Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
Wesley
The door clicked shut behind Griffin, and I sat heavily in my desk chair, staring at the space where he’d been standing moments ago. The four walls of my office felt too constricting, too normal for a conversation that had fundamentally shifted something between us.
Griffin was gay.
Griffin Lapierre—NHL captain, the face of an expansion team, the embodiment of traditional masculine hockey culture—had just trusted me with a secret that could destroy everything he’d built.
My hands shook. I pressed them flat against my desk and tried to process the weight of what had just happened.
He’d chosen to tell me. Not because he was forced to, not because someone had discovered him, but because he trusted me enough to be vulnerable. After sixteen years of hiding, after a career built on carefully maintained performance, he’d looked at me and decided I was worth the risk.
The honor of that trust settled deep in my chest, making it hard to breathe properly.
I thought about the way Griffin’s voice had dropped to a whisper when he’d shared I’m gay, like the words themselves had physical weight. The relief that had flashed across his face when I’d promised to keep his secret. The exhaustion in his expression when he’d talked about living in the closet.
How alone must he be? Carrying this for sixteen years with only his mother and Michael knowing. No friends who really knew him. No relationships that could be acknowledged publicly. No understanding person to talk to when the weight of hiding became unbearable.
I understood that loneliness intimately.
I’d lived it myself before coming out after college, felt the peculiar isolation of being surrounded by people while still feeling completely alone.
But I’d eventually found freedom—imperfect and complicated, but real.
Griffin was still trapped in that isolation with no clear path out.
My immediate instinct was to help. To strategize how we could manage a coming-out narrative, to plan contingencies, to use every PR skill I had to protect him if and when he decided to be public. That’s what I did—I fixed problems, I spun narratives. I turned potential disasters into opportunities.
But this wasn’t a PR problem to solve. This was Griffin’s life, his choice, his timeline. And my role—if I had one at all—was to be someone he could trust, not another person trying to manage him.
The other reality settled over me more slowly, more uncomfortably.
Griffin was gay. And attracted to me. He’d admitted that also, his honesty almost painful in its directness.
Which meant the connection I’d been feeling, the chemistry I’d tried to dismiss as a one-sided attraction—it wasn’t just me. Griffin felt it too.
My mind immediately started spinning possibilities the way it always did, my brain jumping ahead to imagine different scenarios. We could be careful. Discreet. No one had to know. We could have something private, something real, built on the foundation of trust we’d already established.
But even as my optimism sketched out hopeful futures, reality crashed back in.
I’d been there before. With Charles in Nashville.
Charles, who’d said he loved me but wouldn’t be seen with me in public.
Who’d kept me carefully compartmentalized, never introducing me to colleagues or friends, always worried about who might see us together.
Who’d chosen his closet over our relationship every single time it mattered.
He’d been afraid his father, a preacher, would have disowned him at best and forced conversion therapy upon him at worst.
The painful lesson I’d learned—slowly, over three years of disappointment—was that dating someone who wouldn’t acknowledge me publicly meant accepting that I’d always be secondary. Hidden. A dirty secret rather than a partner to be proud of.
I’d promised myself I wouldn’t do that again. Wouldn’t settle for scraps of affection offered in private while being erased in public. Wouldn’t build a relationship on the foundation of shame and secrecy.
Griffin wasn’t Charles. I knew that intellectually. Griffin’s situation was different—he had legitimate career concerns, real professional consequences to consider. His closet wasn’t born from internalized homophobia but from a calculated risk assessment about what coming out might cost him.
But the result would be the same. If something developed between us, I’d be his secret. We’d have to hide every interaction, maintain perfect professional distance in public, live in constant fear of discovery. I’d be back in that same suffocating dynamic that had nearly destroyed me in Nashville.
I wouldn’t do that again. Couldn’t do that again, not without losing essential parts of myself I’d fought too hard to reclaim.
A knock on my door interrupted my spiral of thoughts.
“Come in,” I called, straightening in my chair and trying to compose my expression into something professionally neutral.
Eric Holloway stuck his head in, his expression serious. “Got a minute?”
“Of course.”
He closed the door behind him and sat in the chair across from me. “I wanted to talk to you about what happened in the locker room. With Turner.”
My stomach tightened. “It’s fine. Turner’s entitled to his opinions.”
“I want you to know that most of us don’t agree with him.” Holloway’s voice was firm. “What he said was bullshit, and several of us told him so after you and Lapierre left.”
The support caught me off guard, warmth spreading through the tightness in my body. “I appreciate that.”
“My cousin’s gay,” Holloway continued. “He came out in high school and dealt with a lot of crap from people who thought like Turner. Watching what he went through…” He shook his head.
“Nobody should have to deal with that kind of prejudice, especially not in their workplace. You belong here as much as anyone.”
