Chapter Two Griffin #2
Ava took Tyler gently by the shoulders and rotated him toward the beach. “Come on, shark boy. Help me move the drink coolers.”
“I am essential to the narrative.”
“You are essential to hydration.”
Tyler went, because everyone went when Ava used that particular tone.
Beckett followed them, already pitching names for the Bad Idea Bet.
Cooper stayed in the canoe.
Of course.
Nate jerked his chin toward the far end of the dock.
Griffin exhaled through his nose and followed.
The old rental dock creaked under their feet. Lake water slapped softly against the posts. Behind them, the team noise scattered back into evening sounds, laughter, music, the thump of cornhole bags, someone yelling that Miles cheated, Miles yelling back that gravity favored him.
The string lights overhead glowed against the bruising pink sky.
It should have felt peaceful.
Griffin rarely trusted peaceful. Peaceful was usually the five seconds before Tyler found equipment.
Nate stopped near the end of the dock, where the water opened wide and the beach noise dulled.
“You’re mad,” Nate said.
“Great read.”
“You’re not mad because of the post.”
Griffin looked at him.
Nate held up a hand. “You are a deeply readable man when you are pretending not to be readable.”
“I am mad because she posted content involving a near-injury without approval and turned me into a poll.”
“You are mad because she was right.”
“No.”
“About you being too controlled.”
“No.”
“About the weekend needing a spark.”
Griffin looked out across the lake.
The worst part was the spark.
He could deny a lot of things. He could deny the bet, the team chat, Tyler’s right to own waterproof technology, and the exact percentage of people who thought he feared joy.
He could not deny the way the whole dock had changed when Maren stepped into the middle of it.
Before her post, the evening had been organized.
Fine.
Manageable.
After the post, it had been alive.
Griffin hated that those were not the same thing.
Nate leaned back against one of the posts. “Doyle asked me this afternoon how you were handling the weekend.”
Griffin straightened. “Coach is here?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
“Why did no one tell me?”
“I am telling you now.”
“You are telling me after Tyler almost launched himself into the lake and Maren created a public vote about my relationship with happiness.”
“Timing is a leadership skill.”
Griffin gave him a look.
Nate smiled, but it faded faster than usual. “Doyle knows you can keep people in line. Everyone knows that. He is not worried about whether you can stop disasters.”
“Then what is he worried about?”
“Whether you can lead people without making them feel like disasters waiting to happen.”
That landed harder than Griffin wanted it to.
He looked back toward the beach.
Tyler was carrying a cooler with Ava and somehow managing to walk backward while narrating. Beckett had found a beach towel and wrapped it around his shoulders like a cape. Miles and two freshmen were arguing over whether the paddleboard fall counted as a team-building exercise.
And Maren stood near the dock entrance, phone in hand, golden light across her face, talking to Denise now. Her body language had changed. Still loose. Still bright. But Griffin could see the tension in one hand, the way her fingers tapped against her phone case between sentences.
She was selling the idea.
Not just playing.
Selling it.
Defending it.
Making it sound intentional instead of accidental.
He recognized that too well.
Turning chaos into competence before someone decided you had lost control.
Nate followed his gaze.
“She’s good,” Nate said.
Griffin said nothing.
“She is,” Nate repeated. “Ava says Maren’s been trying to get bigger media work. Not just cute posts for local businesses. Real campaigns. This weekend matters to her.”
Griffin kept his eyes on Maren.
He had not known that.
He should have.
No, he corrected himself. He had not had a reason to know that.
Except that felt like a lie.
He noticed too much about her to pretend he had not missed it on purpose.
The way she got quiet after someone praised her for being fun, like the word had teeth.
The way she took three versions of every photo, then deleted the one everyone else would have posted because she saw flaws they missed.
The way she laughed loudest when the conversation got too close to something that mattered.
He had noticed.
He had just filed those observations under dangerous and refused to open the drawer.
Nate bumped his shoulder lightly against Griffin’s. “Here’s my captain advice.”
“I did not ask for captain advice.”
“That has never stopped a captain in the history of hockey.”
“Fine.”
“Do the bet.”
“No.”
“Do it safely.”
“No.”
“Do it with boundaries.”
“No.”
“Do it before Tyler writes the rules.”
Griffin paused.
Nate pointed at him. “See? That one got through.”
“I hate you.”
“You respect me deeply.”
“Occasionally.”
“Take the win, Hayes. If you shut it down now, you look like the guy everyone already thinks you are. If you control the terms, you can make it work.”
“I do not want to control the terms of a bad idea.”
