Night, Griffin.
I finished my dinner in a better mood than I’d started it, thinking about the evening’s small victories and tomorrow’s opportunities. Eleven players was a beginning. Turner’s absence was disappointing, but not surprising. And having someone like Wesley in my corner—someone who understood the complexities of team building and public perception—felt like an unexpected asset.
Change took time. Trust took time. But we only had days to figure it out.
CHAPTER FIVE
Griffin
The practice facility buzzed with a chaotic energy that only came from twenty kids between the ages of four and six trying to stay upright on their skates.
I laced up my skates in the quiet of the locker room and listened to the distant sounds of parents’ chatter and children’s shouts. Community outreach wasn’t new to me—I’d done dozens of these clinics over the years—but this was my first as a Portland Stormhawk, my first chance to connect with the next generation of hockey players and fans in my new city.
The familiar ritual of preparing my gear settled my nerves. Skates tight but not restrictive, gloves that felt like extensions of my hands, stick taped exactly the way I’d been doing it since I was fifteen. Some routines never changed, no matter what jersey I wore.
“Griffin?” Wesley’s voice carried from the tunnel leading to the ice. “You ready?”
I grabbed my stick and headed toward the sound of his voice. I found him near the bench, fiddling with his camera.I’d never seen him in casual clothes before, and his Stormhawks hoodie and jeans revealed an athletic build I hadn’t expected from someone who spent most of his time behind a desk. Worn-in hockey skates—good ones, not rental gear—encased his feet.
“Let’s do this.” I skated onto the fresh sheet of ice.
The kids were scattered across the rink with the clinic’s coaches—parents and local hockey enthusiasts who donated their Saturday afternoons to growing the game. Some children glided confidently while others clung to the boards, small legs wobbling as they tried to find their balance.
The clinic’s Coach Johnston skated to center ice and raised his stick. “Everyone gather around! We have a special guest today.”
The kids converged awkwardly, their black jerseys displaying the Stormhawks’ red logo—the team was the clinic’s sponsor. Parents leaned forward in the stands, phones raised to capture the moment.
“Kids, I want you to meet Griffin Lapierre, the captain of our Portland Stormhawks!”
The response was loud and immediate—short hockey sticks tapping against the ice in the traditional hockey salute while parents applauded from above. The sound echoed through the arena, and warmth settled in my chest. This was why hockey mattered. Not the contracts or the media attention or even the wins and losses, but this—passing the love of the game to the next generation.
“Thanks for having me,” I called out, projecting my voice to reach the stands. “Who’s ready to have some fun?”
The answering cheer rose from twenty boys and girls.
For the next hour, I moved from station to station, helping kids with basic skating, showing them how to hold their sticks properly, and attempting to explain thefundamentals of passing to children whose attention spans were measured in minutes rather than periods.
Wesley glided effortlessly around the perimeter, his camera clicking steadily as he captured candid moments. His skating wasn’t just competent—it was smooth, controlled, the kind of efficient stride that spoke of years of hockey experience. He moved backward while shooting, turned on a dime to get different angles, and navigated around the controlled chaos of two dozen small children without ever looking unsteady.
Interesting.Most PR managers I’d worked with treated ice with extreme caution.
“Captain Griffin!” Aiden, a six-year-old, tugged at my elbow. “Watch this!”
He attempted what might generously be called a slap shot, sending the puck careening into the curve while nearly falling over from the follow-through. The effort was so earnest and the result so wildly off-target that I couldn’t help but grin.
“That was awesome, Aiden. Want me to show you a little secret about shooting?”
His eyes went wide with the reverence usually reserved for superheroes.
I spent the next few minutes demonstrating the proper shooting form, breaking it down into simple steps, while Aiden hung on every word. Other kids gradually gathered around, creating an impromptu lesson that had Coach Johnston nodding approval at us from across the ice.
Wesley appeared at the edge of our group, camera raised, then seemed to notice something and lowered it slightly. I followed his gaze to a small girl in a bright pink helmet who stood alone near the boards, clutching her stick but not taking part in any of the drills.
“Give me a minute, guys.” I skated over to where she stood.
She couldn’t have been over five, with serious dark eyes that watched me approach with the wariness of someone much older. Her skates were new enough to still have tags on them, suggesting this might be her first time on the ice.
I crouched down to her level, balancing easily on my skates. “Hey there. I’m Griffin. What’s your name?”
