Chapter 17 #2
I snorted. “I’ll take care of it.” I rolled out of bed, washed my hands in the bathroom, and retrieved a warm, wet washcloth for Wesley.
I climbed back into bed beside him, and we lay tangled together, Wesley’s head on my chest, his hands smoothing across my abs in absent, soothing strokes. The room was quiet except for our gradually slowing breathing and the hum of the room’s heating system.
“Stay,” Wesley murmured, his voice already thick with approaching sleep. “Just for a few minutes.”
I knew I shouldn’t—knew I needed to leave before we both fell asleep. But his warmth was intoxicating, his presence calming in ways I’d never experienced. “Okay.”
Just for a few minutes. Then I’ll go.
I closed my eyes, meaning only to rest them.
Panic jolted me awake with the disorienting terror of not knowing where I was or what time it was. Wesley’s warm weight pressed against my side, his breathing deep and even with sleep.
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.
I grabbed my phone from the nightstand—5:17 a.m. Team breakfast was at seven, morning skate at nine. Players would start waking up soon, moving through the hallways, heading to the hotel gym, or grabbing an early cup of coffee.
I had maybe fifteen minutes before the halls got busy. Probably less.
I extracted myself from Wesley’s embrace with agonizing care, not wanting to wake him but needing to move fast. He stirred slightly, made a small sound of protest, then settled back into sleep.
I found my T-shirt on the floor and dressed with fumbling speed, adrenaline and fear making my movements clumsy.
A quick check through the door’s peephole showed an empty hallway. I peeked through a crack in the door, then slipped out quietly, the lock clicking behind me with what sounded like a puck shot in the early-morning silence.
The hallway was deserted but felt exposing—too long, too well-lit, too many potential witnesses. I walked with purposeful calm toward the elevator, projecting the image of someone who had every reason to be on the seventh floor at 5:20 a.m. even though my room was on the fourth.
The elevator doors opened with a cheerful ding that made me flinch. Empty, thank God. I stepped inside, pressed four, and watched the numbers descend with agonizing slowness.
Fourth floor. The doors opened onto another empty hallway, and I started toward my room, exhaustion and relief making my steps feel lighter. I was almost there—just a few more feet—when a door opened further down the hall.
Turner stepped out in workout gear, a gym bag over his shoulder.
We made eye contact. His gaze traveled over me—clothes wrinkled, hair probably disheveled, clearly just getting back to my room at five thirty in the morning. I watched his expression shift from curious to understanding to something dark and hostile. His eyes narrowed, and he scowled.
My stomach dropped, but I kept my face neutral, projecting innocence. “Good morning,” I said, my voice steady despite the panic clawing at my chest.
Turner didn’t respond. Just stared at me with that scowl, his jaw tight, before heading toward the elevator without a word.
I let myself into my room, the lock disengaging with a beep that sounded too loud in the quiet hallway. The door closed behind me, and I leaned against it, my heart hammering so hard I could feel it in my throat. My knees went weak, and I slid down to sit on the floor, trying to catch my breath.
Fuck.
Turner had seen me. Had seen me doing the walk of shame at five thirty in the morning, clearly coming from someone else’s room. And from the look on his face, he’d drawn conclusions.
I pulled out my phone, my hands shaking, and started to text Wesley. Then stopped.
What would I even say? “Turner saw me in the hallway and looked suspicious?” That would just worry him, and it might be nothing.
Turner scowling at me wasn’t exactly unusual—the guy had barely hidden his dislike since training camp.
Maybe he hadn’t connected any dots. Maybe he just thought I’d hooked up with a woman and was judging me for it.
Or maybe he knew exactly whose room I’d been in.
I deleted the unsent message and pocketed my phone. There was no point worrying Wesley over something that might be nothing. I’d keep an eye on Turner, watch for any signs he was spreading rumors or asking questions.
For both of us.
We have to be more careful. This can’t happen again. Not like this.
Except I knew it would happen again. Because despite the terror and the risk and the very real possibility of a career-ending disaster, I wanted more stolen hours with Wesley.
More moments of being Griffin instead of Captain Lapierre.
More nights where I could fall asleep next to someone who saw past my projected image to the person underneath.
Road trips were dangerous. But apparently, I was willing to navigate that danger anyway.
The day passed in the familiar routine of game day on the road—team breakfast where I sat with Holloway and Laasko, discussing Vancouver’s defensive strategies.
Light morning skate at the arena where the ice felt different, the boards echoed differently, the ghosts of my father’s games seemed to inhabit every corner.
Coach Roberts kept the skate short and focused—power play work, penalty kill review, systems reinforcement. No heavy skating, no exhausting drills. We needed our legs fresh for that night.
I performed my routines with mechanical precision, but my mind was split between preparation and memory. My father skating these same laps, taking shots at this same net, wearing the captain’s C for Vancouver’s franchise.
The arena staff had changed the boards, repainted the logos, updated the technology. But the bones of the building remained the same. The sight lines from the bench, the distance from the blue line to the goal, the particular echo of skates on ice—all unchanged from when my father had played here.
“You good?” Holloway asked, as we headed back to the locker room after the skate.
