Hadn’t I just been thinking the same thing? Still, I couldn’t stay away from him. Not tonight. Not after that win. “One beer. That’s all. Just show up, congratulate the team, be social.” I knew I was being reckless, knew we should maintain the boundaries we’d agreed on. But the high of victory made me feel invincible, like maybe we could navigate this without disaster. “Please?”
Wesley sighed, but I caught the small smile tugging at his lips. “Fine. One beer. But I’m leaving early and we’re not standing together.”
“Deal.”
Wesley’s phone dinged, and he pulled it out. He scrolled quickly. “Social media is exploding with praise for your leadership. The winning goal clip is already viral. Hashtag ‘Lapierre delivers’ is trending locally. You’re the story of the night.”
Pride and relief flooded through me in equal measure. This was what I’d needed—proof that I could still perform at an elite level, that my leadership mattered, that Colorado had been wrong to let me go.
“That’s good,” I managed, trying to keep my voice neutral even as my gut sang with satisfaction.
“It’s better than good. It’s exactly what we hoped for.” Wesley gestured toward the press room. “Now go. Make them love you even more.”
The presser was packed—local media, national sports networks, and podcasters all vying for questions. I fielded them with practiced ease, emphasizing team unity and collective effort while acknowledging that tonight’s winvalidated the Stormhawks as legitimate competitors rather than just expansion underdogs.
“This team has heart,” I said into the microphones. “We’re not just here to participate. We’re here to win. Tonight proved that.”
After the presser, I showered quickly and changed into my suit. The routine grounded me, transformed me from the sweaty athlete into the polished captain Portland expected.
Cascadia Craft Brews was already filled when I arrived. The bar had given us the back section, a semi-private area with several tables and a pool table where the team could celebrate without being completely on display.
Sixteen teammates showed up: more than the eleven who’d come to the last team gathering. Progress. Proof that chemistry was building, that my leadership was working, that the video game tournaments—I’d held one for each line—and constant communication and emphasis on unity were paying off.
I bought the first round—beers and appetizers for everyone—and raised my glass when the drinks arrived. “To proving everyone wrong, especially the teams that let us go! First win of many!”
The team echoed the toast, bottles and glasses clinking, voices mixing with laughter and the ambient noise of the bar. I moved through the group, congratulating players individually, rehashing key moments from the game, building connections and reinforcing the culture I wanted to establish.
Wesley arrived. He’d gone home and dressed casually in jeans and a dark sweater. He stayed near the bar’s main area rather than joining our section, but I was acutely aware of his presence.
I caught his eye across the room and smiled—maybe too warmly, maybe too long, definitely more than was safe.Wesley smiled back, and the moment stretched between us with unspoken celebration and shared joy.
“You two seem pretty happy with each other.”
Holloway’s voice beside me made me flinch. I tore my gaze away from Wesley and forced my expression into something more bland. “What?”
“You and Wesley.” Holloway took a sip of his beer, his tone casual but his eyes assessing. “Been watching you watch him all night. You two seem tight.”
My pulse spiked with alarm, but I gave what I hoped was a casual shrug. “We’ve become friends.”
“Is that why he was at your apartment on Sunday?”
Before I could respond—before I could construct a deflection that would satisfy Holloway’s curiosity without revealing anything—Wesley pulled out his phone and his expression shifted from relaxed to concerned.
I excused myself and made my way through the crowd to where Wesley stood near the bar. “What’s wrong?”
Wesley turned his phone toward me, and I saw the social media post immediately. Cory Boucher had posted again.
Expansion team celebrates home-opener win like they won the Cup. Adorable. Congrats @Griff_Lapierre #Stormhawks #Perspective
The sarcasm was obvious. The dig clear. Boucher was trying to minimize tonight’s victory, to suggest that what we’d accomplished wasn’t actually impressive.
It stung. Not as much as his previous attacks, but enough that I felt the old insecurity try to creep back in. The voice that said Colorado was right to let me go, that I wasn’t elite anymore, that I was celebrating mediocrity rather than excellence.
But then I looked around the bar—at my teammates laughing and celebrating, at the social media notificationsstill flooding my phone with praise, at Wesley standing beside me with concern in his eyes.
Boucher could say whatever he wanted. Tonight had been real. The victory had been earned. My leadership was working.
“He’s just bitter,” Wesley said quietly. “Ignore it. Tonight was incredible, and everyone knows it.”
