CHAPTER ONE
Griffin
The fog machine hissed, sending wisps of white vapor curling around my skates as I slid to a stop at center ice in a snow shower. Red spotlights blazed in the darkened arena and turned the artificial mist into something ethereal—like skating through storm clouds. After sixteen years in the NHL, I’d done my share of promotional shoots, but there was something different about this one. Something that made my chest tight with anticipation and dread in equal measure.
“That’s a wrap!” the director of creative services called out, her voice echoing through the empty Portland arena. “Thanks for your cooperation, Captain Lapierre. Those shots are going to look incredible in the campaign.”
I pushed off toward the tunnel, my blades carving clean lines through the fresh ice. “Happy to help.” I flashed the smile that had graced more sports magazine covers than I cared to count. “Whatever the team needs.”
The artificial chill of the arena bit at the exposed skin of my face as I stepped off the ice, my skatessquishingagainstthe rubber matting in the tunnel. The familiar weight of my gear—shoulder pads, thick gloves, the captain’s C emblazoned on my chest—felt heavier today. Or maybe that was just the weight of expectation settling on my shoulders like Portland’s notorious clouds.
“You looked great out there.”
I turned toward the smooth, deep voice and faced a tall man, maybe a few inches shorter than I was without skates, with warm brown eyes and a perfectly trimmed beard. A sharp medium-blue suit accentuated his athletic build, and when he smiled, a dimple appeared in his right cheek.
Focus, Griffin.
He extended his hand. “Wesley Hutton, PR Manager. We spoke before the roster announcement in July, but I’m sure you met a lot of people.”
“I remember you.” I shook his hand. A beat, then I couldn’t resist saying, “Lesley Button.”
Wesley’s eyes widened, then he groaned. “Oh God, don’t remind me of the autocorrect debacle.”
“How could I forget?” I kept my expression serious. “It was a memorable introduction.”
“That’s one word for it.” Wesley’s cheeks flushed slightly, but he was smiling. “I was hoping you’d forgotten that mortifying first impression.”
Not a chance. I remembered everything about that day—the relief of being named captain, the anxiety before the press conference, and Wesley running into the room, slightly out of breath, horrified that his phone had autocorrected his name in a text introducing himself to me.
I’d teased him about it then too, and he’d threatened to sabotage my presser.
I’d liked him immediately.
Which had been dangerous then and was even more dangerous now.
Wesley held up a Portland Stormhawks hoodie, the stylized logo of the red predator bird with a lightning bolt in its beak crisp and new. Our logo. My team’s logo. The new city still felt foreign and surreal. “I brought you something to change into for the press conference this afternoon. We’re pushing the team gear to fans.”
“Presser?” I accepted the sweatshirt.
He raised an eyebrow. “It’s on your schedule. Captain and alternate captains. You and I are meeting beforehand so I can coach you through some potential questions.” Wesley’s smile was easy, and that dimple made another appearance. “Coaches’ conference room, after you’ve changed. Take your time.”
I nodded, already mentally shifting gears. Pressers were part of the job—had been since I was a rookie. But this was different. Bigger. “Sounds good.”
“Perfect.” Wesley’s eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled. “See you in a few.”
My gaze followed him as he walked away, and I noted the confident set of his shoulders and long stride. The coaches’ conference room? I should have asked directions—I’d have to find it in this unfamiliar venue. I shook my head and pushed through the door into the brand-new practice facility’s locker room. The space still smelled like fresh paint and new rubber floors rather than the familiar cocktail of sweat, tape, and liniment that marked a real NHL locker room. But give it a few months of practices and games, and it would smell like home.
I was halfway through peeling off my shoulder pads when the door banged open.
“Fucking media days,” Kyle Turner muttered, and dropped his gear bag with a clatter. “Photo shoots and video shoots and all this marketing bullshit.”
I kept my voice level as I pulled the Stormhawks hoodieover my head. The fabric was soft, expensive. “It’s important for promotional and media purposes,” I said. “Especially during the first year of an expansion team.”
Turner snorted and yanked his T-shirt off with unnecessary aggression. At twenty-eight, he was younger than me but carried himself like he’d been burned by the league one too many times. Maybe he had. “Yeah, well, I’ll tell you what I’mnotdoing. I’m not sitting down with that gay PR guy for interview coaching.” He spat a slur. “Wouldn’t be caught dead alone with him.”
Every muscle in my body went rigid. The familiar spike of panic shot through my chest—the same feeling I got whenever anyone talked about sexuality in the locker room, whenever the conversation veered too close to risky territory. But this time, it was mixed with something else. Anger.
“That kind of talk doesn’t belong in my locker room,” I said, keeping a tight rein on my emotions.
