“Is that exciting or terrifying?”
“Both,” he admitted. “Some days I feel like we’re on the verge of something special. Other days, I wonder if we’ll ever figure it out.”
The honest answer surprised me. Griffin usually maintained such careful control over his statements, always projecting confidence, even when circumstances suggested otherwise. This unguarded moment felt like a gift.
“For what it’s worth, I’ve watched you at practice and I think you’re doing everything right,” I said. “Team-building takes time. Chemistry can’t be forced. It has to develop organically through shared experiences and trust.”
“Spoken like someone who understands hockey culture.”
“SUNY Oswego wasn’t exactly the NHL, but we had our share of team chemistry challenges. My junior year, we had eight new players and basically had to rebuild our entire offensive system.” I smiled at the memory. “By mid-season, we were ready to kill each other. By playoffs, we were brothers.”
“What changed?”
“We stopped trying to play like individuals and started trusting each other. Stopped worrying about personal stats and started caring more about team success.” I shrugged. “Also, our goalie organized a team bowling night that involved way too many poor scores. Hockey players aren’t necessarily bowlers. Nothing bonds a team like shared embarrassment.”
Griffin laughed, the sound warm and genuine. “Maybe I should suggest bowling to Coach Roberts.”
“Could be worth a shot. Though getting Turner to participate might require divine intervention.”
“Turner’s his own challenge,” Griffin said, his brow lowering. “He’s skilled enough that Coach gives him a lot of ice time, but his attitude is poisonous. Every team meeting, every practice, he’s undermining something.”
“Have you talked to him directly?”
“Tried. He’s not interested in hearing it.” Griffin ran a hand over his buzz cut, frustration clear. “I wonder if heresents being traded here, if he sees Portland as a step down from Nashville.”
“Turner just doesn’t appreciate it yet.”
We fell into easier conversation after that, the topics ranging from hockey to Portland sightseeing to our respective career paths. Griffin asked about my time at SUNY Oswego, and I shared stories I hadn’t thought about in years—the brutal winter practices, the rivalry games that felt more important than life itself, the peculiar camaraderie that came from suffering through conditioning drills together.
“Did you ever think about playing professionally?” Griffin asked.
“D-3 to the NHL isn’t exactly a common pipeline,” I said with a laugh. “I was good enough for college hockey, but I knew I didn’t have what it took to go further. I was more interested in getting my degree in PR. I was better at crafting narratives than scoring goals.”
“That’s a valuable skill.”
“So is being able to put a puck in the net at the NHL level. I think you got the better end of that particular talent distribution.”
Griffin smiled, but there was something wistful in his expression. “Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to have a career that didn’t require constant performance. Where you could just… be yourself without worrying about how it looks or what people think.”
The admission was so raw, so unexpected, that I didn’t know how to respond. It felt like Griffin was revealing something deeper than career stress, something about the weight of maintaining a public persona that never quite matched private reality.
“That sounds exhausting,” I said quietly.
“It is.” Griffin met my eyes, and for a moment, any careful distance disappeared entirely. “But it’s the choice Imade. Live with the performance or lose everything I’ve worked for.”
There was something in the way he said it—a resignation mixed with frustration—that made me wonder what specific aspects of himself Griffin felt compelled to hide. Everyone in professional sports dealt with public scrutiny, but this felt more personal, more fundamental.
“For what it’s worth,” I said carefully. “I think the best leaders are the ones who can be authentic. Not perfect, not performing—just real. People connect with vulnerability more than they connect with polish.”
“That’s a nice theory. Reality tends to be more complicated.”
“Maybe. But I saw you with those kids at the youth clinic. I’ve seen you at practice with your teammates. You’re at your best when you stop worrying about the image and just lead.”
Griffin was quiet for a long moment, his expression unreadable. “You see a lot, don’t you?”
“It’s my job to notice things. Body language, emotional reactions, the disconnect between what people say and what they actually feel.” I paused, wondering if I should say more. “You’re good at the performance, Griffin. But I think you’d be even better without it.”
“That’s not an option.”
