Wesley arrived a few minutes later with an easy smile that made something warm bloom in my gut. He was relaxed, in jeans and a sweater with the sleeves pushed up, and this version of Wesley Hutton was doing dangerous things to my concentration.
“Hope I’m not crashing the party,” he said.
“You’re working,” I said, perhaps a bit too quickly. “Documenting team building for social media.”
“Right. Working.” Wesley’s tone suggested he suspected that was only partially true, but he didn’t push it.
I ordered six large pizzas with a variety of toppings to cover everyone’s preferences, and set out beer, soda, and water. The players helped themselves to the drinks with the casual comfort of guys who’d spent their entire lives with teammates, and sprawled across my couch and floor.
“All right.” I loaded upNHL Hockeyand navigated to franchise mode. “House rules: we’re playing team simulation. Fournier and Petrov versus Martin and Williams. Best of three games. Losers buy coffee for the winners tomorrow morning.”
“That’s it?” Williams asked. “No public humiliation?”
“We’re building chemistry, not destroying egos. Yet.”
The chirping started before the first puck even dropped, with the two teams calling each other inventive names. Petrov’s claim that he was “crap at video games” proved accurate—his timing was terrible and his strategy nonexistent—but Fournier compensated with aggressive forechecking and surprisingly good defensive reads.
“Petrov, you’re supposed to cover the point!” Fournier shouted as a virtual defender walked in for an easy goal.
“I was covering the point!”
“That was the wrong point!”
The banter was good-natured but competitive, exactly what I’d hoped for. Wesley moved around the room with his phone camera, capturing candid shots of players shouting at the screen, celebrating goals, and cursing missed opportunities.
What interested me more than the trash talk was how the pairs communicated. Fournier and Petrov started the first game barely talking except to blame each other for mistakes. But by the second period, I noticed them coordinating strategies, calling out plays, anticipating each other’s moves.
“I’m going to crash the net, you shoot high glove,” Fournier said.
“Da, I try,” Petrov replied, and actually managed to set up the play correctly.
Martin and Williams had better initial chemistry, but even they found new wrinkles in how they communicated,adjusting their virtual game to match how they played together on ice.
The second game was closer, more intense. Players leaned forward, fully engaged, shouting instructions and celebrating goals with genuine enthusiasm. When Petrov scored on a breakaway—probably his first successful offensive play of the evening—the room erupted in cheers.
“Did you see that?” Petrov crowed. “Beautiful hockey!”
“Don’t let it go to your head,” Martin warned. “We’re still up by two.”
The pizza arrived during the third game, and the room descended into controlled chaos—players juggling controllers and slices, Wesley snapping photos of the organized mess, everyone talking over each other in a way that somehow made perfect sense in hockey culture.
I watched Wesley as much as the games. The way he smiled at the players’ antics, how he’d quietly encourage Petrov when his frustration showed, his instinct for when to step back and let moments happen versus when to capture them. He understood the room, read the dynamics, and moved through the space like he belonged there.
Which was trouble in the making. Because the more time I spent with Wesley, the harder it became to maintain the professional distance Michael had warned about.
Fournier broke into my thoughts. “Who’s playing next week?”
“Third line,” I replied. “We’ll rotate through until everyone has played.”
“Turner’s going to love that,” Williams muttered, earning knowing glances from the other players.
“Turner will participate or explain to Coach Roberts why team building isn’t worth his time,” I said flatly. “His choice.”
The third game went to Fournier and Petrov, who’d managed to build enough chemistry to pull out a narrowvictory. Their celebration involved elaborate handshakes and Petrov’s enthusiastic declaration that he was now “professional gamer, maybe quit hockey.”
“Don’t quit your day job,” Martin advised. “But nice comeback.”
Players started filtering out around ten, thanking me for hosting. Wesley stayed behind, stacking dirty paper plates and collecting empty bottles without being asked.
