“Okay, let’s start from the top,” Wesley said, his professional mode clicking into place.
I ran through the opening—the story about my first day as Colorado’s captain, the weight of the C, the moment I realized leadership was about presence rather than perfection. Wesley listened intently, occasionally stopping me to suggest a different emphasis or a clearer transition.
“That’s good,” he said after I finished the first section. “But when you get to the part about ‘bringing your whole self to work,’ maybe slow down slightly. Let them feel the weight of that phrase.”
“Griffin?”
I looked up to find Coach Roberts standing in the aisle, his expression friendly but curious as his gaze flicked between Wesley and me.
My throat tightened—could Roberts see it? The way sitting beside Wesley felt less like work and more like something I needed? The difference between professional collaboration and whatever this was becoming?
“Got a minute?” Roberts asked. “Want to talk strategy for tonight.”
“Of course, Coach.” Relief flooded through me at his reasonable request. I glanced at Wesley apologetically before unbuckling and following Roberts toward the front of the plane.
Roberts settled into an empty row, gesturing for me to take the seat across the aisle. “How are you feeling about tonight’s game?”
“Good. Ready. San Jose’s going to come out hard after we beat them at home.”
“Agreed. I want you focusing on their neutral zone trap. They’ll try to clog the middle, force us outside.” Roberts pulled out his tablet, showing me game tape. “Here, watch their defensive positioning when…”
We spent fifteen minutes dissecting San Jose’s systems, discussing line matchups and special teams strategies. Roberts was thorough, detail-oriented, exactly the kind of coach who built winning programs through preparation rather than just talent.
But as we talked, part of my attention kept drifting to where Wesley sat several rows back. I could see the top of his head, the way he leaned toward the window, probably working on something media-related. Every instinct in my body wanted to be back in that seat beside him, continuing our conversation, existing in that space where I didn’t have to perform quite so carefully.
“One more thing,” Roberts said, pulling my focus back. His expression had shifted slightly, become more careful. “Why are you sitting with Hutton instead of with a teammate?”
The question landed like a check I hadn’t seen coming. “He’s helping me practice my speech for tomorrow. Chamber of commerce event.”
“Right. The leadership talk.” Roberts nodded slowly. “Good PR opportunity. But remember, you’re the captain. Team sees you sitting with staff instead of with them, it sends a message.”
“Understood, Coach.”
But was that really why I’d saved Wesley a seat? Professional justification, media preparation, perfectly reasonable explanation. Except I knew—and feared Robertsmight somehow sense—that practicing the speech was only part of it.
I wanted to be near Wesley. Wanted his company, his attention, the way he made me feel like I could stop performing and just exist. But in hockey, dropping your gloves left you defenseless. Letting my guard down around Wesley—no matter how much I wanted to—opened me up to hits I couldn’t defend against. One careless moment, one unguarded reaction, and suddenly I’d be vulnerable to the kind of scrutiny that could strip away sixteen years of careful protection. The best defense was keeping my guard up, my stick on the ice, always ready to block the shot before it came.
Right before we landed in San Jose, I returned to my seat to find Wesley had switched to typing on his laptop, AirPods in, completely focused on whatever he was working on. I felt an irrational disappointment at the lost time, the conversation we hadn’t gotten to finish.
“We’re here.” I touched his shoulder lightly.
Wesley looked up and pulled out one AirPod. “That was fast. How did the strategy session go?”
“Good. Roberts is worried about their neutral zone trap.”
“Smart. San Jose’s defensive structure has been solid this preseason.” Wesley started packing up his things. “You’ll adjust.”
The casual confidence in his voice, the assumption that I’d figure it out—it shouldn’t have meant as much as it did. But something about Wesley’s belief in my abilities felt different from the expectations everyone else placed on me. Less about what I could do for them, more about what he genuinely thought I was capable of.
The team bus ride to the hotel was subdued, everyone drowsy from the flight or focusing on the game ahead in varying degrees. Hotel check-in was the usual organizedchaos. The routine was familiar, comforting in its predictability.
Practice was sharp, focused. San Jose had given us access to their arena, and skating on their ice felt like psychological warfare—claiming space in their building, sending the message that we belonged there despite being an expansion team.
Turner was his usual self during drills, technically sound but radiating attitude. I caught him deliberately avoiding passing to Petrov during a power play setup, forcing plays through other lanes even when Petrov had the better position.
After practice, I pulled Turner aside. “You need to use all your options. Petrov was open in that last sequence.”
“Petrov’s a liability,” Turner said flatly.