“That sentence is why the poll is at ninety-three percent.”
Griffin dragged a hand over his face.
He could feel the whole weekend shifting under his feet. That was what bothered him. Not just the post. Not just Maren.
Momentum.
Momentum was dangerous when it went unmanaged. One viral clip became a demand for a second. One joke became a theme. One public challenge became pressure to perform. People stopped asking whether something should happen and started asking what came next.
What came next was where people got hurt.
His little sister had once said he treated every room like something was about to catch fire.
She had not meant it as a compliment.
He had still checked the smoke detector.
Nate’s voice softened. “You know not everything fun is reckless, right?”
Griffin looked at him.
Nate’s expression was steady now. No teasing. No captain mask. Just the guy who had spent the previous summer learning in public that love and leadership both demanded more honesty than charm.
“I know,” Griffin said.
“Do you?”
Griffin looked at Maren again.
She was laughing at something Denise said, but the laugh came half a beat late.
“Yes,” he lied.
Nate let the lie sit there.
That was irritating.
Before Griffin could say anything else, his phone buzzed again.
This time, not the group chat.
Coach Doyle.
Griffin opened the message.
DOYLE: Saw the post.
His stomach dropped.
A second message appeared.
DOYLE: Interesting.
Interesting was worse than bad.
Bad had edges. Bad had consequences. Bad had corrections.
Interesting meant Doyle was thinking.
A third message came through.
DOYLE: Be ready to explain tomorrow morning why I should not hate it.
Griffin closed his eyes.
Nate peered at the screen and immediately started laughing.
“Fantastic,” Nate said.
“I hate interesting.”
“Doyle loves interesting.”
“Doyle loves making people justify things.”
“Also true.”
Griffin put the phone away and turned back toward the dock.
Maren saw him coming.
He knew because her posture changed. Barely. Her shoulders squared. Her chin lifted. Her smile, already in place for Denise, sharpened into something prepared.
Armor.
Glittering, pretty armor.
He had the sudden, unwelcome urge to see what she looked like without it.
That was the most dangerous thought he had had all day, and Tyler had used the phrase aerial brand engagement.
Denise stood beside Maren near the dock entrance, arms crossed over a Lake Briar staff shirt, expression sharp enough to slice an orange.
“Griffin,” she said.
“Denise.”
“Maren tells me the post is part of an engagement strategy.”
Griffin looked at Maren.
Her eyes dared him.
Not to agree.
To understand.
There was a difference.
“It can be,” Griffin said.
Maren blinked.
Denise’s eyebrows rose a fraction. “Can be?”
“If structured properly.”
Maren’s mouth twitched. “There it is.”
Griffin ignored her. “The team already has competitions scheduled for the weekend. We can incorporate limited fan-voted challenges into existing activities without creating separate chaos.”
Tyler shouted from behind Ava, “Separate Chaos is my band name.”
Ava covered his mouth with one hand.
Denise nodded slowly. “Rules?”
“Yes.”
Maren made a small sound.
Griffin looked at her. “Guidelines.”
“Still spiritually rules.”
“Boundaries,” Denise said.
Maren sighed. “Fine. Boundaries. Everyone loves boundaries when they come in a cute outfit.”
Griffin should not have pictured that.
He absolutely did.
His attention flicked, very briefly, to the thin strap of Maren’s yellow sundress where it rested against her shoulder.
Mistake.
He looked away immediately.
Maren noticed.
Of course she did.
Her smile turned lethal.
Denise, mercifully, did not notice or pretended not to, which Griffin respected with his whole soul.
“We keep it clean,” Denise said. “No dangerous stunts. No humiliating anyone. No damaging property. No encouraging the public to do something stupid.”
“I can manage that,” Griffin said.
Maren crossed her arms. “I can also manage that.”
“You posted a poll saying I fear joy.”
“A safe poll.”
“The concept of a safe poll is absurd.”
“Only because you fear joy.”
Denise held up one hand. “Enough. The post is staying.”
Griffin’s head turned. “Denise.”
“It is performing too well to take down.”
Maren looked at him with exaggerated innocence.
He did not smile.
He wanted to, which was worse.
Denise continued, “Maren stays in charge of content. Griffin stays in charge of making sure the team does not become a headline I have to apologize for. You two work together.”
“No,” Griffin said.
“Yes,” Maren said at the same time.
They looked at each other.
Denise smiled.
Griffin trusted Denise’s smile even less than he trusted Tyler’s silence.
“Excellent,” Denise said. “I love teamwork.”
“This is not teamwork,” Griffin said.
“This is oppositional project management,” Maren said.