Wesley smiled, pride clear on his face. “I played in high school in Boston at a private Catholic boys’ school. Then I played D-3 hockey at SUNY Oswego.” A blush stole up his cheeks. “I was captain my senior year.”
I stared at him, and pieces clicked into place. “You were a college hockey captain,” I said, awe in my voice.
“Different level than what you’re used to,” he said with a shrug. “But yeah, I understand the game. Probably part of why I’m decent at managing hockey PR—I know what makes players tick.”
The revelation reframed everything I’d observed about Wesley’s work. His intuitive understanding of team dynamics, his ability to anticipate media questions, his natural rapport with players—it all made more sense now.
“What position?”
“First line, right wing. Playmaker, not a scorer. I was better at seeing the whole ice than putting pucks in nets.”
Of course he was. The same vision that had made him an effective playmaker now served him as a PR strategist, always thinking three moves ahead, always aware of how individual actions affected the larger team dynamic.
“That’s impressive,” I said. “D-3 captains don’t get enough credit. You’re basically player-coaches at that level.”
“It taught me a lot about leadership under pressure.”Wesley shrugged again. “Probably prepared me for crisis management better than any textbook could have.” He chuckled.
We stood in comfortable silence for a moment, the revelation adding new depth to my understanding of who Wesley was. Not just the competent PR manager I’d been impressed by, but a fellow hockey player who understood the culture and demands of the sport from the inside.
“We should head out,” Wesley said finally. “I want to get these photos edited and uploaded before the parents flood social media with their own photos.”
As we walked toward the parking lot together, I thought about the afternoon—Emma’s transformation, Wesley’s natural teaching instincts, the easy way we’d worked together to make the clinic successful. It had felt less like a professional obligation and more like something I genuinely enjoyed, partly because Wesley’s presence had made it better.
That realization should have concerned me more than it did.
“Same time next month?” Wesley asked.
“Definitely,” I replied. “These kids deserve consistent mentorship.”
“And you’re good at it,” Wesley said simply. “They look up to you, but you don’t make it about you. That’s rare.”
The compliment hit differently coming from someone who understood hockey culture, who knew the difference between players who genuinely cared about community outreach and those who saw it as a necessary evil.
“Thanks,” I said. “That means something, coming from a fellow captain.”
Wesley’s smile was warm and genuine. “See you tomorrow night at the preseason game, Captain Lapierre.”
As I watched him walk away in the parking lot, camera bag slung over his shoulder, I realized the afternoon hadrevealed something important about Wesley Hutton. He wasn’t just skilled at his job—he was someone who understood what mattered, who knew the difference between moments worth capturing and moments worth preserving.
And I was definitely in trouble, because that combination of competence and character were exactly the qualities I found impossible to resist.
CHAPTER SIX
Griffin
Sweat dripped into my eyes as I dug my edges into the ice, fighting for position in front of Seattle’s net. The roar of seventeen thousand fans in the Stormhawks arena created a wall of sound that vibrated through my chest and made the air electric and alive. My lungs burned, my legs screamed for rest, but this was what I’d trained for my entire life—those moments when everything hurt and I pushed through anyway.
Third period, the score was 1–1. Our first preseason game and we were locked in a battle that felt more important than any exhibition had a right to be.
I glimpsed Laasko to my left, open and ready to catch the puck on his blade.
I fired the puck across the ice, the pass crisp and clean. Laasko caught it in stride and cut toward the net, Holloway racing toward the crease for a potential rebound. This was it—the play that would show the Portland fans what we could be, the moment that would quiet the doubters and prove we belonged.
Seattle’s D-man read the play perfectly.
His stick intercepted Laasko’s shot on goal and knocked the puck free. It skittered toward the blue line where their center scooped it up with infuriating ease. My stomach dropped as I recognized the developing offense—we were caught forwards deep, not enough defensive coverage in place.
“Back! Back!” I shouted, already pivoting to chase the play.
