After he ended the call, I stared at my computer screen without seeing it, Tremblay’s words echoing in my head.Maintain professional boundaries. Every interaction reflects on the organization. Perception matters as much as reality.
Was he right? Had I been getting too close to Griffin, letting my professional distance blur into something more personal?
I thought about the way my pulse quickened when I saw Griffin. And last evening—standing in that hallway, my hand on Griffin’s arm, offering comfort that felt more intimate than professional. Had Michael witnessedsomething real, or was he seeing threats that didn’t exist?
The truth was, I was drawn to Griffin in a way I’d never been drawn to anyone—even my ex, Charles. Griffin’s combination of strength and vulnerability, the way he carried the weight of leadership, his genuine care for people beneath the polished captain persona—it all pulled at something deep in my chest.
Which could be a problem. A significant problem.
I’d come to Portland for a fresh start, to rebuild my career after the Nashville disaster. Getting emotionally close to the team’s captain was exactly the kind of complication that could destroy everything I’d been working to rebuild.
But even as I acknowledged the risk, I couldn’t shake the memory of Griffin’s expression when I’d told him he’d done great in the press conference. The way something in his eyes had softened, like he’d been starving for someone to see past the performance to the person underneath.
I shook my head and forced myself to focus on work, spending the next several hours responding to media requests and monitoring social media sentiment. But Tremblay’s warning gnawed at my concentration, making me question every interaction I’d had with Griffin, every moment that had felt charged with possibility.
By three o’clock, I needed caffeine and a change of scenery. Beaverton Beans called to me with its promise of good coffee and distance from the complicated thoughts swirling through my head.
The afternoon crowd was light, just a handful of students with laptops and a few businesspeople having quiet meetings. I ordered my usual caramel latte and climbed the stairs to the loft, already anticipating the quiet corner where I could?—
Griffin sat at my usual table.
My stomach flipped, a combination of surprise andsomething warmer I didn’t want to examine too closely. He had his hands wrapped around a cold brew, staring out the window with an expression that looked troubled even in profile.
He looked up as I reached the top of the stairs, and something in his face shifted—relief, maybe, or welcome.
“Hey,” he said. “Hope you don’t mind me stealing your spot.”
“It’s a free country.” I tried to sound casual despite my speeding heart rate. “Mind if I join you?”
“Please.” Griffin gestured to the chair across from him. “Actually, I was hoping you’d show up. I wanted to talk to you. Privately. Away from the office.”
I settled into the chair and wrapped my hands around my latte for something to do. “Everything okay?”
Griffin was quiet for a moment, his jaw working like he was trying to find the right words. “I wanted to apologize for Michael last night. He can be… protective. Overly so, sometimes. If he was cold to you, that’s on him, not you.”
The memory of Michael’s phone call flickered through my mind, but I pushed it aside. Griffin didn’t need to know his agent had called to warn me off. That would just create more stress in an already complicated situation.
I chose my words carefully. “Agents are supposed to be protective of their clients. It’s literally his job to look out for you.”
“Still.” Griffin’s fingers tightened around his cup. “He doesn’t always understand that I can have professional relationships that are also… friendly. He tends to see threats where there aren’t any.”
There was something in the way Griffin said it, a careful emphasis that made me wonder what he was really trying to communicate. Was he apologizing for Michael’s general coldness, or for something specific Michael had said or done?
“Well, I appreciate the apology on Michael’s behalf.” Before the conversation got too heavy, I lightened the mood by saying, “Though if Michael wants to schedule regular check-ins about PR strategy, I’m happy to bore him with social media analytics and media placement metrics until his eyes glaze over.”
That got a genuine laugh from Griffin, the visible tension in his shoulders easing slightly. “That would serve him right.”
“So,” I said, and deliberately changed the subject. “How did practice go today? Coach Roberts seemed pretty intense after tape review this morning.”
Griffin’s expression shifted to something more rueful. “Intense is one word for it. We spent two hours breaking down every mistake from last night’s game. Turner looked ready to murder someone by the end.”
“How’s the team handling the loss?”
He peered around the room, as if to check if anyone was listening. Seemingly satisfied, he said, “Honestly? Mixed reactions. Some guys are using it as motivation. Others are defeated already.” He took a sip of his coffee. “The younger players especially—they’re not used to this level of scrutiny. Every mistake gets analyzed, every bad shift becomes a teaching moment.”
“That’s a lot of pressure.”
He shrugged. “It’s the NHL. Pressure comes with the territory.” Griffin paused, his expression thoughtful. “Though I’ll admit, it feels different being the captain of an expansion team. In Colorado, we had established systems and leadership, guys who’d been through adversity together. Here, everything’s new. We’re building culture from scratch.”
