The question hit like a puck to the solar plexus. My stomach clenched, and for a moment, I could feel my carefully constructed composure wavering. The memory crashed over me—scrolling through Instagram on my couch in Denver, seeing the Glaciers’ tribute video before anyone had told me I’d been traded. The shock of watching my own career summarized while discovering it was over. The humiliation of finding out the same time as thousands of fans because marketing had posted too early.
I caught Wesley’s eye from where he stood against the wall. He was already moving, probably ready to jump in and rescue me from my hesitation by ending the presser.
But I didn’t need rescuing. Not from this.
“You know what?” I leaned into the microphone, letting an edge creep into my voice. “I’m going to have a fantastic season for Portland. I’m going to show Colorado exactly what they lost.”
The room erupted in follow-up questions, but Wesley stepped forward. “That’s all the time we have today. Thank you, everyone.”
As we filed out, reporters still calling questions, Wesleyappeared at my elbow. “Nice recovery,” he said quietly. “Though next time, maybe we end on something a little less inflammatory?”
I looked at him—really looked. At the way his eyes held genuine concern, not judgment. At the professional smile that couldn’t quite hide what looked like approval underneath.
“I’ll keep that in mind.” I winked.
That dimple made another appearance, as hazardous as a breakaway with no defensemen.
CHAPTER TWO
Wesley
The gleaming chrome and glass of the Stormhawks’ brand-new headquarters still felt peculiar for someone who’d come from an older, established franchise. Heck, even the noise-dampening carpet smelled new. I powered down the laptop in my office—floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the practice rink, ergonomic everything, and the team’s logo on the wall behind my desk. Yet I packed up my gear, plotting my escape.
My brain was already three steps ahead, cycling through tomorrow’s media schedule, Griffin’s upcoming interview requests, and the dozen other fires that smoldered in the background of an expansion team’s first season. The buzz of possibilities and plans swirled through my mind.
But first, caffeine.
The walk to Beaverton Beans took four minutes—I’d timed it on my first day, because knowing the quickest route to quality coffee felt essential to survival in this job. The hot September sun beat down on me, but the dry air made me grateful I’d left Nashville’s humidity behind. The coffee shop’swelcoming lights shone through the windows, and the rich aroma of roasted beans hit me when I opened the door.
“Large caramel latte, please,” I told the cashier, a college-age guy wrapped in an apron. The ritual of ordering grounded me after the chaos of Griffin’s earlier presser.
I climbed the narrow wooden stairs to the loft area, my favorite spot when I needed to think. The exposed brick walls and mismatched vintage furniture gave the space a cozy, lived-in feel that the sterile perfection of the team facility couldn’t match. I claimed a small table by the window and spread out my laptop, phone, and tablet—my mobile command center.
The caramel latte was perfect—sweet and strong—with just enough foam. I took a long sip and my shoulders relaxed for the first time since this afternoon’s media circus.
My phone sat face up on the table, its screen dark but ready. I’d set up alerts for any mention of the Stormhawks across Google and social media—part of staying ahead of the narrative in real time. It was a necessary evil in modern sports PR, even if it meant my phone buzzed constantly with updates ranging from crucial to completely ridiculous.
The screen lit up with a notification from social media.
I tapped the screen, expecting another routine mention or maybe a recap of Griffin’s press conference. Instead, my stomach dropped as I read the post by Cory Boucher, the player who’d replaced Griffin as captain in Colorado.
“Oh, hell no,” I muttered, loud enough that the girl at the next table looked over. Energy rushed through me—the kind that came with a crisis that needed solving immediately.
@Griff_Lapierre, we didn’t lose anything—we upgraded. Youth over age every time. Hope Portland’s retirement home treats you well. Can’t wait to school you this season. #NewEra #MovingOn
The petty, juvenile tone made my jaw clench. This wasn’tgood-natured ribbing between former teammates—this was a calculated hit designed to undermine Griffin’s confidence and generate controversy. My mind immediately started spinning through response strategies, damage control scenarios, and ways to turn this into a positive narrative for our side.
But first, Griffin needed to know.
I scrolled through the team directory on my phone until I found his number, then fired off a quick text.
Wesley
It’s Wesley. Are you free? Something came up we should discuss.
The response came back within seconds.
Griffin
