Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
Griffin
The smells of sweat and ice melt permeated the locker room as I stood, still in my practice gear, and cleared my throat. Players looked up from unlacing skates or peeling off soaked undershirts, conversations dying as they registered my authoritative stance.
“Quick announcement.” I raised my voice to reach everyone. “Starting this week, we’re doing weekly video game tournaments at my place. NHL Hockey—the latest version with our team in it.”
That got the reaction I’d expected—a mix of groans and laughter rippling through the room.
“You’re kidding,” Holloway said, grinning. “We get to play as ourselves?”
“Or against ourselves,” I replied. “The point is getting linemates and defensive pairings working together off the ice. Building chemistry through shared suffering.”
More laughter, though I noticed Turner’s scowl as he turned away, making a show of shoving gear into his bag. Predictable.
“Tonight, I want the second line—Fournier, Petrov, Martin—and Williams. Seven o’clock. I’ll provide the pizza and beer.” I rattled off my address.
“Do we have a choice?” Fournier asked, though his tone was more amused than resistant.
“You can say no. But then I’ll know you’re afraid of getting schooled at video games by your linies.”
That got competitive fire flashing in several eyes. Hockey players couldn’t resist a challenge, even a casual one.
“I’m terrible at video games,” Petrov groaned, his Russian accent thickening with his complaint. “This is going to be embarrassing.”
“Then you’ll fit right in with the rest of us.” Martin clapped him on the shoulder. “I’ll see you there, Cap.”
I pulled out my phone and hesitated for only a moment before texting Wesley.
Griffin
Hosting video game tournament tonight for team-building. Social media opportunity if you want to come.
The response came as I was untying my skates.
Wesley
Sounds fun. What time?
Griffin
7
I sent my address and tried not to think too hard about why I’d invited Wesley when the whole point was player bonding. Professional documentation, I told myself. Good PR content. That I wanted to see him, wanted his company while navigating the delicate politics of team chemistry, was irrelevant.
Or at least, that’s what I tried to convince myself of.
By seven o’clock, my apartment was as ready as it could be.
PlayStation set up, controllers charged, coffee table cleared of everything except coasters.
The space still didn’t feel like home—too clean, too impersonal, more like a hotel suite than a place someone actually lived—but at least it was organized.
The view from my ninth-floor windows showed downtown Beaverton’s lights beginning to twinkle as dusk settled over the city. Not the mountain vistas I’d had in Colorado, but striking in its own way.
Fournier arrived first, followed quickly by Williams and Martin. Petrov showed up last, looking resigned to his fate.
“Nice place, Lapierre,” Martin said, immediately gravitating toward the windows. “This is what a captain’s money gets you, huh?”
“This is what ‘I didn’t want to buy another house without a no-trade clause’ gets you,” I replied, earning knowing laughs.
Wesley arrived a few minutes later with an easy smile that made something warm bloom in my gut. He was relaxed, in jeans and a sweater with the sleeves pushed up, and this version of Wesley Hutton was doing dangerous things to my concentration.
“Hope I’m not crashing the party,” he said.
“You’re working,” I said, perhaps a bit too quickly. “Documenting team building for social media.”
“Right. Working.” Wesley’s tone suggested he suspected that was only partially true, but he didn’t push it.
I ordered six large pizzas with a variety of toppings to cover everyone’s preferences, and set out beer, soda, and water. The players helped themselves to the drinks with the casual comfort of guys who’d spent their entire lives with teammates, and sprawled across my couch and floor.
“All right.” I loaded up NHL Hockey and navigated to franchise mode. “House rules: we’re playing team simulation. Fournier and Petrov versus Martin and Williams. Best of three games. Losers buy coffee for the winners tomorrow morning.”
“That’s it?” Williams asked. “No public humiliation?”
“We’re building chemistry, not destroying egos. Yet.”
The chirping started before the first puck even dropped, with the two teams calling each other inventive names.
Petrov’s claim that he was “crap at video games” proved accurate—his timing was terrible and his strategy nonexistent—but Fournier compensated with aggressive forechecking and surprisingly good defensive reads.
“Petrov, you’re supposed to cover the point!” Fournier shouted as a virtual defender walked in for an easy goal.
“I was covering the point!”
“That was the wrong point!”
The banter was good-natured but competitive, exactly what I’d hoped for. Wesley moved around the room with his phone camera, capturing candid shots of players shouting at the screen, celebrating goals, and cursing missed opportunities.
What interested me more than the trash talk was how the pairs communicated. Fournier and Petrov started the first game barely talking except to blame each other for mistakes. But by the second period, I noticed them coordinating strategies, calling out plays, anticipating each other’s moves.
“I’m going to crash the net, you shoot high glove,” Fournier said.
“Da, I try,” Petrov replied, and actually managed to set up the play correctly.
Martin and Williams had better initial chemistry, but even they found new wrinkles in how they communicated, adjusting their virtual game to match how they played together on ice.
The second game was closer, more intense. Players leaned forward, fully engaged, shouting instructions and celebrating goals with genuine enthusiasm. When Petrov scored on a breakaway—probably his first successful offensive play of the evening—the room erupted in cheers.
“Did you see that?” Petrov crowed. “Beautiful hockey!”
“Don’t let it go to your head,” Martin warned. “We’re still up by two.”
The pizza arrived during the third game, and the room descended into controlled chaos—players juggling controllers and slices, Wesley snapping photos of the organized mess, everyone talking over each other in a way that somehow made perfect sense in hockey culture.
I watched Wesley as much as the games. The way he smiled at the players’ antics, how he’d quietly encourage Petrov when his frustration showed, his instinct for when to step back and let moments happen versus when to capture them.
