Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Griffin
I was halfway out of my suit pants when Wesley boarded the plane, his messenger bag slung over one shoulder and his attention on his phone.
The team’s plane hummed with pre-flight energy—players stowing duffel bags and settling into seats, the low rumble of conversation mixing with the flight crew’s final preparations.
I’d claimed a seat on the aisle, dress shirt already folded in the bag on the seat beside me. I was reaching for my jeans when Wesley’s gaze found mine.
His expression shifted—subtle, but unmistakable. A slight smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, those warm brown eyes lighting with amusement at catching me mid-change.
I couldn’t help it; I smiled and winked.
The gesture was automatic, instinctive, born from stolen moments and the memory of Wesley’s choked laugh when I’d squirted the tomato across the counter.
It was a casual intimacy that felt natural when we were alone but was absolutely reckless here, surrounded by twenty-plus teammates and coaching staff.
Wesley’s dimple peeked out for a second before he schooled his expression back to professional neutrality and slid into a seat.
“Something funny, Lapierre?”
Turner’s voice cut through my momentary satisfaction like a sharp blade. He stood in an aisle seat three rows back, duffel still in hand, his expression twisted into something between suspicion and disgust.
My gut clenched. Turner had seen the exchange. Had watched me wink at Wesley like we were sharing some private joke, which we absolutely were, and now his scowl suggested he was drawing exactly the kind of conclusion I couldn’t afford anyone to draw.
“Just thinking about the game.” I forced casualness into my voice as I buttoned my jeans and reached for my T-shirt. “Ready to hand the Seattle Surge their asses?”
Turner’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t respond. He shoved his bag into the overhead compartment with more force than necessary and dropped into his seat, still watching me with that calculating expression that made my shoulders tense.
Fuck.
I yanked on my T-shirt and my mind raced through the implications.
Turner had noticed. Had he seen something in that brief exchange that triggered his homophobic radar?
And Turner wasn’t the type to keep suspicions to himself—he’d been vocal about his bigotry, had made his opinions about “that gay PR guy” crystal clear in the locker room.
If Turner started watching me more carefully, started noticing other interactions between Wesley and me, started talking to other players about his suspicions…
I settled into my seat and stared out the window as the plane began taxiing, forcing my breathing to steady. This was exactly the kind of mistake I couldn’t afford. One careless moment, one unguarded expression, one wink that said too much.
Be more careful. Be smarter. The next four years of your career depend on it.
Four to six years, then retirement and freedom. Four to six years of perfect control, flawless performance, absolute vigilance.
I could do that. I had to do that.
I just had to stop being stupid enough to wink at my secret boyfriend on a team plane in full view of a homophobic D-man who already hated both of us.
The flight to Seattle was smooth, mercifully short, and I spent the entire forty-five minutes avoiding eye contact with both Wesley and Turner.
I reviewed game footage on my tablet, discussed strategy with Holloway and Laasko across the aisle, and projected exactly the image of a focused captain preparing for a divisional preseason game.
Wesley sat six rows back. We didn’t speak. Didn’t look at each other. Maintained a professional distance that should have been our default from the beginning.
By the time we landed at Sea-Tac and boarded the bus to the hotel, my nerves had settled into the familiar pregame focus that made everything else fade to background noise.
Game-day routine was sacred— hotel check-in, light skate, rest, pregame meal, warm-up… The rituals grounded me, gave structure to the chaos of professional hockey, transformed anxiety into productive energy.
In the visiting locker room, I taped my stick with methodical precision while the familiar sounds of preparation surrounded me—equipment clattering, music thumping from someone’s phone, Coach Roberts reviewing defensive zone coverage.
“Lapierre.” Holloway dropped onto the bench beside me, already in his base layer. “Third line looked sharp in this morning’s skate. Whatever you did with them at your place, it’s working.”
“Just video games and pizza.” I tested the tape job, satisfied with the texture. “But yeah, Webber and Kozlov are reading each other better. Saw it during practice too.”
“Chemistry’s building.” Laasko joined us, his Finnish accent pronounced. “Team feels different from three weeks ago. More connected.”
“That’s the goal.” I stood, my gear half on, and raised my voice to address the room.
