my hands. The contact lasted maybe a second longer than necessary, and Griffin’s eyes widened slightly, his pupils dilating just enough to be noticeable.
For a moment, the air between us felt charged with something I couldn’t quite name. Chemistry, attraction, possibility—whatever it was made my heart race and my professional composure waver.
Griffin’s reaction made me wonder if he might be attracted to men.
I’d done my research into his life—media coverage, social media history.
Nothing in Griffin’s background suggested anything other than a completely private personal life.
No girlfriends mentioned in interviews, no red-carpet appearances with a date, no social media posts with romantic interests.
Which could mean he was very private, or very discreet, or…
Or nothing at all. Professional athletes guarded their personal lives carefully, and Griffin seemed like the type who’d keep romance completely separate from his public image regardless of gender.
More’s the pity, because sitting this close to him, catching the subtle, fresh scent of his body wash mixed with coffee, watching the way afternoon light caught the silver flecks in his blue eyes…
I was definitely attracted. Had been since the moment we’d met, if I was being honest with myself.
But my draw to him was just wishful thinking.
“So.” I forced myself to focus on the screen instead of the way his forearm muscles flexed as he scrolled through the calendar. “Chamber of commerce luncheon, charity events, community appearances. The goal is to make you Portland’s hockey ambassador, not just the team captain.”
Griffin nodded, studying the schedule. “This is a lot of non-playing time.”
“Welcome to being the face of a franchise. But look at the impact potential—youth hockey clinics can inspire the next generation of Portland players. Hospital visits show you care about the community beyond the arena. Corporate sponsor events keep the money flowing that pays everyone’s salaries.”
He looked up from the tablet, meeting my eyes. “You really think all this matters?”
“I think,” I said, suddenly very aware of how close we were sitting. “That Portland is watching to see if you’re here just to play hockey or if you’re here to build something lasting. These appearances tell that story.”
We spent the next hour going through each category of events.
I explained the talking points for hospital visits—focus on the kids, not the cameras.
For charity events, emphasize community partnership over individual heroics.
For corporate appearances, balance accessibility with the gravitas that made sponsors feel their money was well spent.
“What about social media?” Griffin scrolled through my recommendations on frequency and content of posts.
“Authentic but professional. Behind-the-scenes practice footage, community event highlights, maybe some Portland exploration posts to show you’re embracing the city. Nothing too personal, nothing controversial. I can help you with social media.”
“And if Boucher posts something else?”
“All crisis communication goes through me,” I said firmly. “You don’t respond to anything without running it past me first. We control the narrative, not the other way around.”
Griffin nodded approvingly. “How are things looking from a PR perspective? Any other issues I should know about?”
I paused and studied his expression. “How are things going with the team? Honestly?”
“Really well,” he said without hesitation. “We’re building rapport. Team chemistry is building.”
It was the perfect captain answer—positive, confident, team-focused.
But something in his tone made me wonder if he was telling me what he thought I wanted to hear rather than the complete truth.
Griffin struck me as someone who’d rather project competence than admit vulnerability, which was both admirable and potentially problematic from a PR standpoint.
If there were real issues brewing with team chemistry or player conflicts, I needed to know about them before they became public disasters—getting blindsided by locker room drama or teammate feuds was a PR manager’s worst nightmare.
“That’s great to hear,” I said, taking his comments at face value. For now.
Griffin glanced at his watch. “Anything else we need to cover?”
We’d covered everything on my agenda, and I had other work waiting back at the office. But I found myself reluctant to end the meeting, enjoying the easy conversation and the way Griffin’s guard seemed to drop when we were away from the team facility.
“I think that covers the priorities.” I started packing my messenger bag. “But feel free to text me if questions come up. Or if you need to bounce ideas off someone.”
“I will.” Griffin stood and extended his hand for a handshake. “Thanks for taking the time to walk through all this. It helps to have someone who understands the bigger picture.”
His handshake was firm and warm, again lingering a second longer than usual. As he walked away, I caught myself watching the confident way he moved, the way his T-shirt stretched across his shoulders, the easy athletic grace that made every stride look effortless.
I averted my gaze and focused on packing up my laptop. Whatever chemistry I thought I felt was probably one-sided and definitely inappropriate. Griffin was my colleague, my responsibility, and potentially the key to my career rehabilitation in Portland.
But as I walked back to headquarters, I couldn’t shake the memory of that moment when our fingers had touched, or the way his eyes had widened like he’d felt something too.
Professional boundaries, I reminded myself. That’s what mattered.