Sixteen
The elevator is silent, taking its time ascending to Westfield’s office.
The mirrored doors catch my reflection. Pressed charcoal shirt. Dark jeans. The bruise on my cheekbone is finally fading to a sickly yellow, but the exhaustion underneath is baked in. My legs still feel like dead weight from the Edmonton road trip.
No context. There never is with Westfield. That’s his design—keep you guessing, keep you completely off-balance so if he drops the floor out from under you, you don’t have time to brace.
The last time I stood in this elevator, I left with a crystal decanter and a script.
Apologize. Make it public. Fix your image.
I delivered the thing in a blizzard and got trapped overnight with a woman whose career I destroyed, whose hatred I earned, whose touch still burns against my skin in the dark.
The doors slide open onto marble and silence.
Westfield’s assistant doesn’t glance up. She never does. I’ve been walking through that door since September, and she still hasn’t used my name once. “He’s expecting you. Go in.”
I cross the reception area, every footstep loud as a puck drop. My hand reaches for the brass knob, then stops.
Westfield’s voice bleeds through the crack. Smooth, patient, devoid of urgency.
“...the Village Stroll location is prime real estate. Always has been.” A pause. He’s listening, likely nodding to someone who can’t see him. “Municipal partnerships take time, but we’re making progress. Structural code compliance is expensive—most small operators can’t afford the upgrades.”
I linger near the crack, not breathing.
“Sentimental value, sure.” He laughs, low and smooth. “But sentiment doesn’t pay inspection fines.” Another pause. “We’re not pushing anyone out—we’re offering a better option when the time comes.”
The words land like crosschecks, one after another.
“…launch soon, assuming permitting clears. A demographic that will pay in dividends.”
My pulse hammers in my throat, in my wrists, behind the bruise that’s still there.
I should leave. Walk back to the elevator, delete the text, pretend I never heard this.
I knock instead.
The sound cuts through the air like a whistle.
Westfield’s voice shifts mid-sentence. “I’ll call you back.”
The heavy wood feels cold under my knuckles.
A beat of silence, then, “Come in.”
I push the door open. Westfield sits behind a desk the size of a small boat, the Whistler peaks a jagged white crown behind him.
He ends his call without another word, placing the phone face down.
The window, stretching from floor to ceiling, is fogged at the edges.
His eyes, friendly and predatory all at once, find mine.
“Gabriel. Perfect timing. Sit, sit.” He gestures to the low chair opposite him.
My legs move me forward. His tumbler of scotch sits on the desk, half-full, a perfect ring of condensation pooling on the wood. He’s celebrating already.
“Drink?” Westfield gestures to the bar cart. “You look like you need one.”
“I’m good,” I say as I sink into the leather chair. The silence stretches, thick with what he knows I heard.
“I’ll cut to the chase.” Westfield leans back, steepling his fingers.
His voice is the same calm, persuasive tone from the phone call.
“We’re building something special here in Whistler.
A franchise that competes for Cups, not just playoff spots.
Look at Vancouver—a real brand, a real legacy.
That requires leadership. Vision. Players who understand what it means to be part of something bigger than themselves. ”
He wasn’t surprised I was here. He planned this. The call. The timing. Me, overhearing him. Still, I nod, waiting for him to go on.
He picks up his glass and swirls the amber liquid.
“I’m prepared to offer you an eight-year extension. It will make you the highest-paid Wolf in franchise history.”
I nod. The room is very quiet.
“And,” Westfield continues, “when Ethan Holt’s contract expires—or circumstances change—you’ll wear the C.”
The words hit like a blindside check.
The captaincy.
The captaincy.
A letter gets earned in the room. Coach names it, or the guys vote it—it was never his to hand across a desk. Westfield knows that. He’s telling me the org chart is decorative. That in his building, everything is his to give.
And the way I’ve been playing? I haven’t earned shit.
My hands grip the armrests. I force them to loosen, one finger at a time. Keep my face neutral. Breathe through my nose. Don’t let him see the hunger, the desperation, the way those words carved through every defense I’ve spent a month building.
“Your father always knew you had this in you.”
A tightness shifts within my core. I stare out the window.
In my periphery, Westfield leans forward, elbows on the desk.
“He told me, two weeks before he passed—we were having dinner, remember?—he said, ‘Gabe’s fit to do more than just play in the league. He’s going to lead.’”
I remember hearing about that dinner. Ottawa. Some Italian place Dad loved. I wasn’t invited. Found out later from Valentina.
“He was right.” Westfield’s voice drops, paternal and warm. “I’m making sure of it.”
Dad said that. About me. About leading.
I grip the armrests again, harder this time, fingertips digging into the leather.
This is everything I’ve ever worked towards. Holt’s contract expires in two years. This is real. This is happening.
I could call Val. Tell her. She’d scream. Probably cry. Be so fucking proud her big brother finally—
“There’s just one thing.”
Westfield’s voice cuts through my churning thoughts.
“Leadership involves more than what happens on the ice.”
I meet his eyes.
Westfield smiles.
His voice shifts. The paternal warmth is still there, but firm now, with no give in it anymore. “You need to demonstrate your alignment. Understanding the franchise’s vision. On and off the ice.”
He stands. Walks to the window, looking out over the village like a king surveying his board.
“The Sin Bin Lounge,” he says, tapping the glass.
