Chapter 7 #2
“For what it’s worth, I’ve watched you at practice and I think you’re doing everything right,” I said. “Team-building takes time. Chemistry can’t be forced. It has to develop organically through shared experiences and trust.”
“Spoken like someone who understands hockey culture.”
“SUNY Oswego wasn’t exactly the NHL, but we had our share of team chemistry challenges. My junior year, we had eight new players and basically had to rebuild our entire offensive system.” I smiled at the memory. “By mid-season, we were ready to kill each other. By playoffs, we were brothers.”
“What changed?”
“We stopped trying to play like individuals and started trusting each other. Stopped worrying about personal stats and started caring more about team success.” I shrugged.
“Also, our goalie organized a team bowling night that involved way too many poor scores. Hockey players aren’t necessarily bowlers.
Nothing bonds a team like shared embarrassment. ”
Griffin laughed, the sound warm and genuine. “Maybe I should suggest bowling to Coach Roberts.”
“Could be worth a shot. Though getting Turner to participate might require divine intervention.”
“Turner’s his own challenge,” Griffin said, his brow lowering. “He’s skilled enough that Coach gives him a lot of ice time, but his attitude is poisonous. Every team meeting, every practice, he’s undermining something.”
“Have you talked to him directly?”
“Tried. He’s not interested in hearing it.” Griffin ran a hand over his buzz cut, frustration clear. “I wonder if he resents being traded here, if he sees Portland as a step down from Nashville.”
“Turner just doesn’t appreciate it yet.”
We fell into easier conversation after that, the topics ranging from hockey to Portland sightseeing to our respective career paths.
Griffin asked about my time at SUNY Oswego, and I shared stories I hadn’t thought about in years—the brutal winter practices, the rivalry games that felt more important than life itself, the peculiar camaraderie that came from suffering through conditioning drills together.
“Did you ever think about playing professionally?” Griffin asked.
“D-3 to the NHL isn’t exactly a common pipeline,” I said with a laugh. “I was good enough for college hockey, but I knew I didn’t have what it took to go further. I was more interested in getting my degree in PR. I was better at crafting narratives than scoring goals.”
“That’s a valuable skill.”
“So is being able to put a puck in the net at the NHL level. I think you got the better end of that particular talent distribution.”
Griffin smiled, but there was something wistful in his expression. “Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to have a career that didn’t require constant performance. Where you could just… be yourself without worrying about how it looks or what people think.”
The admission was so raw, so unexpected, that I didn’t know how to respond. It felt like Griffin was revealing something deeper than career stress, something about the weight of maintaining a public persona that never quite matched private reality.
“That sounds exhausting,” I said quietly.
“It is.” Griffin met my eyes, and for a moment, any careful distance disappeared entirely. “But it’s the choice I made. Live with the performance or lose everything I’ve worked for.”
There was something in the way he said it—a resignation mixed with frustration—that made me wonder what specific aspects of himself Griffin felt compelled to hide. Everyone in professional sports dealt with public scrutiny, but this felt more personal, more fundamental.
“For what it’s worth,” I said carefully. “I think the best leaders are the ones who can be authentic. Not perfect, not performing—just real. People connect with vulnerability more than they connect with polish.”
“That’s a nice theory. Reality tends to be more complicated.”
“Maybe. But I saw you with those kids at the youth clinic. I’ve seen you at practice with your teammates. You’re at your best when you stop worrying about the image and just lead.”
Griffin was quiet for a long moment, his expression unreadable. “You see a lot, don’t you?”
“It’s my job to notice things. Body language, emotional reactions, the disconnect between what people say and what they actually feel.” I paused, wondering if I should say more. “You’re good at the performance, Griffin. But I think you’d be even better without it.”
“That’s not an option.”
The finality in his voice suggested this wasn’t a theoretical discussion. Something kept Griffin locked behind his carefully constructed image.
I wanted to ask what that was, wanted to understand what made someone as capable and charismatic as Griffin feel like authenticity was too dangerous to risk. Had I picked up on something? The thought crept in unbidden, and I turned it over in my mind.
