Chapter 16 #2
With two minutes left, Seattle pulled their goalie for the extra attacker. The pressure intensified—six attackers against five defenders, desperate attempts to tie the game, shots from everywhere.
I blocked a slap shot from the point, the puck catching me in the shin and sending electric pain through my leg. Didn’t matter. I got up, cleared the rebound, kept fighting.
Thirty seconds left. Twenty. Ten.
The horn sounded.
We’d won, 2–1 over Seattle, on the road, in a hostile building.
The team mobbed Gagnon, our goalie, celebrating like we’d won the Cup instead of a preseason game in October. But for an expansion team still finding its identity, every win felt monumental.
In the locker room afterward, the energy was electric. Players laughed, chirped each other, relived key moments. Coach Roberts gave a brief speech about building on this performance, then left us to our celebration.
I sat at my stall, my equipment half removed, my body aching in that satisfying way that came from a hard-fought victory. My goal and assist would make the highlight reels, but more importantly, the team had performed. Had played connected hockey. Had proven we belonged.
“Hell of a game, Cap.” Holloway dropped onto the bench beside me and grinned. “That goal in the second was filthy.”
“Lucky rebound.” I grabbed a towel and wiped the sweat from my face. “Whole line played well.”
“Team’s coming together.” Laasko joined us, still in his gear. “Feels different.”
“It is different.” And it was—the video game tournaments, the team building, the constant communication. My leadership style was working. “But we can’t get complacent. Vancouver tomorrow night will be tough.”
The mention of the Vancouver Vengeance sent a jolt through my system. My father’s last team. The city where I’d spent my teenage years watching him play, where I’d developed my own game, where memories of him still lived in my mother’s house.
Playing in Vancouver always felt significant. Tomorrow would be no different.
“All right, everyone, listen up!” Coach Roberts’s voice cut through the celebration. “Great win, but we’ve got a plane to catch. Bus leaves in twenty. Let’s move.”
The locker room erupted into organized chaos—players rushing through postgame routines, the celebration muted by the reality of immediate travel.
I showered quickly and dressed in my suit. My body ached pleasantly, my mind still buzzed with adrenaline and satisfaction.
On my way to the team’s bus, I ran into Wesley boarding the staff’s bus. We didn’t acknowledge each other, didn’t exchange glances, maintained a perfect professional distance.
But I was acutely aware of his presence. Wanted to approach him, to share this victory with him, to see his expression and know what he thought of my performance.
Later, I told myself. Be patient. Be careful.
The flight to Vancouver was short—barely ninety minutes in the air. By the time we checked into the hotel, it was nearly midnight, and exhaustion was settling into my bones.
I made it to my room—a standard business hotel setup, nothing special—and dropped my bag by the door. My phone showed a handful of congratulatory texts from former teammates, a message from Michael praising my performance, but nothing from the one person I really wanted to hear from.
I stripped off my clothes and changed into a T-shirt and sweats while my mind raced ahead to tomorrow. Vancouver. The memories. The pressure of playing in my father’s city.
And Wesley. Somewhere in this hotel, probably several floors away, likely in his own room processing the day.
I wanted to see him. Wanted to celebrate this victory with someone who understood what it meant, who knew the weight I carried and the progress we’d made. Wanted to just be Griffin instead of Captain Lapierre for a few stolen hours.
But it was after midnight. The team was in the hotel. Teammates occupied rooms on multiple floors, and any one of them could see me in the hallway, could question where I was going, could draw conclusions that would destroy everything.
I sat on the edge of the bed and stared at my phone.
This is stupid. Go to sleep. Don’t risk it.
My fingers moved before I could talk myself out of it.
Griffin
You still awake?
The response came almost immediately.
Wesley
Yes. Can’t sleep. Too much adrenaline from the win.
Relief flooded through me, followed by nervous anticipation.
Griffin
What’s your room number?
Three dots appeared, disappeared, reappeared. I held my breath, giving Wesley the chance to say no, to establish boundaries, to remind me this was too dangerous.
Wesley
734
My pulse quickened. He’d said yes. Was willing to risk this despite the danger, despite the proximity to teammates, despite every logical reason we should maintain distance.
I stood, then hesitated. This was reckless. Stupid. Exactly the kind of behavior that could expose us both.
But I needed this. Needed him. Needed to share this victory with someone who saw me as more than just the captain, more than just the perfect image.
I grabbed my room keycard and typed one more message.
Griffin
Be right there.
I slipped into the hallway, acutely aware of every sound—the hum of the elevator, distant voices from a room down the hall, my own heartbeat thundering in my ears.
Seventh floor. Room 734.
What am I doing? This is insane. Turn around. Go back to your room. Don’t risk everything for one night.
But my feet kept moving, carrying me toward the elevator, toward Wesley, toward something that felt inevitable despite being impossible.
The elevator doors opened. I stepped inside and pressed seven.
As the doors closed and the elevator rose, I caught my reflection in the polished metal—a man whose entire career depended on secrets and perfect control, about to risk it all for a few stolen hours with someone who made me feel like myself.
Worth it. He’s worth it.
The elevator dinged. Seventh floor.
I stepped into the hallway and headed toward room 734, my heart racing with equal parts anticipation and terror.