Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Griffin
Coach Roberts had pulled Gagnon thirty seconds ago, giving us the extra attacker. Six on five. Everything on the line.
I crouched for the draw, staring down Vegas’s center across the dot. Holloway positioned himself at the point, Laasko and Martin on the opposite side. Turner and Williams held the blue line, ready to keep the puck in the zone.
Win this draw. Get possession. Find the net.
The puck dropped.
I won it clean, pulling it back to Holloway in one smooth motion. He controlled it, surveyed options, then fired a shot toward the net. The Vegas goalie made the save, but the rebound kicked out to the corner.
Martin battled for it, coming away with possession. He centered it toward the slot where I’d positioned myself, reading the play, anticipating the pass.
The puck came to me on my forehand. Vegas defenders converged, but I had a lane—narrow, closing fast, but there.
Ten seconds.
I didn’t think. Just released the shot, low and hard, aiming for the five-hole.
The puck slid through.
Red light. Horn. A rock anthem blared through enormous speakers in the rafters.
The roar that erupted from the fans was unlike anything I’d ever experienced—pure, unbridled joy that shook the building and made my vision blur with overwhelming emotion. The go-ahead goal with six seconds left, and I’d barely processed the shot before my teammates mobbed me.
Holloway hit me first, wrapping me in a crushing hug that nearly took us both down. Laasko crashed into us a second later, then Martin and Williams, the entire shift piling on in a mass of pads and adrenaline in a triumphant group hug.
“Fucking beauty, Lapierre!” Holloway shouted over the noise.
I caught sight of Turner skating away, not joining the celebration. Typical. But I didn’t have time to think about his absence because the celebration continued. I fist-bumped my teammates on the bench as I skated past, the energy electric and infectious.
The celebration couldn’t last long—we still had six seconds and a faceoff to navigate.
But as I skated back to center ice, I felt something I hadn’t since the Glaciers traded me: validation.
Proof that I could lead this team, that the Stormhawks had made the right choice, that I was still elite despite being thirty-four.
Take that, Colorado. Take that, everyone who said I was expendable.
The final faceoff was a formality—I won the draw, pulled it back to Laasko, and he iced it as the clock ran out. The horn sounded again, this time signaling the end of regulation.
3–2 Stormhawks.
First home game. First regular season victory.
“That’s how you finish!” I shouted.
The entire team spilled over the boards to tap Gagnon on the helmet and congratulate him. The noise was deafening, beautiful, a wall of sound that made my chest tight with emotion.
This. This is what it’s supposed to feel like.
The announcer’s voice boomed through the arena: “Your number one star of the game—with the game-winning goal and an assist—Griffin Lapierre!” The crowd erupted again, their cheers washing over me as I skated to the TV color commentator near the bench, microphone ready.
I gave the expected answers: team effort, never giving up, believing in our ourselves.
After the interview, I grabbed a puck from the equipment manager, signed it quickly with a Sharpie, then circled the ice in a victory lap.
Near the corner, I spotted a little girl—maybe seven or eight years old—wearing an oversized Stormhawks jersey with my number, jumping and waving frantically.
I skated close to the boards and tossed the puck over.
Her father snagged it out of the air, then handed it to her.
Her face radiated pure joy, and something in my gut tightened at the sight.
This was what it meant to be a captain—creating moments that mattered, being someone worth looking up to.
Even if they didn’t know the whole truth about who I was.
In the locker room, the energy was unlike anything I’d experienced with this team. Players laughed, chirped, and punched each other in the arm in celebratory chaos.
Before the press entered the room, I stood at my stall, adrenaline still coursing through my system, and raised my voice. “Everyone! Cascadia Craft Brews in an hour. First round’s on me!”
The room erupted in cheers. This felt right—team bonding after a huge win, building chemistry off the ice, establishing traditions for this inaugural season.
I was peeling off my equipment when Wesley appeared in the doorway. “Heads up,” he called. “Media coming in.”
I did the interviews on autopilot. I gave the expected answers about team effort and perseverance and believing in our systems, the captain’s responses that emphasized the team over the individual player.
After Wesley ended the locker room interviews and the media cleared out, he met my gaze. His expression was carefully neutral, professional, but I caught the warmth in his brown eyes.
