Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Wesley
I spent Saturday morning cleaning my apartment with a nervous energy that suggested this was about more than just professional preparation—vacuuming the living room, wiping down the kitchen counters, shoving the scattered books on my shelves into neater stacks—all while telling myself this was just a work meeting, nothing more.
My apartment wasn’t much—a modest first-floor two-bedroom in a complex five minutes from the facility.
I’d furnished it with the basics: a couch from IKEA, a vintage armchair I’d found at a thrift store, a dining table that seated four, bookshelves overflowing with PR textbooks, fiction, and travel guides for places I wanted to visit.
Colorful art prints I’d meant to frame still leaned against walls, and the second bedroom served as my home office, currently buried under boxes I still hadn’t unpacked three months after moving in.
I kept meaning to finish but always found something more interesting to do.
It wasn’t a space designed to impress anyone. But it was mine, and having Griffin there felt significant in a way I didn’t want to examine too closely.
By eleven thirty, I’d ordered sandwiches from a local deli—turkey and avocado for me, roast beef for Griffin based on what I’d observed him eating at team lunches—and set out plates, napkins, and bottles of water on my small dining table.
The doorbell chimed at exactly noon.
Griffin stood in my doorway. His biceps bulged below the short sleeves of a black T-shirt in a way that made my heartbeat quicken. He held a cold brew in one hand and extended a cup toward me with the other.
“Brought you this.”
I took the cup and immediately recognized the distinctive aroma. “Caramel latte. You remembered my order.”
“I remember everything about you,” Griffin said, his eyes meeting mine with an intensity that made the simple statement seem like a confession.
My cheeks heated. “Well, thank you.” I moved back to let him enter. “Come in.”
His eyes scanned my apartment with the kind of quick assessment athletes made on ice—reading the space, cataloging details.
“Welcome to my humble apartment.”
“It’s nice,” Griffin said, and sounded like he meant it. He stepped up to the bookshelves, and he tilted his head this way and that to read the eclectic collection of titles. “You have good taste in books.”
“Thanks. Though half of those are still unread. I keep buying them faster than I can finish them. You should see my Kindle library.” I chuckled.
“Same problem, different medium. I do that with podcasts.”
We settled at my dining table, which was small enough that our knees brushed underneath. Neither of us shifted away from the contact. The awareness of that small point of connection sent heat spreading through me, a warning I should have heeded but didn’t.
I spread out my laptop, tablet, and phone.
“So,” I said, and pulled up my research notes.
“The Portland chamber of commerce represents a mix of tech companies, retail, service industries, restaurants. They want to hear about leadership and teamwork, but from a practical perspective—not just sports metaphors, but actual applicable strategies.”
Griffin nodded and swallowed a bite of his sandwich. “What’s the tone? Inspirational? Educational?”
“Both. They invited you for the prestige of having an NHL captain speak, but they also want actionable takeaways.” I pulled up examples of previous speakers. “Last month, they had the CEO of a local tech startup. Month before, a leadership consultant. You’re their first professional athlete.”
“No pressure.”
“You’ll be great. You’re good at reading rooms and adjusting your message on the fly.” It was one thing I admired about him—that rare combination of strategic intelligence and genuine warmth that made people want to follow him.
I started typing as I talked, my brain already spinning possibilities.
“I’m thinking we open with a story—something personal about your career that illustrates a leadership principle.
Then transition to three main points about building effective teams. Close with a call to action that ties hockey culture to business culture. ”
Griffin was quiet for a moment, watching me with an expression I couldn’t quite read. “You’ve already thought this through.”
“I may have done some preliminary outlining a week ago.” Heat crept up my neck. “I get excited about narrative structure. It’s kind of my thing.”
“It’s impressive,” Griffin said. “The way you think about these things. Like you can see five moves ahead.”
The compliment settled softly in my chest. “Comes from years of crisis management. You learn to anticipate problems before they become disasters.”
We fell into an easy rhythm after that—me suggesting angles, Griffin responding with stories from his career that might illustrate the points. His sandwich sat half eaten as he got caught up in the work, his focus absolute when something engaged his interest.