“Yeah. Just thinking about tonight.”
“Your dad’s team.” It wasn’t a question. Everyone knew the history. “That’s gotta be weird.”
“Complicated,” I corrected. “But I’m focused on our game, not the past.”
The lie tasted bitter, but what else could I say? That I was terrified of failing to live up to a dead man’s legacy? That comparisons to my legendary father made me feel like I’d never be enough?
Back at the hotel, I tried to nap but ended up staring at the ceiling, replaying last night—Wesley’s touch, the conversation about my father, the terror of waking up in the wrong room. The way it had felt both reckless and necessary all at once.
My phone buzzed with a text from Michael.
Michael
Big game tonight. All eyes on you in Vancouver. Make your father proud.
The pressure settled heavier on my shoulders. Make my father proud. Live up to his legacy. Be perfect.
I placed my phone face down on the nightstand.
The arena was sold out that night, and even though it was a preseason game, 18,910 fans created a wall of sound that vibrated through the concrete as we took the ice for warm-ups.
Vancouver’s fans were passionate and knowledgeable, and tonight they’d be watching to see if Nic Lapierre’s son could measure up to the man himself.
I went through my warm-up routine on autopilot—skating patterns, stretching, taking shots, visualizing plays.
But I was hyperaware of the arena’s history, of the memories embedded in these boards, of every comparison that would be made between my performance tonight and my father’s legendary career.
In the locker room before puck drop, Coach Roberts gave his pregame speech, but I barely heard it. The pressure in my chest felt suffocating—not the motivating pregame adrenaline, but something heavier, more paralyzing.
Focus. Just play your game. Don’t think about anything else.
The anthems played. We lined up on the center line. And the puck dropped.
From the first shift, something was off. My timing was a fraction slow, my passes a few inches off target, my reads of the play just slightly delayed. Nothing catastrophic, nothing obvious to casual observers, but enough that I could feel the difference.
Vancouver scored first—a deflection off Turner’s stick that beat Gagnon glove side. Not Turner’s fault, just bad luck, but it put us behind early.
We battled back. Weber scored midway through the second period, tying it 1–1. But I wasn’t contributing—no goals, no assists, just grinding through shifts while feeling like I was skating through mud.
The third period was torture. Vancouver scored again with eight minutes left—a breakaway that Gagnon almost stopped but couldn’t quite reach. Vancouver was one up.
We pressed for the equalizer, pulling Gagnon with ninety seconds left for the extra attacker. I had chances—a shot that hit the post, a rebound that I fanned on, a pass to Laasko that was intercepted.
The horn sounded. 2–1 Vancouver.
We’d lost.
In the locker room afterward, the mood was somber but not devastated. We’d played hard, had our chances, just couldn’t bury them. For a preseason game, the effort was there even if the result wasn’t.
But I sat at my stall, stripped of equipment above the waist, feeling the weight of failure pressing down. I’d played in my father’s arena as the captain of a new expansion team and hadn’t measured up. Hadn’t led the team to victory. Hadn’t proven I belonged in his legacy.
“Tough loss.” Holloway dropped onto the bench beside me. “We’ll get them next time.”
“Yeah.” The word came out flat, unconvincing.
Coach Roberts addressed the team briefly—emphasis on the positives, areas to improve, move forward to the next game. Then he left us to our post-game routines.
I showered and dressed in my suit for the flight home. I boarded the bus with my mind cataloging every mistake, every missed opportunity, every way I’d failed tonight.
The bus pulled away from the arena, and I stared out the window at Vancouver’s lights, thinking about my father and legacy and the impossible standard I could never quite reach.
Whether anyone else compared me to my father didn’t ultimately matter.
I was the one doing it, measuring myself against his shadow.
Tonight, it had cost us. My distraction, my desperate need to prove something in Vancouver, had affected my performance on the ice.
I’d sabotaged the team by sabotaging myself.
My phone buzzed, breaking me out of my grim thoughts.
Wesley
Tough loss. You played hard even if the bounces didn’t go your way. Proud of you anyway.
Wesley. Of course.
Another text followed immediately:
Wesley
Also, I missed you when I woke up. You snuck out, you sneak.
Despite everything—the loss, the pressure, the failure—a small smile tugged at my lips.
Griffin
Sorry. Fell asleep and woke up just before dawn. Had to get back to my room before people started moving around.
Wesley
I understand. Still wished you’d been there when I woke up.
Griffin
Me too.
I stared at the screen, then added:
Griffin
We’ll have to be more careful next time. Can’t risk falling asleep like that again.
Wesley
Next time?
Griffin
Yeah. There’ll be a next time.
Because despite the terror of this morning’s escape, despite knowing road trips were a minefield of potential discovery, despite every logical reason to maintain distance when we traveled, I couldn’t imagine not having those unguarded hours with Wesley.
The risk was worth it. He was worth it.
Even if it meant navigating an impossible situation every time we left Portland.
The bus took Oak Street toward the airport, and I leaned my head against the window, exhaustion finally catching up. We’d fly home. Tomorrow we’d review tape, practice, prepare for the opening game.
And eventually, there’d be another roadie. Another hotel. Another opportunity to be reckless.
Every single time.