On ginger beards, bad reputations, and the big man who finally found his way home

I want to start by saying I have tried to be objective about this. I really have. I’ve sat down, cup of tea in hand, and asked myself the hard questions. Is it fair to love a hockey player this much based largely on his name, his beard, and the general impression that he could carry a sofa up three flights of stairs without complaint?

And the answer, after careful and rigorous consideration, is yes. Yes it is. Next question.

Let’s start with the name, because honestly, I have to. Pierre-Luc Dubois. Say it out loud. Go on, I’ll wait. That is not a name. That is a back-cover blurb. That is a man who owns a sugar shack in the Laurentians and is very gruff with the heroine when her car breaks down in a snowstorm outside his property, right up until chapter nine when he quietly fixes her heater and doesn’t mention it. I have named a frankly alarming number of hockey players across the PHL and I’m not sure I’ve named a single one as perfectly as his parents managed on the first go. I’m a little bit annoyed about it, if I’m honest. Professionally.

Then there’s the rest of the package. He’s a ginger with a beard. He’s huge. Not Tom Wilson huge (nobody is Tom Wilson huge, Tom Wilson is a weather event), but big enough that when things get spicy in the corners he can absolutely mix it up, and big enough that the boards make a very satisfying noise when he’s involved. He skates like someone who has made peace with the laws of physics by simply ignoring them.

So yes. The aesthetics are strong. But that’s not actually why I love him.

* * *

Here’s the bit that gets me.

When the Caps traded Darcy Kuemper to the Kings for Pierre-Luc back in the summer of 2024, the reaction wasn’t exactly a ticker-tape parade. If you spent any time in the comments sections (and I did, because I am a glutton for punishment), the word that kept getting thrown around was “cancer.” Locker room cancer. Doesn’t fit. Never fits. Look at his record.

And to be fair to the internet, which is not a sentence I write often, the record was there. Drafted third overall by Columbus in 2016. Moved on from Columbus. Moved on from Winnipeg. Signed an eight-year deal in Los Angeles, had the quietest season of his career, sixteen goals and forty points, and was moved on again after one year. Three teams, three exits, and a story that had pretty much been written for him by people who had never been in a room with him.

I write romance. I know exactly what that story is. It’s the backstory of every hero who walks into chapter one with his walls up and his jaw tight, and everyone in town has an opinion about him before he’s said a word.

And I also know how that story is supposed to go.

* * *

He got to Washington and the Caps said the thing that, apparently, nobody had said to him in a while. Pierre-Luc put it simply afterwards: they told him to be himself, and they’d give him a chance. He said the players welcomed him “like a brother” from day one.

And then he went out and had the best season of his career. Twenty goals, forty-six assists, sixty-six points, all career highs, while Spencer Carbery threw him over the boards night after night against the other team’s best line. Big, heavy, responsible, the sort of player who does the unglamorous work and makes everyone around him better. He anchored a line with Tom and Big Pro that was frankly unfair to look at, let alone play against.

At the end of that season he said it was “the most fun I’ve had playing hockey.” He said the group’s enthusiasm was contagious. He said, of Washington, “It feels like home.”

Reader, I had to put the phone down for a minute.

Because that’s it, isn’t it? That’s the whole thing. The “locker room cancer” wasn’t a cancer at all. He was a man who’d never been in the right room. Some people aren’t difficult. They’re just in the wrong place, with the wrong people, being asked to be someone they’re not. Put them somewhere they’re wanted and watch what happens.

That’s not a hockey story. That’s a found family story. And you all know how I feel about those.

* * *

Of course, because this is the Caps and nothing is ever allowed to be simple, last season was cruel to him. He went down on Halloween 2025 against the Islanders, stayed down after a faceoff, and needed surgery on his abdominal and adductor muscles a week later. He didn’t play again until February. The man who’d just felt at home for the first time in his career had to spend months watching from the press box, in the gym, in the no-contact jersey. If I’d written that I’d have had readers in my inbox.

When he finally came back against Nashville, he scored. Of course he did. First game back, first period, right after Tom opened the scoring. I’d like to tell you I handled that with dignity. I did not.

He was in and out a bit after that and the season never quite let him find his feet. But this year he came into camp and Tom, Tom, called him the fittest guy on the team and said he looked “phenomenal.” He’s been banged up again to start the season (because the hockey gods are petty) but he’s back now, picking up points, setting up Big Pro for a game-winner against Philly this week like he never left.

And today is Halloween. A year to the day since the injury. I’m choosing to take that as a sign the curse is broken and we’re into the redemption arc now. You can’t stop me.

* * *

So here’s my case, laid out plainly for anyone still on the fence.

He has a name that belongs on a cover. He has a beard that belongs on a cover. He’s big, he’s heavy, he’s smart, and he does the work no one claps for. He spent years being told he was the problem, and it turned out all he needed was a team that let him be himself. And the moment he got one, he slotted straight in like he’d always been there, one of the veterans the room leans on and the fans adore.

I loved him from the first mention of him being ours. Not because I knew how it would turn out, but because I’ve been doing this long enough to recognise a hero when he walks into chapter one with everyone already sure they’ve got him figured out.

They didn’t. We did.

Welcome home, PLD. Stay forever, please. I’m sure there’s room on Tom’s line and in my heart. Mostly the second one.

— Bella

P.S. Is he going in a book? Well. I’m just going to say that if you’ve spent any time with Per and Berg Worth, and you’ve noticed how phenomenal those two are, how big and steady and quietly devoted to the people who let them in, you may have already met a little more of Pierre-Luc than I’ve ever officially admitted to. More than a little, if I’m honest. I’m not saying anything. I’m just saying I’ve been watching a lot of Caps hockey, and the Worth boys have been paying attention too.