“Do what?”
“See possibilities where everyone else sees problems. Stay optimistic even when things are falling apart.”
Wesley was quiet for a moment. “Dwelling on what’s wrong doesn’t fix anything. Better to focus on what could be right, what options exist, how to move forward. Doesn’tmean ignoring problems—just means not letting them paralyze you.”
It was the most personal thing Wesley had shared about himself, a glimpse into how his mind worked beyond the professional competence I admired.
“What about you?” Wesley asked. “How do you handle the pressure? Everyone watching, expecting you to be perfect all the time?”
I hesitated, debating how much to share. But this was Wesley, whom I trusted implicitly. Still, I kept my voice low, for his ears only. “I compartmentalize. Put everything into boxes labeled ‘public’ and ‘private,’ maintain the image that’s expected, don’t let anything slip that might undermine the performance.” The words came out more honest than I’d intended. “Except lately that’s getting harder.”
“Why lately?”
Because of you, I almost said. Because you make me want to stop acting, to exist as myself instead of as the carefully constructed captain everyone expects. Because every conversation we have makes the compartments feel more artificial, the performance more exhausting.
I shrugged. “Just tired, I guess. Sixteen years of maintaining an image takes its toll.”
Wesley shifted in his seat, angling toward me. The plane was dim and quiet, most players sleeping or pretending to, creating a bubble of relative privacy. “Can I ask you something personal?”
“Depends on the question.”
“When you’re alone—no teammates, no media, no one watching—who are you? What do you do?”
The question caught me off guard. No one ever asked about Griffin Lapierre the person, separate from Griffin Lapierre the hockey player. The role had consumed thereality so completely that sometimes I wasn’t sure there was a difference anymore.
“Honestly? I don’t know. I’ve been in the public eye for so long that I’m not sure what’s real anymore.” I paused, then continued. “I listen to an embarrassing number of history podcasts. I’m weirdly into cooking shows even though I can barely cook. I read fantasy novels that my teammates would probably mock me for enjoying.”
“That’s not embarrassing. That’s interesting.”
“It’s not very captain-like.”
“Who decided captains can’t like fantasy novels?”
“Years of hockey culture that equates masculinity with a very narrow set of acceptable interests.”
Wesley was quiet, then said softly, “What if you stopped caring what hockey culture thinks you should be and just existed as who you actually are?”
“Then I’d lose everything I’ve worked for.”
“Maybe. Or maybe you’d discover that who you actually are is more compelling than the false image.”
The conversation felt precarious, getting too close to truths I wasn’t ready to examine. But sitting here in the low light of the plane, exhausted and emotionally raw from the loss, I didn’t have the energy to reflect.
“Tell me something about you,” I said, redirecting. “Something people don’t know.”
Wesley smiled. “I wanted to be a sports journalist originally. Even started out studying journalism in college. Thought I’d be the next great NHL beat reporter. But I couldn’t maintain objectivity—I’d get too invested in the stories, too protective of the players. PR lets me care without pretending I don’t.”
“That actually makes perfect sense for you.”
“Yeah?”
“You see people, not just stories. You want to help, notjust observe.” I caught myself as I added, “It’s one of the things I—” I stopped, aware I was about to say too much.
“One of the things you what?” His voice was low, husky.
“Appreciate. About how you approach the job.”
The word felt inadequate for what I’d meant, but safer than the truth.