“Our official Wolves venue. Opening to the public in spring, but we’re fast-tracking an exclusive VIP launch for New Year’s Eve. The right crowd. The right optics.”
My stomach drops.
“What about The Penalty Box?”
The words escape before I can swallow them. My voice sounds strange. Too sharp.
Westfield glances back, brows raised.
“That partnership is probationary. It serves a purpose—for now.” He returns to his chair, settles into it like a throne. “But Whistler’s market can’t sustain two hockey-focused establishments long-term. The stronger brand wins.”
He picks up his scotch. Doesn’t drink.
“We’ve invested significantly in municipal partnerships, code enforcement initiatives, infrastructure improvements.” A pause. His eyes find mine. “When small operators can’t keep up with standards...”
He shrugs.
“That’s business.”
My hands are fists in my lap. I force them open. Flat against my thighs. Breathe.
Say something.
Tell him this is wrong.
Eight years. The captaincy. Everything Dad never lived to see me earn.
She signed the deal. She knew the risks.
Did she? Did she know Westfield was building a competitor while strangling her with code compliance? That every “partnership obligation” was designed to drain her resources until she had no choice but to sell?
If I push back—
Westfield rounds the desk. His hand settles on my shoulder. Right side. Same weight, same spot, same pressure since I was sixteen. His thumb finds the seam of the scar without hunting for it.
He should know where it is. He found the clinic. He paid the surgeon in a currency that never showed up on any form my father signed. Dad thought the team covered it. Dad died thinking a lot of things.
“I’ve never asked you for anything,” Westfield says. Mild. Almost fond.
The whole debt in six words.
“Gabriel?”
The word snaps the moment shut.
I meet his eyes. My mouth is dry.
Everything I’ve bled for.
Or her.
The silence stretches.
I can see it register on his face—approval mixed with a lick of greed. He knows what I’m choosing before I say it.
For one second, the chill of the office vanishes. I feel the phantom heat of her skin beneath my thumb. I see the way she looked at me in the dark of her bar, defenses stripped down to nothing.
The guilt claws at my throat, sharp and sickening.
The captaincy is right there. The legacy is right there. All I have to do is close my eyes and take it.
“When do we announce?”
The words are out while I can still see her face behind my eyes.
“We’ll do the press conference for your contract extension after the trade deadline.
We’ll do it right—the works.” He leans back, his mouth curving into a rare, wide smile.
“But your role as the new face of this franchise starts on New Year’s Eve.
You’ll be co-hosting the Sin Bin Lounge VIP event with me.
For now, keep the captaincy quiet. Leadership means discretion. ”
He reaches across the desk.
I rise to meet his grip. It’s firm. Final. My own hand feels numb, disconnected from my arm. A deal sealed.
I pull away and turn to leave, my legs stiff.
“Oh, and Gabriel?”
I stop, my hand resting on the heavy brass knob, my back to him. That’s when my gaze snags on the black marble credenza beside the frame. A sleek architectural model sits there, rendered in glass and chrome. A tiny, engraved plaque at its base reads: The Sin Bin Lounge.
He’s had it on display this whole time. Out in the open. He didn’t even try to hide it—he knew exactly what to dangle in front of me so I wouldn’t look at the collateral damage.
“The team outing schedule—coordinate with PR before committing to any public appearances. We want to make sure the optics align with franchise priorities.”
Translation: Stay away from The Penalty Box unless I tell you otherwise. Five days ago he sent me there with a gift and a script. Now I’m a liability that might wander back.
“Understood.”
The elevator doors slide shut, sealing me in polished steel and silence. I sag against the mirrored wall, the numbers counting down my descent. My own reflection stares back—same bruise, same shirt, but the man who rode up twenty minutes ago is gone. In his place is a future captain. A fraud.
The weight of the offer sits in my chest like a puck I swallowed. My father’s approval, stamped on a contract by the man who claimed to know him best. All I have to do is nothing. Stand aside while he buries her. Sealed with a handshake.
My phone burns in my pocket.
I could call her. Right now.
And say what? “Hey, the guy who owns my contract is destroying you. Thought you should know. Also, I’m doing nothing about it because I want the C at any cost.”?
She’d tell me to go to hell.
She’d be right.
This isn’t my fight. She’s a smart woman. She’ll see the code inspections coming. She’ll find a way.
I’m not doing anything. Not getting in the way to stop what is already happening isn’t my business.
The bruise on my cheekbone throbs. Phantom pain from Seattle, from the fight I picked because guilt tastes better when you can bleed it out on ice.
You’re making the same choice you made back then.
I count the ceiling tiles. Get to eleven.
You’re choosing yourself.
The elevator jolts to a stop. Lobby. The doors open onto marble and glass.
I step out. Snow falls in thick, lazy flakes. Another storm is rolling in off the mountains.
Across the street, through the swirling white, I see it—the Village Stroll location Westfield mentioned. Prime real estate. Dark now, empty, but I can picture it: glass and chrome, The Sin Bin Lounge in neon that doesn’t flicker.
Two blocks south, Ivy is probably standing behind scarred wood, taping up frayed wires, fighting to protect a legacy I helped condemn.
I turn north. Away from the village. Away from her. The offer sits in my chest like a stone, and Dad’s voice is in my ear, telling me I was born to lead.