The puck came to me on my forehand. Vegas defenders converged, but I had a lane—narrow, closing fast, but there.
Ten seconds.
I didn’t think. Just released the shot, low and hard, aiming for the five-hole.
The puck slid through.
Red light. Horn. A rock anthem blared through enormous speakers in the rafters.
The roar that erupted from the fans was unlike anything I’d ever experienced—pure, unbridled joy that shook the building and made my vision blur with overwhelming emotion. The go-ahead goal with six seconds left, and I’d barely processed the shot before my teammates mobbed me.
Holloway hit me first, wrapping me in a crushing hug that nearly took us both down. Laasko crashed into us a second later, then Martin and Williams, the entire shift piling on in a mass of pads and adrenaline in a triumphant group hug.
“Fucking beauty, Lapierre!” Holloway shouted over the noise.
I caught sight of Turner skating away, not joining the celebration. Typical. But I didn’t have time to think about his absence because the celebration continued. I fist-bumped my teammates on the bench as I skated past, the energy electric and infectious.
The celebration couldn’t last long—we still had six seconds and a faceoff to navigate. But as I skated back to center ice, I felt something I hadn’t since the Glaciers traded me: validation. Proof that I could lead this team, that theStormhawks had made the right choice, that I was still elite despite being thirty-four.
Take that, Colorado. Take that, everyone who said I was expendable.
The final faceoff was a formality—I won the draw, pulled it back to Laasko, and he iced it as the clock ran out. The horn sounded again, this time signaling the end of regulation.
3–2 Stormhawks.
First home game. First regular season victory.
“That’s how you finish!” I shouted.
The entire team spilled over the boards to tap Gagnon on the helmet and congratulate him. The noise was deafening, beautiful, a wall of sound that made my chest tight with emotion.
This. This is what it’s supposed to feel like.
The announcer’s voice boomed through the arena: “Your number one star of the game—with the game-winning goal and an assist—Griffin Lapierre!” The crowd erupted again, their cheers washing over me as I skated to the TV color commentator near the bench, microphone ready. I gave the expected answers: team effort, never giving up, believing in our ourselves. After the interview, I grabbed a puck from the equipment manager, signed it quickly with a Sharpie, then circled the ice in a victory lap. Near the corner, I spotted a little girl—maybe seven or eight years old—wearing an oversized Stormhawks jersey with my number, jumping and waving frantically. I skated close to the boards and tossed the puck over. Her father snagged it out of the air, then handed it to her. Her face radiated pure joy, and something in my gut tightened at the sight. This was what it meant to be a captain—creating moments that mattered, being someone worth looking up to. Even if they didn’t know the whole truth about who I was.
In the locker room, the energy was unlike anything I’d experienced with this team. Players laughed, chirped, and punched each other in the arm in celebratory chaos.
Before the press entered the room, I stood at my stall, adrenaline still coursing through my system, and raised my voice. “Everyone! Cascadia Craft Brews in an hour. First round’s on me!”
The room erupted in cheers. This felt right—team bonding after a huge win, building chemistry off the ice, establishing traditions for this inaugural season.
I was peeling off my equipment when Wesley appeared in the doorway. “Heads up,” he called. “Media coming in.”
I did the interviews on autopilot. I gave the expected answers about team effort and perseverance and believing in our systems, the captain’s responses that emphasized the team over the individual player.
After Wesley ended the locker room interviews and the media cleared out, he met my gaze. His expression was carefully neutral, professional, but I caught the warmth in his brown eyes.
“Presser in five,” he said, his tone perfectly calibrated for a PR manager addressing a player. The professional detachment between us felt like a physical ache, but it was necessary—essential, even—when anyone could be watching.
I grabbed my Stormhawks hoodie and jeans from my stall, hyperaware of Wesley’s presence even as I tried to maintain the appropriate image.
In the hallway outside the press room, I caught Wesley alone for a brief moment. “You coming to Cascadia tonight? Team’s celebrating.”
Wesley hesitated and glanced around to make sure we were alone. “Is that a good idea? Me showing up at a team celebration?”
“Why not? You’re part of the organization.” I steppedcloser and lowered my voice. “Come with us. I want you there.”
“Griffin…” Furrowed brows showed his internal debate. “We’re supposed to be careful. Maintain distance. Not give people reasons to notice.”