He understood the room, read the dynamics, and moved through the space like he belonged there.
Which was trouble in the making. Because the more time I spent with Wesley, the harder it became to maintain the professional distance Michael had warned about.
Fournier broke into my thoughts. “Who’s playing next week?”
“Third line,” I replied. “We’ll rotate through until everyone has played.”
“Turner’s going to love that,” Williams muttered, earning knowing glances from the other players.
“Turner will participate or explain to Coach Roberts why team building isn’t worth his time,” I said flatly. “His choice.”
The third game went to Fournier and Petrov, who’d managed to build enough chemistry to pull out a narrow victory. Their celebration involved elaborate handshakes and Petrov’s enthusiastic declaration that he was now “professional gamer, maybe quit hockey.”
“Don’t quit your day job,” Martin advised. “But nice comeback.”
Players started filtering out around ten, thanking me for hosting. Wesley stayed behind, stacking dirty paper plates and collecting empty bottles without being asked.
“You don’t have to do that,” I said, though I appreciated the help.
“Team building goes both ways,” Wesley replied. “Besides, I want to see if your recycling situation is as organized as everything else in this apartment.”
We moved around each other awkwardly at first—both reaching for the same pizza box, bumping shoulders at the recycling bin, doing that dance where you try to go around someone and both pick the same direction.
But somehow the awkwardness felt comfortable, natural, like we were figuring out how to exist in the same space together.
“The evening went well.” Wesley tied off a garbage bag. “Did you see how Fournier and Petrov’s communication evolved over the three games?”
“That’s exactly what I was hoping for. They started out barely coordinating, ended up reading each other’s tendencies.”
“Think it’ll translate to the ice?”
“If it doesn’t, at least they learned they can work together under pressure. Even virtual pressure.” I binned the last bottle and turned to face him. “Thanks for coming. And for documenting it.”
“Thanks for inviting me.” Wesley leaned against the counter, his expression warm and open. “Though I’m pretty sure you could have taken the photos yourself.”
“Probably. But you’re better at it.”
“Is that the only reason you invited me?” He raised an eyebrow.
The question hung between us, loaded with implications neither of us seemed ready to address directly. I could have deflected, could have maintained the professional justification we both knew was only partially true.
Instead, I was honest. “No. It’s not.”
Wesley’s expression shifted—surprise, warm pleasure, and something that looked like concern flashing across his features. “Griffin—”
“I know. I know all the reasons this is complicated.” I ran a hand across my jaw, frustration bleeding into my voice. “Michael’s warnings, professional boundaries, the risk of anything getting… misconstrued. I know.”
I wanted to tell Wesley why Michael was so worried, wanted to explain that the real complication wasn’t just professional—it was that I was gay and attracted to him in ways that made every interaction feel charged with possibility and danger.
But the words stuck in my throat. Years of practiced silence choked off the truth before it could escape.
“Then why—”
“Because I like talking to you. I like having you around. You make this whole situation—” I gestured vaguely at the apartment, the city beyond the windows, the weight of expectations I carried “More manageable somehow.”
Wesley was quiet for a long moment, his expression unreadable. “I like being around you too. Which is probably something I shouldn’t admit.”
“We seem to be doing a lot of things we probably shouldn’t.”
“Yeah.” Wesley smiled, but there was wariness underneath it. “We should probably talk about that. About what’s happening here. I’m gay, and you’re—”
“Yeah, we should probably talk.” But I didn’t want to talk about it, didn’t want to analyze or define or confront whatever was developing between us. Talking about it would require acknowledging realities I wasn’t ready to face. “But not tonight. Tonight was about team building. The rest can wait.”
Wesley studied me for a long moment, and I had the uncomfortable sense that he saw more than I wanted him to—the fear underneath my casual dismissal, the way I kept reaching for connection while simultaneously pushing it away.
“Okay,” he said finally. “Not tonight.”
After Wesley left, I stood at my windows looking out at Beaverton’s lights and thought about Michael’s warning. Be careful. Maintain professional distance.
The problem was, I felt closer to Wesley every time we were alone together. Comfortable in a way I hadn’t felt comfortable with anyone in years, like I could stop acting and just exist. That comfort was seductive and terrifying in equal measure.
Because getting closer to Wesley—falling for him—would jeopardize everything I’d worked for. My carefully maintained image, my career trajectory, my ability to lead effectively. Everything I’d sacrificed to get here.
I thought about Boucher’s mocking posts, the media questioning whether I was too old, too washed up to lead an expansion team. The doubt I saw in some of my teammates’ eyes, the division that still fractured our locker room despite my best efforts.
I couldn’t afford distractions. Couldn’t afford complications that might undermine my authority or create questions about my focus.
I needed to be the best captain the expansion team would ever have, needed to prove every doubter wrong, needed to show Boucher and Colorado and everyone else that trading me had been their biggest mistake.
Personal feelings—especially feelings for someone I couldn’t openly acknowledge—had no place in that equation.
Maybe Michael was right. Maybe the smart thing, the safe thing, was to maintain distance before whatever was developing between Wesley and me became something neither of us could ignore.
But as I replayed the evening in my mind—Wesley laughing with Petrov at his gaming incompetence, the way he’d instinctively helped clean up, the warmth in his eyes when I’d admitted I’d invited him for reasons beyond promotional documentation—I knew it was already too late for distance.
Whatever this was, whatever was growing between us, I was already in too deep to simply walk away.
Which meant I was in trouble. Serious, career-threatening, everything-I’d-worked-for-at-risk kind of trouble.
And the worst part was, I wasn’t sure I cared enough to stop it.