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Beckett and Griff never said anything dramatic—they just showed up. Every time. Whether it was bringing over takeout or dragging me out for pickup hockey when they knew I hadn’t smiled in a week. And when Liz finally fell asleep on the couch one night after a brutal crying spell, it was Beck who looked over and said, “You’re doing the hardest job, Wes—and you’re doing it right.”

Griff, of course, added, “We’ll help you figure it out. All of it.”

And they did.

All three of us made it to the big leagues—different teams, same dream. Beckett was the golden boy—fast hands, sharp instincts, smooth in front of a camera. Griff was the quiet enforcer, dependable and solid under pressure. And me? I was the grinder. The guy coaches loved because I did the work no one saw and never complained about it.

Those years were intense—road trips, injuries, spotlight pressure—but they bonded us in ways that nothing else could.Through all of it, we talked about the future constantly. Not just retirement, but legacy. Stability.

Beckett, underneath the charm and swagger, has a sharp financial brain. While we were still playing, he started investing—youth training programs, sports equipment startups, custom gear companies. He pulled Griff and me in early, made us partners, taught us how to turn short careers into long-term security.

That first six-figure deal we landed together? We celebrated by splitting a $12 pizza and sleeping on a warehouse floor.

We were barely out of our twenties, but we weren’t just hockey players anymore—we were building empires. Beckett negotiated licensing contracts like a lawyer. Griff ran logistics like he’d been born in a boardroom.

And me? I learned to trust the grind, to keep showing up and doing the work, even when it wasn’t glamorous.

People don’t realize it now, seeing the press features and “local boy makes good” stories—but our start was duct tape and desperation. The glamour came later. What we had from day one was trust.

Even when I burned out, even when I delayed my hockey career to raise Liz and figure out who I was without a number on my back, those two had my back.

Now Liz is a nurse. Married to Griff. Happy.

And I’m standing here wondering if I can finally stop holding my breath. If I can let someone like Quinn see all of it—not just the polished parts.

“Archer!” someone calls. I look over and see Mayor Kenner waving me toward the pavilion. “You’re due on the microphone in five for the fundraising thank-yous.”

I raise a hand in acknowledgment. “Be right there.”

Beckett appears beside me, holding two lemonades. He hands me one without a word and follows my gaze toward Quinn.

“She fits, doesn’t she?” he says quietly.

I nod. “Too well. It scares the hell out of me.”

He chuckles. “Only because you care.”

“I got used to holding everything together for Liz,” I murmur. “Forgot how to let someone hold me.”

Beckett gives me a rare look that says he gets it. “You don’t have to carry it all alone anymore.”

A voice behind us pipes in. “Nope. That’s what brothers-in-law are for.”

Griff’s leaning on a picnic table, sipping from a water bottle, eyebrows raised.

“You’re getting sappy in your old age,” I tell him.

“Parenthood,” he says. “Turns us all into mush.”

There’s a beat. Then, quieter: “Wes… Liz told me once that she never felt like she missed out on a dad because she had you. You gave her a life she never would’ve had otherwise. You didn’t just survive—you built something. Now let someone build with you.”

I swallow the lump in my throat and nod. “Thanks.”

“Anytime.”

I head toward the pavilion. As I pass the dunk tank, Jake runs up, face painted like a tiger and arms full of tickets.

“Coach Wes!”