Chapter 12 #2
“Petrov’s your teammate, and we win or lose together. If you see gaps in his game, help him improve—that’s what leaders do. But calling him a liability? That’s the kind of attitude that destroys team chemistry and makes us all worse.”
Back at the hotel, I tried to nap but couldn’t settle. Pregame energy mixed with lingering frustration about Turner, about the speech the next day, about the impossible situation with Wesley that seemed to grow more complicated with every interaction.
At five thirty, I headed downstairs for the team dinner, stomach already churning with a mix of game-day nerves and residual airsickness. Hotel staff had sectioned the restaurant off for us, the tables arranged to accommodate the full traveling party.
I was scanning for an open seat when I spotted Wesley near the entrance, talking to someone from our sales department. The guy—Brooks, I thought his name was—stood too close, smiled too widely, his body language unmistakably flirtatious.
Wesley laughed at something Brooks said, that genuine laugh that made his whole face light up. Brooks touched Wesley’s arm, the contact casual but deliberate.
Jealousy hit like a sucker punch, sharp and irrational and completely unjustified.
I had no claim on Wesley. No right to care who flirted with him or touched him or made him laugh.
We’d agreed on boundaries, on maintaining professional distance, on all the very good reasons nothing could happen between us.
But watching Brooks lean closer, watching Wesley’s comfortable body language, made me want to cross the room and insert myself into their conversation in ways that would be completely inappropriate and absolutely revealing.
I forced myself to look away, to join Laasko and Holloway at the long team table like nothing was wrong. Like I wasn’t burning with jealousy I had no right to feel and couldn’t express to anyone.
“You okay, Cap?” Holloway asked.
“Fine. Just getting in the zone for the game,” I said, my jaw tight.
But the game started badly.
I lost the opening faceoff, a fundamental failure that set the tone for everything that followed.
San Jose came out aggressively, clearly motivated by their home crowd and the memory of losing in Portland.
Their forecheck was relentless, their defensive structure tight, and every mistake we made got capitalized on immediately.
Midway through the first period, San Jose scored on a power play after Williams took an unnecessary penalty. Then they added another goal before the period ended, exploiting a defensive breakdown that made us look like we’d never played together before.
In the locker room between periods, Coach Roberts was controlled but intense. “We’re better than this. Start talking to each other out there. Trust your systems. Play as a unit, not individuals.”
The second period was slightly better. Laasko scored on a beautiful one-timer I’d set up, showing the chemistry we’d been building. Then Petrov added another midway through the third, briefly making it a tied game.
But San Jose answered with two more goals in the final ten minutes, the last an empty-netter that made the final 4–2 score look worse than the game had felt.
The mood on the bus back to the airport was grim. Players sat in silence or had quiet conversations, the energy completely different from that morning’s departure from Portland.
I stared out the window at San Jose’s passing lights, mentally replaying every mistake, every missed opportunity, every moment where we’d failed to execute.
The next day, I was supposed to give a speech about leadership and teamwork to Portland’s business community.
That night, we’d looked like a collection of untalented individuals who couldn’t figure out how to play together.
I found my seat on the plane—same one as that morning—and wasn’t surprised when Wesley slid in beside me without asking.
We didn’t have the excuse of speech practice this time. No professional justification for choosing to sit together instead of with our respective groups. But neither of us acknowledged that as Wesley buckled in and I leaned back against the headrest.
“Tough game,” Wesley said quietly.
I dry swallowed my medicine to prepare for takeoff. “We played like shit,” I said low so my teammates wouldn’t hear me.
“You played like a brand-new team still learning each other. Which is what you are.”
“That’s a generous spin,” I said, bitterness in my tone.
“It’s an accurate spin.” Wesley shifted to face me slightly. “Griffin, you can’t expect perfection in preseason. Tonight exposed weaknesses, which means you know what to work on. That’s the point of these games.”
I knew he was right. Knew that preseason was about identifying problems and building chemistry rather than winning at all costs.
But the weight of expectations—prove Boucher wrong, establish Portland as legit, show I could still compete at an elite level—made the loss feel like validation of every doubt anyone had ever expressed.
“Tomorrow I’m supposed to talk about building successful teams,” I said. “After tonight, that feels like fraud.”
“Tomorrow you’re going to talk about the process of building teams, not the finished product.
About facing adversity and learning from setbacks.
Tonight gave you real-world material to reference.
” Wesley’s voice carried that characteristic optimism that somehow never felt na?ve.
“Use it. Be honest about the challenges while projecting confidence in the outcome.”
The way he reframed failure into narrative opportunity, found angles that served our purposes without lying—it was exactly the kind of strategic thinking that made Wesley exceptional at his job.
“How do you do that?” I asked.
“Do what?”
“See possibilities where everyone else sees problems. Stay optimistic even when things are falling apart.”
Wesley was quiet for a moment. “Dwelling on what’s wrong doesn’t fix anything. Better to focus on what could be right, what options exist, how to move forward. Doesn’t mean ignoring problems—just means not letting them paralyze you.”
It was the most personal thing Wesley had shared about himself, a glimpse into how his mind worked beyond the professional competence I admired.