“Presser in five,” he said, his tone perfectly calibrated for a PR manager addressing a player. The professional detachment between us felt like a physical ache, but it was necessary—essential, even—when anyone could be watching.
I grabbed my Stormhawks hoodie and jeans from my stall, hyperaware of Wesley’s presence even as I tried to maintain the appropriate image.
In the hallway outside the press room, I caught Wesley alone for a brief moment. “You coming to Cascadia tonight? Team’s celebrating.”
Wesley hesitated and glanced around to make sure we were alone. “Is that a good idea? Me showing up at a team celebration?”
“Why not? You’re part of the organization.” I stepped closer and lowered my voice. “Come with us. I want you there.”
“Griffin…” Furrowed brows showed his internal debate. “We’re supposed to be careful. Maintain distance. Not give people reasons to notice.”
Hadn’t I just been thinking the same thing?
Still, I couldn’t stay away from him. Not tonight.
Not after that win. “One beer. That’s all.
Just show up, congratulate the team, be social.
” I knew I was being reckless, knew we should maintain the boundaries we’d agreed on.
But the high of victory made me feel invincible, like maybe we could navigate this without disaster. “Please?”
Wesley sighed, but I caught the small smile tugging at his lips. “Fine. One beer. But I’m leaving early and we’re not standing together.”
“Deal.”
Wesley’s phone dinged, and he pulled it out. He scrolled quickly. “Social media is exploding with praise for your leadership. The winning goal clip is already viral. Hashtag ‘Lapierre delivers’ is trending locally. You’re the story of the night.”
Pride and relief flooded through me in equal measure. This was what I’d needed—proof that I could still perform at an elite level, that my leadership mattered, that Colorado had been wrong to let me go.
“That’s good,” I managed, trying to keep my voice neutral even as my gut sang with satisfaction.
“It’s better than good. It’s exactly what we hoped for.” Wesley gestured toward the press room. “Now go. Make them love you even more.”
The presser was packed—local media, national sports networks, and podcasters all vying for questions.
I fielded them with practiced ease, emphasizing team unity and collective effort while acknowledging that tonight’s win validated the Stormhawks as legitimate competitors rather than just expansion underdogs.
“This team has heart,” I said into the microphones. “We’re not just here to participate. We’re here to win. Tonight proved that.”
After the presser, I showered quickly and changed into my suit. The routine grounded me, transformed me from the sweaty athlete into the polished captain Portland expected.
Cascadia Craft Brews was already filled when I arrived. The bar had given us the back section, a semi-private area with several tables and a pool table where the team could celebrate without being completely on display.
Sixteen teammates showed up: more than the eleven who’d come to the last team gathering. Progress. Proof that chemistry was building, that my leadership was working, that the video game tournaments—I’d held one for each line—and constant communication and emphasis on unity were paying off.
I bought the first round—beers and appetizers for everyone—and raised my glass when the drinks arrived. “To proving everyone wrong, especially the teams that let us go! First win of many!”
The team echoed the toast, bottles and glasses clinking, voices mixing with laughter and the ambient noise of the bar. I moved through the group, congratulating players individually, rehashing key moments from the game, building connections and reinforcing the culture I wanted to establish.
Wesley arrived. He’d gone home and dressed casually in jeans and a dark sweater. He stayed near the bar’s main area rather than joining our section, but I was acutely aware of his presence.
I caught his eye across the room and smiled—maybe too warmly, maybe too long, definitely more than was safe. Wesley smiled back, and the moment stretched between us with unspoken celebration and shared joy.
“You two seem pretty happy with each other.”
Holloway’s voice beside me made me flinch. I tore my gaze away from Wesley and forced my expression into something more bland. “What?”
“You and Wesley.” Holloway took a sip of his beer, his tone casual but his eyes assessing. “Been watching you watch him all night. You two seem tight.”
My pulse spiked with alarm, but I gave what I hoped was a casual shrug. “We’ve become friends.”
“Is that why he was at your apartment on Sunday?”
Before I could respond—before I could construct a deflection that would satisfy Holloway’s curiosity without revealing anything—Wesley pulled out his phone and his expression shifted from relaxed to concerned.
I excused myself and made my way through the crowd to where Wesley stood near the bar. “What’s wrong?”