Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
Griffin
The puck struck my tape with that satisfying snap that meant everything lined up perfectly—weight balanced, blade angle just right, no players obstructing my line of sight.
I had a split second to read the play before pivoting hard left, ice spraying from my skates as I spotted Laasko breaking toward the net.
“Laasko!!” I rifled the pass, tape to tape, across twenty feet of ice.
His hands were steady, accepting the pass without breaking stride. His shot came quick and clean, straight toward the goalie’s five-hole. For a moment, I thought we had it—our first real chemistry in days of practice scrimmages, the kind of play that would make Coach Roberts smile.
Then Turner materialized out of nowhere.
The big D-man’s stick blade intercepted Laasko’s shot with perfect timing, deflecting the puck harmlessly into the corner.
Turner’s gray eyes found mine across the ice, and his smirk was anything but friendly.
He played like he had something to prove, which he probably did.
Turner was undeniably skilled—his defensive reads were elite, his positioning flawless—but every interception and stick check felt personal.
“Shake it off!” I called to Laasko, who was already circling around for the rebound. “Next one!”
But there wouldn’t be a next one. Not a clean one, anyway.
The play fell apart like a house of cards in a windstorm.
Our rookie right winger, Petrov, missed an easy pass.
Williams, our trade acquisition from Tampa, couldn’t keep up with the opposition, leaving a gaping hole in our defense.
Even Laasko, who’d been reading my plays beautifully all week, seemed half a step behind.
The sound of scattered passes hitting skate blades instead of stick tape echoed through the practice arena.
Coach Roberts’s whistle shrieked constantly—offside, offside, icing.
The younger players looked like they were thinking too hard, processing instead of reacting.
And every time something went wrong, my muscles tightened, and the weight of responsibility settled heavier on my shoulders.
This was supposed to be my team. These were supposed to be my players.
My side won the scrimmage 4–3, but it felt hollow. If this was how we looked now, what would happen when we faced real opponents?
The locker room was too quiet afterward. Players peeled off equipment in silence, the usual post-practice chirping replaced by the ripping sounds of Velcro being torn apart and skates hitting the floor. Even the equipment staff moved with subdued efficiency, as if they could sense the tension.
I sat at my stall for a moment and studied the faces around me. Some players looked frustrated. Others seemed resigned. A few appeared checked out entirely, already mentally moving on to lunch or whatever came next.
No. This isn’t working.
I stood up, still in my practice jersey and shoulder pads, and cleared my throat. The room gradually quieted until all eyes were on me.
“Listen up.” I projected my voice to fill the entire locker room. “We’re going to Cascadia Craft Brews at six tonight. Everyone. First round’s on me.”
The response was immediate—a genuine cheer rose from about half the team. Holloway whooped. Petrov actually smiled for the first time all week. Even some of the quieter veterans nodded approvingly.
But not everyone.
Turner sneered and turned his back to me, making a show of shoving his gear into his bag. A few other players remained silent, their expressions carefully neutral. The division was clear, and it stung more than I wanted to admit.
Still, progress was progress. Getting half the team excited was better than none.
“Six o’clock,” I repeated. “Don’t make me drink alone.”
That got another laugh, which felt like a small victory.
Cascadia Craft Brews occupied a converted warehouse space ten minutes from the practice facility, all exposed brick and Edison bulbs with local artists’ work covering the walls. The kind of place that felt authentically Pacific Northwest without trying too hard—exactly why I’d chosen it.
Eleven players showed up. Out of twenty-three.
Not bad, but not great either. The missing faces were telling: Turner, obviously, but also three of the veterans and a couple of younger players who’d seemed less than thrilled about the whole Portland experience from day one.
The guys who came seemed genuinely relaxed for the first time since training camp started. Laughter echoed off the high ceilings as players swapped stories from their previous teams, compared golf scores, and argued good-naturedly about which local restaurants were worth the hype.
I was nursing my second IPA—the brewery’s version of a Northwest pale ale that was actually pretty decent—when Holloway raised his pint glass high enough to get everyone’s attention.
“To our veteran captain!” he called out, his words ringing with theatrical flare. “The guy who knows how to get shit done!”
The reference to Boucher’s dig was unmistakable. About half the players immediately raised their glasses, voices rising in agreement. Laasko shouted something in Finnish that sounded enthusiastic. Petrov clinked his glass against mine with enough force to slosh beer onto the floor.
But the others hesitated. Some lifted their glasses halfheartedly. A few avoided eye contact entirely, suddenly fascinated by the brewery’s tap list chalked on a board.
The moment crystallized everything wrong with our team chemistry in sharp relief. We weren’t united. We were a collection of individuals still figuring out if they wanted to be here, still deciding if they believed in what we were building.
“Thanks, guys.” I kept my voice steady and confident. “But the only thing that matters is what we do on the ice. Everything else is just noise.”