“What about you?” Wesley asked. “How do you handle the pressure? Everyone watching, expecting you to be perfect all the time?”
I hesitated, debating how much to share.
But this was Wesley, whom I trusted implicitly.
Still, I kept my voice low, for his ears only.
“I compartmentalize. Put everything into boxes labeled ‘public’ and ‘private,’ maintain the image that’s expected, don’t let anything slip that might undermine the performance.
” The words came out more honest than I’d intended. “Except lately that’s getting harder.”
“Why lately?”
Because of you, I almost said. Because you make me want to stop acting, to exist as myself instead of as the carefully constructed captain everyone expects. Because every conversation we have makes the compartments feel more artificial, the performance more exhausting.
I shrugged. “Just tired, I guess. Sixteen years of maintaining an image takes its toll.”
Wesley shifted in his seat, angling toward me. The plane was dim and quiet, most players sleeping or pretending to, creating a bubble of relative privacy. “Can I ask you something personal?”
“Depends on the question.”
“When you’re alone—no teammates, no media, no one watching—who are you? What do you do?”
The question caught me off guard. No one ever asked about Griffin Lapierre the person, separate from Griffin Lapierre the hockey player. The role had consumed the reality so completely that sometimes I wasn’t sure there was a difference anymore.
“Honestly? I don’t know. I’ve been in the public eye for so long that I’m not sure what’s real anymore.
” I paused, then continued. “I listen to an embarrassing number of history podcasts. I’m weirdly into cooking shows even though I can barely cook.
I read fantasy novels that my teammates would probably mock me for enjoying. ”
“That’s not embarrassing. That’s interesting.”
“It’s not very captain-like.”
“Who decided captains can’t like fantasy novels?”
“Years of hockey culture that equates masculinity with a very narrow set of acceptable interests.”
Wesley was quiet, then said softly, “What if you stopped caring what hockey culture thinks you should be and just existed as who you actually are?”
“Then I’d lose everything I’ve worked for.”
“Maybe. Or maybe you’d discover that who you actually are is more compelling than the false image.”
The conversation felt precarious, getting too close to truths I wasn’t ready to examine. But sitting here in the low light of the plane, exhausted and emotionally raw from the loss, I didn’t have the energy to reflect.
“Tell me something about you,” I said, redirecting. “Something people don’t know.”
Wesley smiled. “I wanted to be a sports journalist originally. Even started out studying journalism in college. Thought I’d be the next great NHL beat reporter.
But I couldn’t maintain objectivity—I’d get too invested in the stories, too protective of the players.
PR lets me care without pretending I don’t. ”
“That actually makes perfect sense for you.”
“Yeah?”
“You see people, not just stories. You want to help, not just observe.” I caught myself as I added, “It’s one of the things I—” I stopped, aware I was about to say too much.
“One of the things you what?” His voice was low, husky.
“Appreciate. About how you approach the job.”
The word felt inadequate for what I’d meant, but safer than the truth.
Wesley’s expression shifted—something that looked like disappointment flickering across his features before he glanced away toward the darkened window. “Right. The job.”
We talked for the rest of the flight—about books we’d read, places we’d traveled, the comfort of diner food. Conversation that had nothing to do with hockey or PR or the careful professional relationship we were supposed to be maintaining.
When we landed in Portland, the team filed off the plane in sleepy, subdued groups. I grabbed my duffel and followed Wesley down the narrow aisle, suddenly aware of how long we’d been sitting together, how obvious our connection must have looked to anyone paying attention.
At the bottom of the stairs, our GM, Owen Davidson, stood talking with Coach Roberts, both men watching as players exited. Davidson’s eyes tracked Wesley and me emerging together, his eyebrow raising slightly in an expression I couldn’t quite read.
Disapproval? Curiosity? Concern?
My stomach tightened with familiar anxiety. How had it looked, the captain spending both flights sitting with the PR manager instead of with his team? Roberts had already questioned it this morning. What conclusions were people drawing?
Then shame hit harder than the anxiety—shame that my first instinct was worry about appearances rather than defiance about my right to choose with whom I sat.
The non-fraternization policy covered romantic relationships, not friendships.
I was allowed to have professional friendships with staff members.
Except what Wesley and I had didn’t feel entirely professional anymore, and I suspected people were starting to notice.
I said goodbye to Wesley in the parking lot, keeping my tone casual and my body language appropriate.
Then I drove home along nearly deserted freeways, replaying the entire day—the speech practice, Roberts’s subtle warning, Wesley’s eyes on my bare skin, Brooks flirting in the restaurant, the loss, the late-night conversation that had felt more intimate than any physical contact.
Despite the irony of tomorrow’s speech, I’d sat on a plane with Wesley and had an honest conversation about pressure and performance and who we actually were beneath our professional roles. I’d felt more like myself than I had in years.
We were going to stay friends. Nothing more. That’s what I told myself as I fell into bed, exhausted and conflicted and painfully aware that every day made that promise harder to keep.
Just friends. Professional colleagues. Nothing more.
The lie was getting easier to tell, even as the truth became harder to ignore.