Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
Griffin
Sweat dripped into my eyes as I dug my edges into the ice, fighting for position in front of Seattle’s net.
The roar of seventeen thousand fans in the Stormhawks arena created a wall of sound that vibrated through my chest and made the air electric and alive.
My lungs burned, my legs screamed for rest, but this was what I’d trained for my entire life—those moments when everything hurt and I pushed through anyway.
I glimpsed Laasko to my left, open and ready to catch the puck on his blade.
I fired the puck across the ice, the pass crisp and clean.
Laasko caught it in stride and cut toward the net, Holloway racing toward the crease for a potential rebound.
This was it—the play that would show the Portland fans what we could be, the moment that would quiet the doubters and prove we belonged.
Seattle’s D-man read the play perfectly.
His stick intercepted Laasko’s shot on goal and knocked the puck free. It skittered toward the blue line where their center scooped it up with infuriating ease. My stomach dropped as I recognized the developing offense—we were caught forwards deep, not enough defensive coverage in place.
“Back! Back!” I shouted, already pivoting to chase the play.
But it was too late. Seattle’s forwards moved with the practiced synchronization that came from playing together for years, not days. A quick cross-ice pass, then another, and suddenly their sniper had a clean look at our net.
The red light flashed. The visiting fans erupted in celebration.
1–2 Seattle.
I bent over, hands on my knees, sucking in oxygen and trying to process what had just happened. We’d had momentum, had been building pressure, and one bad turnover had flipped the entire game.
I skated toward the boards, my shift mercifully over. The second line jumped onto the ice, fresh legs that should have been able to contain Seattle’s momentum.
Should have.
From the bench, I watched the play unfold with a growing sense of dread. Williams was two steps behind the play. Petrov went to the wrong coverage zone, leaving a massive gap in our defense. Martin attempted a pass that sailed wide, giving Seattle another odd-man rush.
“Watch each other!” I shouted, even knowing they couldn’t hear me over the roar of the crowd.
Their communication was nonexistent. Five players moving as individuals instead of a unit, each making decisions in isolation rather than reading off their teammates. Seattle’s forwards exploited every gap, every hesitation, every moment of confusion.
Another shot. Another goal. Another celebration. A knife twisted in my gut.
1–3 Seattle.
The final horn sounded thirty seconds later, mercifully ending what had started with so much promise and ended in bitter disappointment.
The locker room was silent except for the sounds of stripping and the occasional muttered curse. Players yanked off gear, their faces carefully blank or openly frustrated. No one made eye contact. No one spoke.
I sat at my stall, still in full gear, and searched the defeated postures and slumped shoulders. This was my team. My responsibility. And we’d just looked completely unprepared for what should have been a manageable opponent.
Turner tore off his jersey with unnecessary force, his scowl directed at nothing and everyone. Laasko stared at the floor. Williams looked ready to punch something. The younger players seemed shell-shocked, like they’d just discovered hockey was harder than they’d expected.
I couldn’t let this become the narrative. Not on our first game. Not when we still had the entire preseason to figure things out.
I stood up and tapped the helmet under my arm, cutting through the oppressive silence.
“Listen up,” I called, projecting confidence I didn’t entirely feel. “That game was a wake-up call. We got exposed tonight—our chemistry issues, our communication breakdowns, our defensive coverage. Seattle showed us exactly where we need to improve.”
A few players looked up. Others kept their eyes downcast.
“But here’s what I know about this team,” I continued, forcing conviction into my voice. “We have talent. We have skill. What we don’t have yet is trust. We’re still learning each other’s tendencies, still figuring out how to move as one unit instead of twenty-three individuals.”
“Easy for you to say,” Turner muttered, just loud enough to be heard. “Some of us were out there getting embarrassed.”
I met his eyes directly. “All of us got embarrassed tonight. Including me. I turned over the puck that led to their second goal. But we either learn from this and get better, or we let it define us. Your choice of which team you want to be part of.”
The room remained divided—some players nodding in agreement, others looking skeptical. But at least they were listening.
“Get some rest,” I said. “Tomorrow, we review tape and fix our mistakes. This isn’t who we are. It’s just where we’re starting.”