Griffin never mentioned dating. Never brought up a girlfriend, never told stories about nights out or casual hookups the way other players did. He deflected personal questions, kept careful distance even when we were growing closer.
Could that be what he was hiding?
My pulse quickened at the possibility. Was Griffin gay? Was that the secret he guarded so carefully, the authenticity he felt was too risky to show?
I wanted to be wrong. Not because it would matter to me—God, it wouldn’t matter at all except to make my attraction to him even more complicated—but because if Griffin was closeted, the weight of that secret in professional hockey must be crushing. The fear, the isolation, the constant performance.
But I couldn’t ask. Couldn’t push. If Griffin was hiding that, forcing the conversation would only make him retreat further.
So I filed the thought away, watching him across from me, wondering what truths he carried that felt too dangerous to speak aloud.
The raw vulnerability in his expression stopped me.
“Well,” I said, changing directions. “Until you’re ready to give up the performance entirely, I’m here to help you manage it. That’s what they’re paying me for, after all.”
Griffin’s smile was small but genuine. “Best decision the organization made, hiring you.”
“I’ll make sure to include that quote in my next performance review.”
We talked for another hour after that, the conversation flowing easily between hockey strategy and personal observations, professional concerns, and casual banter.
Griffin asked about my family, and I found myself telling him about my parents in Boston, my younger sister who thought my job was “babysitting overpaid athletes,” my college roommate who still gave me grief about leaving my smelly socks on the floor.
In return, Griffin shared stories about growing up as the son of a hockey legend, moving from city to city following his father’s elite career, the peculiar isolation of being identified as a future NHL player from age twelve.
“Did you have friends outside hockey?” I asked.
“Not really. Hockey was everything—practices, games, training, camps. My social circle was whoever was on my team that season.” He shrugged.
When I finally checked my watch, I was shocked to discover we’d been talking for nearly two hours. The afternoon had disappeared into conversation, and I hadn’t thought about work once—a rarity for someone whose mind usually operated on five different tracks simultaneously.
“I should leave you alone,” Griffin said, though he didn’t sound particularly eager to end the conversation. “I’m sure you have actual work to do instead of listening to me complain about team chemistry issues.”
“This is work,” I said, though we both knew that was only technically true. “Understanding team dynamics helps me craft better narratives.”
“Sure. Let’s call it that.” He chuckled, his voice deep.
There was something knowing in Griffin’s smile, an acknowledgment that whatever had just happened between us had crossed some invisible line from purely professional to something more complicated.
Tremblay’s warning replayed in my mind. Maintain professional boundaries. Perception matters as much as reality.
I’d definitely failed at maintaining boundaries. Two hours of increasingly personal conversation, sharing stories and vulnerabilities, enjoying Griffin’s company in a way that had nothing to do with PR strategy—Tremblay would have a field day if he knew.
But Griffin hadn’t seemed to care. If anything, he’d seemed relieved to have someone to talk to, someone who understood the pressure he was under without requiring him to maintain his captain’s image.
And I’d enjoyed every minute, despite knowing I should have kept things more professional, despite understanding the risks of getting emotionally involved with someone whose public image I was supposed to be managing.
Griffin stood. His smile was warm, genuine, and transformed his face from merely handsome to something that made my chest tight. “See you around, Wesley.”
As he descended the stairs, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d just crossed a line I shouldn’t have crossed, made a choice that could complicate everything about my carefully rebuilt career.
But I also couldn’t shake the warmth in my chest, or the way Griffin had looked at me like I was someone who mattered—not just as his PR manager, but as a person he genuinely wanted to spend time with.
Tremblay’s warning echoed in my head: It’s important that relationship remains strictly professional.
Too late for that, I thought. Whatever was developing between Griffin and me had already moved past strictly professional into territory I wasn’t entirely sure how to navigate.
And despite knowing I should put distance between us, despite understanding the risks, I couldn’t bring myself to regret a single moment of the afternoon we’d just shared.