“All right, listen up. Seattle’s tough at home—we knew that coming in.
But we’ve been working on our passes, building trust, learning to play as a unit.
Tonight, we prove to our old teams that our expansions trades can lead to victory on the road. ”
A few players chuckled at my reference to the trade, but the energy in the room sharpened. I had their attention.
“When we get opportunities, we bury them. No hesitation, no second-guessing. We play our game, we execute our systems, and we walk out of here with two points.”
The room erupted in agreement—stick taps against the floor, shouts of “Let’s fucking go!” and a unified energy that made the captain’s C on my chest feel less like a burden and more like a privilege.
Forty minutes later, I stood in the tunnel waiting for our entrance, the roar of the Seattle crowd a wall of sound that vibrated through the concrete. My legs felt strong, my hands steady on my stick, my mind clear of everything except for the next sixty minutes of hockey.
The Stormhawks’ preseason was three games old. We were 1-2-0, understandable for an expansion team but not good enough for my standards. A W tonight would prove we belonged in the league, would validate every decision I’d made since arriving in Portland.
The lights dimmed. The crowd roared. And we burst onto the ice.
The first period was a feeling-out process—both teams testing plays, probing for weaknesses, trading chances without breaking through.
Seattle’s forecheck was aggressive, but our defense held strong.
Turner, for all his personal failings, was an elite D-man who read plays like poetry and shut down Seattle’s top line with ruthless efficiency.
I took my third shift midway through the period, my line matching up against Seattle’s second unit. The puck dropped, and muscle memory took over—reading the play, anticipating passes, moving my feet to create space and opportunities.
I won the draw, pulled it back to Holloway at the point. Holloway surveyed options, then fired a shot that I tipped—not enough to redirect it, but enough to create chaos in front of Seattle’s net. Their goalie made the save, but the rebound kicked out to Laasko, who buried it blocker side.
1–0 Stormhawks.
The bench erupted as Laasko celebrated, and I skated past to tap his helmet. “Fucking beauty!”
The goal energized our team, and we carried that momentum through the rest of the period. By the time the horn sounded for the end of the period, we’d outshot Seattle 14–9 and looked like a cohesive unit instead of a collection of castoffs and expansion draft picks.
In the locker room during the first intermission, Coach Roberts made minor adjustments but mostly emphasized continuing what was working. “Stay disciplined, keep skating, don’t give them easy chances. You’re playing smart hockey out there.”
The second period started fast. Seattle came out aggressive, pressing our defense and creating chaos in our zone. My legs burned as I backchecked, broke up a two-on-one, then transitioned the puck up ice for an odd-man rush that nearly resulted in our second goal.
Hockey at this level was controlled violence—bodies colliding at high speed, sticks slashing and hooking in the corners, the constant battle for inches of ice and fractions of seconds.
My lungs bellowed with each shift, my muscles screamed with the accumulation of lactic acid, and sweat poured down my back despite the arena’s chill.
Midway through the second, Seattle tied it. A defensive breakdown—Weber lost his man in front of the net. Their forward tipped a point shot past our goalie. The goal was entirely preventable, entirely frustrating.
At the bench, I called, “Forget it. Next shift, we get it back.”
Two minutes later, we did.
Laasko intercepted a pass at our blue line, hit me with a stretch pass as I crossed center ice. I had Turner on my right, Holloway driving the net. Seattle’s defense faltered, giving me the lane I needed.
I carried the puck into the offensive zone, drew the defense toward me, then slid a pass across to Holloway. He one-timed it, but their goalie made a spectacular save. The rebound came to me at the hashmarks, and I didn’t hesitate—just fired it top shelf before the goalie could reset.
The red light flashed. 2–1 Stormhawks.
The goal felt like validation—like proof I still had it, that the Glaciers had been wrong to let me go, that I could lead this team to success. I celebrated with my linemates, but in the back of my mind, I thought about Wesley watching from the press box, saw his smile in my imagination.
Focus. Game’s not over.
The third period was defensive hockey at its finest—blocking shots, clearing rebounds, making Seattle work for every inch of ice. My legs were dead by the midway point, my lungs burning with each breath, my body screaming for rest that wouldn’t come until the final horn.