The locker room door opened, and Wesley stepped inside, his expression professionally neutral despite what must have been a nightmare of a game from a PR perspective. He caught my eye and gestured toward the hallway.
“Griffin, press conference in five.”
Right. Because losing wasn’t punishment enough—now I had to explain our failures to a room full of reporters who’d probably already written their “expansion team struggles” stories.
I stripped off my gear faster than I ever had, threw on a Stormhawks hoodie and jeans, and followed Wesley toward the press room. The hallway was mercifully empty, giving us a moment of privacy before I had to face the media circus.
“How bad is it?” I asked.
Wesley’s thoughtful expression and furrowed brow seemed to indicate he was already spinning the narrative.
“Manageable. You’re going to emphasize the learning opportunity, the strong first period, the defensive adjustments you’re planning.
Highlight Laasko’s goal and the positives from individual performances. ”
“What if they ask about team chemistry?”
“You acknowledge it’s a work in progress—which everyone expects from an expansion team—but emphasize the commitment level and work ethic you’re seeing in practice.”
We stopped in the back hallway, outside the press-room door. The reporters yammered inside, and I could practically feel the energy that always accompanied post-game media availability.
“You’ve got this,” Wesley said quietly. “Just remember—confidence and composure. Even when you don’t feel it.”
I nodded, straightened my spine, and squared my shoulders. Sixteen years in the NHL had taught me how to wear success like armor, even when doubt gnawed underneath. Tonight would be no different—I’d give them the captain they expected to see, regardless of what I was actually feeling.
The presser was exactly as exhausting as I’d expected.
Question after question about what went wrong, about whether the team was ready for the regular season, about whether management had made a mistake in their expansion draft strategy.
I deflected, reframed, and projected the measured optimism that was expected from a team captain.
“We learned a lot tonight,” I told a reporter from The Athletic. “Sometimes you learn more from losses than wins. We know what we need to work on, and we will.”
“Do you think the age difference between you and some of the younger players is affecting team dynamics?” another reporter asked, and Boucher’s dig echoed in the question.
“Experience is an asset, not a liability,” I replied smoothly. “I know what it takes to build a winning culture, and that’s exactly what we’re doing here.”
Twenty minutes later, Wesley called an end to the session, and I escaped to the hallway, finally able to let my shoulders drop and my careful composure slip.
Wesley found me there, leaning against the concrete wall and running a hand down my face. I needed a shower and a shave.
“You did great in there.” Genuine warmth in his voice made the knot in my chest loosen.
I stood and chuckled. “I was spinning bullshit.”
Wesley’s lips tipped at the corners. “You were spinning perspective. There’s a difference.” He stepped closer, and he reached out and squeezed my bicep. “I have faith in you, Griffin. This team will come together. It just takes time.”
The simple touch, the quiet reassurance, hit me hard. For a moment, I let myself feel the weight I’d been carrying—the pressure to succeed, the fear of failure, the overwhelming responsibility of leading a team that didn’t entirely believe in me yet.
“Thanks,” I managed, my voice rougher than intended. “I needed to hear that.”
“Anytime,” Wesley said, his hand still warm on my arm.
“Griffin.”
The familiar voice of my agent cut through the moment like a blade. I looked up to see Michael approaching, his expression tight and controlled in a way that meant he was furious about something.
“Michael!” I forced enthusiasm into my voice and stepped away from Wesley’s touch. “Thanks for coming to the game.”
“Wouldn’t miss your first preseason appearance in Portland,” Michael said, his tone pleasant but his eyes cold as they flicked between Wesley and me. “Though the result wasn’t what we’d hoped.”
“Michael, this is Wesley Hutton, our PR manager. Wesley, my agent, Michael Tremblay.”
They shook hands with a professional courtesy that looked more like sizing each other up than a genuine greeting.
Wesley’s phone buzzed. He pulled it from his pocket, glanced at the screen, and frowned. “Boucher posted again.”
Of course he did. I didn’t even need to ask what it said.
Wesley turned his phone so I could see the post: Told you. Youth over age. @Griff_Lapierre looking every bit his 34 years out there tonight. #WashedUp #NewEra
The words stung more than they should have, hitting every insecurity I’d been trying to ignore. Still, I straightened my shoulders and locked my expression into professional composure. What everyone saw mattered more than what I felt—it always had.