Wesley
Are you available at 3:00 for a planning session? We should go over your appearance schedule and media strategy.
A reply popped up almost immediately.
Griffin
Sure. Your office?
Wesley
Beaverton Beans. The loft is quiet in theafternoon.
Griffin
See you then.
I closed my laptop and slid it into my messenger bag, along with my tablet.
I stopped at the neighboring office where my PR Specialist, Natalie, sat surrounded by three monitors. “I’m heading to Beaverton Beans to meet with Griffin Lapierre. We’re going over his appearance schedule and media strategy.”
She glanced up from her screens, dark hair pulled back in a severe ponytail. “Got it. Need me to sit in?”
“No, I’ve got this one. Just call if anything urgent comes up.”
“Will do. Good luck with the captain.”
I arrived twenty minutes early and claimed my favorite corner table in the loft, where the afternoon light streamed through tall windows. The rich aroma of roasted coffee beans and the gentle hum of conversation from below created the perfect backdrop for productive work.
I spread out my laptop, tablet, phone, and caramel latte across the small table.
Griffin appeared at the top of the stairs at exactly three o’clock, punctual with the kind of leadership that marked him as the captain he was—someone who understood that being on time was the first step in earning respect.
Dark jeans and a navy T-shirt clung to his muscular frame in a way that shouldn’t have been distracting but absolutely was. I’d been around athletes for years, had grown immune to impressive physiques as just part of the job. But something about Griffin—the confident way he carried himself, the easy athleticism even in casual movement—quickened my pulse in ways that had nothing to do with professional admiration. I forced myself to look away. He wasstraight, not available. And even if circumstances were different, he was a colleague—the franchise player I was supposed to be managing professionally, not fantasizing about.
He nodded and settled into the chair across from me. “Afternoon.” Away from the team facility and his responsibilities, Griffin seemed more relaxed—shoulders less rigid, expression softer.
“Thanks for meeting with me.” I pulled up my notes on the tablet. “We’ve got a lot to cover.”
Griffin took a long sip of his cold brew and leaned back in his chair. “Hit me with it.”
“Let’s start with something that affects your image—the NHL’s dress code policy.” I turned my tablet so he could see the instructions I’d pulled up. “They’re calling the guidelines ‘contemporary fashion norms.’ Suit and tie are no longer required, and the team can’t dictate what you wear.”
Griffin raised an eyebrow. “What are the implications?”
“You have choices. Standard suit and tie, business casual, designer streetwear, whatever feels right to you.” I leaned forward, warming to the topic. “But as the face of the franchise, your clothing choices send a message. We need to decide what that message should be.”
“What are my options?”
“Traditional suit and tie projects authority, respect for the city, old-school leadership. Business casual makes you more relatable, approachable, like you’re one of the guys who just happens to be really good at hockey.”
Griffin furrowed his brow, his expression thoughtful. “What do you think?”
“I think,” I said carefully, “that Portland respects authenticity over everything else. But they also want their captain to look like he belongs on the national stage. You’rerepresenting a massive investment and an entire city’s hockey dreams.”
He was quiet for a long moment, absently running his thumb along the condensation on his cold brew cup. “Suit and tie,” he said finally. “I want kids in this city to see their captain and think he belongs in the same conversation as the league’s best. Respect first, relatability second.”
I felt a flash of admiration for his instincts. “That’s a good call. Classic, professional, but we can work in some relaxed elements—maybe interesting pocket squares, ties that aren’t quite as formal.”