It was the right thing to say—diplomatic, team-focused, mature. A response that would look good in a quote if anyone was recording. But privately, I made a different vow.
I was going to win over every single doubter in this room as well as the ones who didn’t show up.
Whatever it took, however long it required, I was going to make believers out of all of them.
Because success wasn’t just about talent or systems or coaching—it was about commitment.
And commitment started with buying in completely.
The conversation shifted back to safer topics after that. Someone started telling a story about getting lost during their apartment hunt. Another player explained the difference between various local coffee roasters with the intensity of a sommelier discussing wine.
I took part when appropriate, laughed at the right moments, bought apps and the next round. But part of my mind was already working, cataloging personalities and planning approaches. Which players responded to humor? Who needed individual attention? What would it take to earn their respect?
The gathering broke up around nine, players filtering out in small groups with promises to do it again soon.
I stayed until the end, made sure everyone was safe to drive or got a rideshare, and picked up the tab for the entire evening.
Leadership meant taking care of your people, even in the small details.
My apartment felt too quiet after the noise and energy of the bar.
I’d rented a place in Beaverton close to the facility—a modern two-bedroom with granite countertops and hardwood floors that looked like it belonged in a design magazine.
Back in Colorado, I’d owned a house with a three-car garage and mountain views, but I’d learned my lesson about putting down roots.
Without a no-trade clause in my contract, anything could happen and probably would.
Better to travel light and keep my expectations flexible.
The apartment didn’t feel much like home yet and probably never would.
I was microwaving leftover takeout Thai food when my phone buzzed with a text from an unexpected sender. Wesley Hutton lit the screen.
Wesley
Heard about the team get-together. Off the record, how was it?
I stared at the message for a long moment, surprised by the contact. Wesley had my number for professional purposes, but this felt different. More personal. Like he was genuinely interested in how things went, not just gathering information for damage control.
My first instinct was to craft a positive response. Everything went great. Team’s coming together nicely. Classic captain stuff that would make me look competent and in control.
Something about Wesley’s approach—the casual tone, the explicit mention that it was off the record—made me hesitate. He wasn’t asking as the PR manager. He was asking as… what? A colleague? A friend? Someone who cared about how I was adjusting?
I took a bite of pad Thai and considered my options.
Through my living room window, the lights of downtown Beaverton twinkled, but my gaze was unfocused.
Wesley seemed trustworthy, and he’d handled the Boucher situation with skill and discretion.
But it was too soon to let my guard down completely.
No matter how much I liked the guy or how good he was in a crisis, I barely knew him.
Better to stick with what was expected of a captain.
Finally, I decided to keep things professional and positive.
Griffin
It went well. 11 turned out, good energy. The guys enjoyed a beer together, which should translate to better chemistry on ice.
Wesley
That’s a better turnout than I expected, honestly. All-new team, all-new city. Anyone give you grief about the Boucher thing?
Griffin
Holloway made a toast about veteran leadership that got a good response. I think the team’s rallying around the idea of proving our doubters wrong.
I hit send, satisfied with how I’d spun the evening’s events. No need to mention the hesitance or Turner’s conspicuous absence. Leadership meant projecting confidence, even when I wasn’t feeling it. Another text came through.
Wesley
For what it’s worth, 11 isn’t bad for a voluntary get-together with guys who barely know each other. You’re building something from scratch—that takes time.
Griffin
Exactly. I’m encouraged by the guys who showed up. Quality over quantity. We’ve got a solid core to build around, and the rest will come along once they see what we’re creating.
But even as I typed the confident words, doubt gnawed at my stomach. What if the holdouts never came around? What if I couldn’t unite this fractured group? What if I was just a washed-up captain fooling himself about having what it took to lead an expansion team to success?
Wesley
Spoken like a true captain.
That got a genuine laugh out of me. Wesley had pegged my personality pretty accurately for someone I’d only known for a few days.
Griffin
Thanks for checking in. Wasn’t expecting to hear from you.
Wesley
Just curious about how the evening went.
There was a pause while the three dots danced, stopped, and danced again.
Wesley
Team chemistry affects everything I do on the PR side.
Professional justification, but it felt like more than that. Like Wesley was invested in my success for reasons beyond his job description.
Griffin
Well, mission accomplished.
Wesley
Get some sheep.
My mouth twitched.
Griffin
***
Wesley
Sleep! Darn autocorrect!
Wesley
Tomorrow’s a new day to win over the rest of the team.
I smiled at that. Wesley had a way of making things sound achievable, even when they felt overwhelming.
Griffin
Night, Wesley.
Wesley
Night, Griffin.
I finished my dinner in a better mood than I’d started it, thinking about the evening’s small victories and tomorrow’s opportunities.
Eleven players was a beginning. Turner’s absence was disappointing, but not surprising.
And having someone like Wesley in my corner—someone who understood the complexities of team building and public perception—felt like an unexpected asset.
Change took time. Trust took time. But we only had days to figure it out.