Chapter Twenty-Two Griffin
Griffin Hayes did not sleep well.
That was not unusual.
He had never been one of those people who closed his eyes and trusted the world to keep functioning without supervision. Sleep, in his experience, was what happened when exhaustion beat vigilance by decision.
But this was different.
This was lying in the dark of the Lake Briar guest cabin, staring at the ceiling fan while Tyler snored in the next room like a wounded boat motor, thinking about Maren Brooks walking into a nine a.m. meeting with her cousin waiting to turn her best work into something small.
Griffin checked his phone at six seventeen.
No messages.
Again at six twenty-two.
Still no messages.
At six twenty-nine, Nate threw a pillow at him from the other twin bed.
“Stop checking your phone with your whole personality,” Nate said.
Griffin caught the pillow. “Go back to sleep.”
“You are making concern noises.”
“I am silent.”
“Your silence is pacing.”
Griffin looked at him through the gray morning light slipping around the curtains. “That sentence makes no sense.”
“It makes perfect sense to anyone who has known you longer than forty minutes.” Nate rolled onto his back and rubbed both hands over his face. “She is going to be fine.”
“I know.”
“No, you know Maren is capable. You do not know she is going to be fine. Those are different things.”
Griffin hated that.
Mostly because it was correct.
“She should not have to prove herself against someone who came in late with agency polish and a family knife,” he said.
Nate went still.
Then he sat up slowly. “Family knife.”
“What?”
“That was dark for seven in the morning.”
“It is six thirty-one.”
“Worse.”
Griffin sat on the edge of the bed and dragged a hand through his hair.
Outside, the lake was quiet in that false way mornings were quiet before people arrived and made decisions they would regret.
Somewhere near the dock, a maintenance cart beeped.
A gull screamed like it had received terrible legal news.
The day had already started badly.
Nate watched him for a moment. “What are you worried you will do?”
Griffin looked over. “What?”
“You are not only worried about Maren. You are worried about yourself near Maren.”
Griffin said nothing.
Nate nodded like the silence had answered. “Yeah.”
“I do not want to take over.”
“Then do not.”
“Useful.”
“It is actually very useful. You make things complicated because you think every instinct has to become action.”
Griffin stared at him.
Nate lifted both hands. “I am in love now. Sometimes wisdom happens to annoying men.”
“Debatable.”
“Fair. But listen. Maren asked you to be there as someone she trusts. That means your job is not to win the meeting for her.”
“I know that.”
“Your face does not.”
Griffin looked toward the window.
He could stop a puck.
He could read a power play.
He could break down a bad breakout, reorganize a penalty kill, and look at Tyler standing too close to equipment and know which disaster was arriving three seconds early.
But standing beside someone who mattered while they walked toward hurt and not blocking the hit before it came, that felt impossible.
Not because he did not trust Maren.
Because he did.
That was the problem.
Trust made the risk bigger.
Nate got up and reached for his hoodie. “Ask her what she needs before you decide she needs saving.”
Griffin looked at him. “That is actually good advice.”
“I know. I hate when that happens too.”
From the other room, Tyler yelled, “Who is giving advice before pancakes?”
Cooper’s voice followed, flat and distant. “No one invited you into consciousness.”
“I was born into it.”
“Return it.”
Nate sighed. “Morning.”
Griffin checked his phone one more time.
This time, there was a message.
MAREN: If I ask you to tell me not to throw up, would that violate your boundaries around emotional support hockey player titles?
His chest eased for the first time all morning.
GRIFFIN: It would fall under temporary advisory services.
MAREN: Hot.
He stared at the word longer than was reasonable.
Nate leaned over. “Do not text something weird.”
Griffin turned the phone away. “Stop hovering.”
He typed.
GRIFFIN: Do not throw up.
Three dots appeared.
MAREN: Wow. Strong bedside manner.
GRIFFIN: I believe in direct messaging.
MAREN: Unfortunately, that was almost funny.
GRIFFIN: I have been monitoring.
MAREN: See you at eight forty-five?
GRIFFIN: I will be there.
A beat.
MAREN: Beside, not in front.
Griffin looked at the message until it settled in the place behind his ribs that had been tight since Paige arrived.
GRIFFIN: Beside.
He sent it before he could overthink the single word.
Then he stood, reached for his clothes, and prepared to do one of the hardest things he had done all summer.
Nothing too soon.
The Lake Briar conference room had been designed by someone who believed meetings should happen in spaces with motivational oars on the wall.
Griffin did not trust motivational oars.
