His handshake was firm and warm, again lingering a second longer than usual. As he walked away, I caught myself watching the confident way he moved, the way his T-shirt stretched across his shoulders, the easy athletic grace that made every stride look effortless.
I averted my gaze and focused on packing up my laptop. Whatever chemistry I thought I felt was probably one-sided and definitely inappropriate. Griffin was my colleague, my responsibility, and potentially the key to my career rehabilitation in Portland.
But as I walked back to headquarters, I couldn’t shake thememory of that moment when our fingers had touched, or the way his eyes had widened like he’d felt something too.
Professional boundaries, I reminded myself. That’s what mattered.
CHAPTER FOUR
Griffin
The puck struck my tape with that satisfying snap that meant everything lined up perfectly—weight balanced, blade angle just right, no players obstructing my line of sight. I had a split second to read the play before pivoting hard left, ice spraying from my skates as I spotted Laasko breaking toward the net.
“Laasko!!” I rifled the pass, tape to tape, across twenty feet of ice.
His hands were steady, accepting the pass without breaking stride. His shot came quick and clean, straight toward the goalie’s five-hole. For a moment, I thought we had it—our first real chemistry in days of practice scrimmages, the kind of play that would make Coach Roberts smile.
Then Turner materialized out of nowhere.
The big D-man’s stick blade intercepted Laasko’s shot with perfect timing, deflecting the puck harmlessly into the corner. Turner’s gray eyes found mine across the ice, and his smirk was anything but friendly. He played like he hadsomething to prove, which he probably did. Turner was undeniably skilled—his defensive reads were elite, his positioning flawless—but every interception and stick check felt personal.
“Shake it off!” I called to Laasko, who was already circling around for the rebound. “Next one!”
But there wouldn’t be a next one. Not a clean one, anyway.
The play fell apart like a house of cards in a windstorm. Our rookie right winger, Petrov, missed an easy pass. Williams, our trade acquisition from Tampa, couldn’t keep up with the opposition, leaving a gaping hole in our defense. Even Laasko, who’d been reading my plays beautifully all week, seemed half a step behind.
The sound of scattered passes hitting skate blades instead of stick tape echoed through the practice arena. Coach Roberts’s whistle shrieked constantly—offside, offside, icing. The younger players looked like they were thinking too hard, processing instead of reacting. And every time something went wrong, my muscles tightened, and the weight of responsibility settled heavier on my shoulders.
This was supposed to be my team. These were supposed to be my players.
My side won the scrimmage 4–3, but it felt hollow. If this was how we looked now, what would happen when we faced real opponents?
The locker room was too quiet afterward. Players peeled off equipment in silence, the usual post-practice chirping replaced by the ripping sounds of Velcro being torn apart and skates hitting the floor. Even the equipment staff moved with subdued efficiency, as if they could sense the tension.
I sat at my stall for a moment and studied the faces around me. Some players looked frustrated. Others seemedresigned. A few appeared checked out entirely, already mentally moving on to lunch or whatever came next.
No.This isn’t working.
I stood up, still in my practice jersey and shoulder pads, and cleared my throat. The room gradually quieted until all eyes were on me.
“Listen up.” I projected my voice to fill the entire locker room. “We’re going to Cascadia Craft Brews at six tonight. Everyone. First round’s on me.”
The response was immediate—a genuine cheer rose from about half the team. Holloway whooped. Petrov actually smiled for the first time all week. Even some of the quieter veterans nodded approvingly.
But not everyone.
Turner sneered and turned his back to me, making a show of shoving his gear into his bag. A few other players remained silent, their expressions carefully neutral. The division was clear, and it stung more than I wanted to admit.
Still, progress was progress. Getting half the team excited was better than none.
“Six o’clock,” I repeated. “Don’t make me drink alone.”
That got another laugh, which felt like a small victory.
Cascadia Craft Brews occupied a converted warehouse space ten minutes from the practice facility, all exposed brick and Edison bulbs with local artists’ work covering the walls. The kind of place that felt authentically Pacific Northwest without trying too hard—exactly why I’d chosen it.
Eleven players showed up. Out of twenty-three.