“What about talking about the expansion draft?” I suggested. “Building a team from scratch, players who didn’t choose to be here but are choosing to commit. That applies to business mergers or new divisions.”
Griffin’s expression shifted, and he grimaced slightly. “I could talk about that. Though it might hit too close to home—the whole ‘didn’t choose to be here’ thing.”
“Yes, I suppose you didn’t choose Portland.” I inwardly winced at my thoughtlessness.
“I chose to make it work after the Glaciers chose to trade me,” Griffin said carefully. “There’s a difference. But yeah, I can frame it as an opportunity rather than a setback.”
I typed notes, then looked up and caught Griffin watching me with an intensity that made my pulse quicken. “What?”
“Working with you differs from other PR managers I’ve had. More collaborative, less managing.”
The words hung between us, weighted with meaning beyond professional cooperation. I should have deflected, should have kept things light and focused on the work. Instead, I said, “I like working with you. You’re one of the most genuine people I’ve met in professional sports.”
“Genuine,” Griffin repeated, bitterness edging his tone. “That’s ironic, considering how much of my life is a performance.”
“That’s not what I meant. You care about people—your teammates, those kids at the clinic, the fans. That’s real, even if other aspects of your life aren’t… fully public.”
Griffin’s jaw tightened. “Speaking of performance—what’s the angle on this leadership speech? What do they actually want to hear?”
The pivot was obvious, but I let him have it. “Authenticity is big right now in business leadership. Bringing your whole self to work, leading with vulnerability, that kind of thing.”
“Authenticity.” Griffin’s laugh was humorless. “Right.”
“We don’t have to emphasize that angle if it’s uncomfortable—”
“No, it’s fine. Ironic as hell, but fine.” He ran a hand over his buzz cut. “What else?”
I studied him for a moment, reading the tension in his shoulders, the way he’d deflected from anything too personal. “Griffin, we can take a different approach if talking about authentic leadership feels—”
“I said it’s fine, Wesley.” His voice was sharp, then he seemed to catch himself. “Sorry. I just… I know how to talk about leadership. I’ve been doing it my whole career. Let’s focus on making this speech work for the audience.”
We worked for another hour, crafting an opening story about Griffin’s first day as Colorado’s captain—the weight of the C on his jersey, the responsibility of representing an organization and city, the moment he realized leadership wasn’t about being perfect but about being present.
The words flowed easily once we found our rhythm.
Griffin would share experiences, I’d help him frame them for maximum impact, and then we’d refine the language until it felt natural in his voice rather than scripted.
His intelligence surprised me—not that I’d thought he was dumb, but the way he grasped narrative structure, understood emotional beats, recognized what would resonate with an audience.
“You’re good at this.” I read back a paragraph we’d just completed. “Have you thought about what you’ll do after hockey? You could definitely be a motivational speaker.”
“Maybe. Though that requires being able to share your real story, not just the sanitized version.” Griffin leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms overhead in a way that made his shirt pull tight across his broad shoulders.
My pulse rate spiked, and I forced my eyes back to my laptop screen. “What would your real story include that the sanitized version doesn’t?”
Griffin’s arms came down slowly, his expression guarded. “Does it matter? It’s not a story I can tell.”
“Not publicly, maybe. But you told me.”
“That was different.”
“How?”
Griffin was quiet for a long moment, his ice-blue eyes fixed on mine with an intensity that made the air feel thinner. “Because you’re different. You make me want to stop acting. And that’s dangerous.”
My heart hammered against my ribs. “Griffin—”
“I know. I know all the reasons this is a bad idea. You’ve been very clear about your boundaries, and you’re right to set them.
” He leaned forward, elbows on the table, close enough that I could smell his clean body wash mixed with coffee.
“But sitting here with you, working on this together, talking about authenticity while I’m hiding who I am—it’s making me question everything. ”
“Question what, specifically?”
“Whether the cost of hiding is worth it anymore. Whether I’ve spent sixteen years protecting a career at the expense of ever having a real life.” His voice dropped lower. “Whether meeting you was the universe’s way of forcing me to decide whether to come out before I retire.”