Turner’s laugh was harsh. “Don’t you meanourlocker room? I’m your goddamn teammate, and I get a say.” He leaned against his stall, arms crossed. “You want to know what you’re dealing with? Guy got himself into a whole mess down in Nashville after his relationship with a closeted sports broadcaster blew up. Broadcaster was the son of some famous TV preacher. Religious nuts protesting outside Hutton’s house for corrupting the son, vandalism, social media shitstorm, death threats, the works.”
My throat tightened. That was exactly why no one could know about me. Ever. The image of protesters outside my house, of my mother seeing that on the news, of my agent, Michael, having to field calls from reporters asking about my personal life made my stomach clench with dread.
“And Hutton didn’t have my back when I needed him,” Turner continued, his voice hardening. “I made one little joke about gays at a bar—just messing around, you knowhow it is—and some guy took offense. Started a whole thing, threw a punch. I had to punch him back, didn’t I?” He said it like the answer was obvious, like any reasonable person would agree. “Could’ve been nothing if Hutton had just done his job and managed it. But no, he had to be all high and mighty, wouldn’t cover for me. Told management the truth, made sure I got suspended and fined.” His jaw clenched. “That’s his job—managing PR, making problems go away. Instead, he made it worse. The guy’s a prick.”
“I don’t care about gossip,” I said, though my voice sounded strained even to my own ears. “I won’t tolerate slurs or prejudice. Not from anyone.”
Turner’s sneer deepened. “Right. Whatever you say,Captain.”
I left him there and practically vibrated with disgust—at Turner, at myself, at the whole fucking situation.
After getting turned around a few times, I found the coaches’ conference room. It was blessedly quiet and calming when I pushed through the door, just Wesley sitting at the head of the polished table with a tablet and a cup of coffee, his Pride watchband barely visible below his sleeve.
He looked up when I entered, and his smile was genuine. Warm. “How does it feel to be the face of a two-billion-dollar investment and the hopes of an entire city?”
Despite everything, I smiled back. “No pressure.”
Wesley laughed—a rich, easy sound that made something in my chest loosen. “That’s exactly the kind of response they’ll love. Self-aware but not self-deprecating. Confident but approachable.”
For the next hour, Wesley put me through my paces. His questions were sharp, insightful, designed to probe for weaknesses in my answers.
“How are you going to unite players from twentydifferent teams under one vision?” he asked, playing the part of a reporter.
I leaned back in my chair and considered the question. “Well, I could try bribery, but the salary cap makes that tricky.”
Wesley’s mouth twitched at the corner.
“But honestly, these guys didn’t choose to be here—they were chosen. But they’re all here for the same reason I am: because someone believed we had something to contribute. My job isn’t to make them forget where they came from, it’s to help them see where we’re going together.”
Wesley nodded approvingly. “Good. You acknowledged the challenge without dwelling on it, then pivoted to the positive while keeping it real. Next question. Your new teammates only know you as an opponent. How do you transition from someone they tried to beat to someone they’ll follow?”
“That’s easy.” I grinned. “I stop letting them beat me.” Wesley raised an eyebrow, and I continued more seriously. “Look, respect in hockey is earned through play, not speeches. They’ve seen me compete against them for years—that’s actually an advantage. They know I won’t ask them to do anything I won’t do myself. The transition happens on the ice, shift by shift, until they realize we’re not opponents anymore. We’re teammates.”
Wesley drummed his fingers against the table. “I love the confidence, but maybe soften ‘I stop letting them beat me’ to something like ‘I start playing with them instead of against them.’ Same message, less combative tone for the press.” He referred to his tablet. “Next one. What’s your relationship like with the coaching staff?” He tilted his head, as if he wanted to know the answer himself.
I scratched my jaw, the day’s growing stubble rough under my fingertips. “Coach Roberts and I are still in thegetting-to-know-you phase, but so far it’s like a good first date—lots of mutual interest and no one’s run away screaming yet.” Wesley actually smiled at that one. “But all joking aside, we’re building something from scratch here. The coaching staff brings the system. I bring the experience of a seasoned captain. It’s a partnership. We’re all learning each other’s languages.”
“Try sitting forward a bit when you say you’re a seasoned captain,” Wesley suggested. “It shows engagement. But otherwise, those answers are exactly what we want—self-assured without being cocky, substantive without being boring.”
Wesley guided me through question after question, his approval evident in the occasional nod or “exactly right,” while he fine-tuned my phrasing with subtle suggestions and reminded me to lean forward when making key points. He was an exceptional coach—better than any PR manager I’d worked with in my sixteen-year career. I admired his sharp mind and intuitive understanding of how the media worked. How the hell had someone this astute, this composed, gotten caught up in the kind of scandal Turner had described?
And why did I keep noticing the way that dimple appeared every time he smiled?
“Excellent.” Wesley closed the cover of his tablet. “I’m confident you’ll handle whatever they throw at you.”
“Thanks to you,” I said, meaning it. “I appreciate the preparation.”
Wesley waved off the praise, already gathering his things. “That’s what I’m here for. Ready to make some history?”
Twenty minutes later, I sat between my alternate captains, Eric Holloway and Antti Laasko, at a long table facing a room full of reporters. Camera flashes popped like strobe lights, and the familiar buzz of pre-press conference chatter filled the air. I’d done this dozens of times before—inColorado when they’d named me captain, at All-Star weekends.
But never as the first captain in a franchise’s history.
Wesley began the presser, and questions came fast and varied. They were nothing Wesley and I had rehearsed, but I found my rhythm quickly. I talked about building culture from scratch. I emphasized the opportunity to prove doubters wrong. I made it about the team, not about me.
Until a reporter in the third row—a guy with an old-school notebook instead of a phone—raised his hand.
“Griffin, how do you feel about the Colorado Glaciers choosing to protect younger players and trade you instead of giving you a chance to finish your career there?”
