The metrics would never show that. That's a level of detail the stats completely miss.
"How did you catch that?"
“Years of pattern recognition. Same way you see trends in numbers that would give most people a migraine.” He pauses the footage and looks at me directly. “What bringsyoudown to the dungeon? Don't tell me you're suddenly interested in penalty kill systems.”
"Game footage for the Northstar presentation," I say, but my voice is tight. "Vivian wants a standard pitch—all metrics and market share. But I'm trying to build a case for something bigger." I hesitate, the quiet intimacy of the room making me feel bold. I decide to trust him. "I have this whole framework I've developed, the Mammoth Community Champions Program. It’s about using our platform for scholarships, youth mentorships...creating real, generational loyalty. But Vivian keeps shooting it down. She says Northstar won't care and that I need to focus on what's 'commercially viable.' So I'm trying to find game footage that proves my point—that these human moments are what create the emotional investment that drives real, long-term value."
His eyebrows rise with genuine interest. “You want to show them what we are. Not just what we generate.”
“Exactly.” I sit beside him, aware of the space between us. Aware of everything we’re not supposed to feel right now. “Any company can slap a logo on a jersey. But if I can get them to believe they’re investing in belonging... that’s how I win the room.”
He studies my screen. "That's the stuff that actually matters in the locker room. The part no one ever sees."
His comment shouldn’t matter. But it does. Coming from him, it lands differently. Maybe because heunderstands both sides—the business and the passion that drives it.
“The challenge is finding the right moments,” I continue, pulling up my presentation files on the adjacent monitor. “I need plays that showcase individual excellence within team success. Moments where viewers can see both skill and heart.”
He's quiet for a moment, studying my rough outline. When he speaks, his voice carries the authority of someone who's lived these moments instead of just analyzed them.
“March eighteenth,” he says finally. “Away game in Vancouver. Third period, we're down by two with eight minutes left. Phil takes a brutal hit—separated shoulder, everyone can see he's hurt. But instead of coming off the ice, he sets up our next goal with a pass he had no business making.”
I'm already pulling up the game footage. “What makes it special?”
“Watch his face when he makes the pass. You can see the exact moment he decides the team matters more than his own pain. That's not skill—that's character. That's what turns fans into believers.”
The footage loads, and he guides me to the specific sequence. As the play unfolds, I see exactly what he means. The hit is brutal enough to make me wince. But Phil’s expression afterward—the grim determination, the way he positions himself despite obvious agony—it's the kind of authentic human moment that turns data into storytelling.
“Perfect,” I breathe, already imagining how this fits into my narrative framework. “This is exactly what I needed.”
“There's more.” Garrett's enthusiasm for the project is infectious, his usual media wariness replaced by genuine excitement about showcasing his teammates' character. “November twenty-third, when Daniels scored his first career goal. Not just the goal itself, but the celebration. Watch how the veteran guys react—pure joy for a kid they've been mentoring all season.”
He's leaning closer now, pointing out details on the screen, and I'm acutely aware of his proximity. The warmth radiating from his body. The way his voice drops when he's explaining something he cares about.
“Show me the Daniels goal,” I say, my voice slightly rougher than professional discourse requires.
He navigates to the footage with practiced efficiency, his fingers quick and confident on the keyboard. The goal itself is nothing spectacular—a deflection from the slot that trickles past the goalie. But the aftermath is pure magic. Daniels drops his stick and gloves, pure disbelief and joy on his young face, while veteran players converge on him like proud family members.
“See Walker there?” Garrett points to a player I barely recognize. “Guy's been in the league fifteen years, seen everything. But watch his face—he's as excited as if he scored it himself. That's what team chemistry actually looks like.”
I'm taking notes, but I'm also fighting the growing awareness of Garrett's presence in this small room. The way he explains each play with genuine pride in his teammates. The thoughtful way he considers which moments will translate to my civilian audience. The unconscious way he moves closer when pointing out details on the screen.
“This is invaluable,” I say, and I mean it.
“Because you’re asking the right questions.” He turns to me fully now. “Most people want highlight reels—the prettiest goals, the biggest hits. You wantthe human moments.”
“The human moments are what create lasting relationships. Between fans and teams, between brands and consumers.” I'm speaking to fill the silence that's growing too comfortable, too intimate. “Anyone can sell a product. But if you can make people feel understood, valued, part of something meaningful...”
“You create loyalty that transcends results.” His voice is quiet, thoughtful. “Even when we're losing, even when the season goes sideways, they still show up because they believe in what we represent.”
“Garrett...” I start, not sure what I'm planning to say.
He stands up, ostensibly to adjust something on the monitor, but the movement brings him directly behind my chair. I can feel his presence like a physical force—the heat radiating from his body, the careful way he's maintaining just enough distance to be professional while creating an intimacy that makes my pulse skip.
“There's one more sequence you need to see,” he says, his voice lower now, more personal. “January ninth. The game-winner against Pittsburgh.”
He leans down. Points something out. His breath stirs my skin.
I stop breathing.