A framed paddle hung near the coffee station with TEAMWORK MOVES THE BOAT painted down the blade in navy letters. Beneath it, someone had set out muffins, bottled water, a bowl of fruit, and a tray of small croissants that Tyler had already called breakfast commas.
Denise had arranged chairs around a rectangular table.
Carter Vale sat at one end with a tablet and a cup of black coffee.
Coach Doyle stood near the wall because Coach Doyle rarely sat unless sitting made someone else more nervous.
Adrienne Wells appeared on a large screen at the far end, polished and calm in a cream blazer, her office behind her all glass and city light.
Paige sat on the right side of the table in pale blue, laptop open, hair smooth, smile easy.
Maren sat on the left.
Her deck was open in front of her.
She wore white jeans, a fitted green top, and gold hoop earrings that made her look bright even under conference room lighting, which Griffin considered a difficult athletic achievement. Her hair was down today, soft around her shoulders. Her makeup was precise. Her expression was composed.
Too composed.
Griffin paused in the doorway.
Maren looked up.
There.
One flicker.
Relief, maybe.
Or recognition.
He did not move toward the chair beside her until she gave the smallest nod.
Beside.
Not in front.
He sat.
Paige noticed.
Of course Paige noticed. Her gaze moved from Maren to Griffin with mild interest, like she was filing him under useful complication.
“Good morning,” Carter said. “Thanks, everyone. We will keep this straightforward. Maren will walk us through her concept first. Paige will present the agency concept after. Then we will discuss whether the weekend rollout stays local, expands into Ridgeview preseason, or pauses after the event.”
Pauses.
Griffin felt Maren hear that word.
Her fingers rested on the laptop trackpad, still as glass.
Adrienne smiled from the screen. “Maren, I have heard good things from Denise and Carter. I am excited to see the thinking behind the numbers.”
Paige’s smile did not move.
Maren stood.
Not fast.
Not like she was rushing past fear.
Like she had decided fear could come along if it behaved.
“Thank you,” she said. “The concept is called Not a Cute Weekend. A Trust Engine.”
Griffin watched Carter’s eyebrows lift slightly.
Good.
Maren clicked to the first slide.
The title filled the screen.
NOT A CUTE WEEKEND.A TRUST ENGINE.
No glitter.
No soft script.
No photo of her and Griffin.
Just clean type over a wide shot of Lake Briar at sunset, the dock lit with string lights, the team blurred in motion, and the crowd gathered at the edge of the frame.
Griffin felt something in him settle.
She had meant it.
She was not making him the plan.
She was making the truth the plan.
Maren clicked again. “This weekend worked because the audience did not just watch a hockey team have fun. They watched a team negotiate risk, humor, trust, consent, and community in real time.”
Paige shifted slightly.
Maren did not look at her.
“The early Bad Idea Bet post created the hook,” Maren continued. “But the growth stabilized after the boundary moment. The audience did not leave when we said no to the private clip. They stayed because the no made the yes feel safer.”
She clicked.
Metrics appeared.
Follower growth.
Save rates.
Comments sentiment.
Audience retention from the live.
Share spike after the canoe clip.
Denise nodded to herself.
Carter leaned forward.
Adrienne’s expression sharpened with interest.
Good.
Maren’s voice stayed steady.
“The lesson is not that romance bait performs. Everyone in this room knows it performs. The lesson is that trust performs longer.”
Griffin looked at her.
He could not help it.
She had written that in the storage room last night, surrounded by cold fries and a dry marker pile, after Paige tried to cut her confidence at the knees.
Now she said it like it had always belonged in her mouth.
“The campaign framework has three pillars,” Maren said.
“First, safe chaos. Fan participation with clear boundaries. Second, team personality. Not polished athlete profiles, but micro stories that show how these guys operate together. Third, community access. Lake Briar is not a backdrop. It is the reason people feel invited.”
She clicked through examples.
Player-led mini challenges.
Youth clinic behind the scenes.
Fan-voted prompts screened by Denise and Griffin.
A team trust series that paired players with community members, alumni, kids, and staff.
Ava appeared in one example under the line SNACK SHACK COMMAND CENTER.
Nate snorted from the back of the room.
Ava, seated beside Denise, whispered, “I look powerful.”
“You are holding tongs,” Nate whispered back.
“Powerfully.”
Maren’s mouth twitched.
She did not lose the room.
That was one of her gifts.
She could let warmth in without letting the point go.
“This is scalable,” she said. “Preseason can become a weekly trust challenge series. Not dating content. Not fake controversy. Not cheap intimacy. The team lets fans behind the curtain, but the curtain still exists.”
Adrienne made a note.