“Thank you, Eric. That means a lot.”
“Lapierre was right to shut Turner down. Most of the team agrees with him.” Holloway stood, extending his hand for me to shake. “Just wanted you to know you’ve got support.”
After he left, I sat back in my chair, processing the unexpected solidarity.
And Holloway wasn’t the last. Throughout the afternoon, more players stopped by my office.
Laasko, brief and matter-of-fact, said simply, “Turner is an asshole. You do a good job.” Petrov brought me coffee, despite Russia’s stance on homosexuality.
Even Martin, who I’d barely interacted with, came by to express his disagreement with Turner’s attitude.
Their support was genuine and touching. But it also made me wonder—what would actually happen if Griffin came out?
The conventional wisdom, the fear that kept Griffin closeted, was that it would destroy his career. That teammates would revolt, that he’d lose credibility as a captain, that the locker room would become hostile territory.
But watching these players express support for me, seeing their genuine disgust at Turner’s homophobia—maybe the reality would differ from the fear. Maybe hockey culture had evolved more than Griffin’s sixteen years of hiding had allowed him to see.
Or maybe not. Maybe these players could support a gay PR manager while still feeling differently about a gay captain. Maybe the theoretical acceptance was easier than the reality of showering with a gay teammate.
I didn’t know. And the not knowing was exactly why Griffin’s fear was so understandable.
By five o’clock, I’d packed up my laptop and headed toward the arena for the preseason game against the San Jose Lasers.
The press box was already filling with local media by the time I arrived, the energy different from opening night—less anxiety, more curiosity about whether the team would bounce back from their first loss.
I settled into my usual seat with a view of the entire ice, my laptop open to track real-time social media sentiment and media coverage. Below, players warmed up with a focused intensity that suggested they’d taken the first loss personally.
Griffin moved through warm-ups with fluid precision, his skating smooth and controlled. I watched him—couldn’t help watching him, knowing what I knew, seeing past the captain’s performance to the man who carried an impossible weight.
The game started fast and physical. San Jose came out aggressively, clearly having watched tape of Portland’s defensive breakdowns from the first game and looking to exploit them.
But the Stormhawks responded with better communication and sharper positioning, the kind of cohesion that suggested Coach Roberts’s tape sessions had actually penetrated.
Midway through the first period, Griffin intercepted a pass at the blue line and broke toward San Jose’s net with Laasko on his wing. The play developed with beautiful precision—Griffin drawing two defenders, Laasko crashing the net, Griffin’s pass arriving exactly when and where it needed to be.
But instead of shooting, Laasko slid the puck back to Griffin, who’d continued driving toward the net. Griffin’s one-timer beat the goalie cleanly, and the red light flashed as the crowd erupted.
1–0 Portland.
I smiled and pride swelled unexpectedly as Griffin celebrated with his line mates. He’d needed that goal—for his confidence, for his team’s morale, for proof that he could still perform at an elite level despite the questions and doubts.
The second period belonged to Portland completely. Petrov scored on a breakaway, then Holloway added another. By the time the third period started, Portland was up 4–1 and the outcome wasn’t in serious doubt.
The final horn sounded on a 5–2 victory, exactly the response the team needed after their opening loss.
Post-game media availability was crowded with reporters eager to write the “bounce-back victory” narrative. I coordinated traffic, managing which media outlets went to which players, making sure our key messages got proper coverage.
Griffin was in demand. Multiple outlets wanted interviews with the captain who’d scored twice and looked like the top player Portland had invested in.
He handled question after question with practiced ease—humble about his performance, crediting teammates, emphasizing team improvement over individual success.
He was good at this. Better than good, he was media gold, an articulate, charismatic athlete that reporters loved to quote. I observed him work. A combination of professional admiration and personal attraction that was becoming increasingly difficult to separate warmed my chest.
Later, after the crush of media cleared, I found Griffin in the hallway outside the locker room, running his fingers over his hair with a relief that suggested he was ready to be done performing for the day.
“Great game,” I said. “And excellent media performance. You hit every talking point perfectly.”
“Had a good coach prepare me.” Griffin’s smile was warm, genuine. “Thanks for setting that up smoothly. Made it a lot easier.”
We stood there for a moment, the hallway empty except for the distant sounds of the arena being cleaned and locked down for the night. Close enough that I could smell his fresh body wash mixed with the lingering scents of ice and sweat.
Griffin’s eyes met mine, and the air between us shifted—became charged with the attraction neither of us was supposed to acknowledge. His gaze dropped briefly to my mouth before returning to my eyes, the hunger in his expression unmistakable.
I should have stepped back. Should have maintained the distance we’d agreed was necessary. Should have remembered all my promises to myself about not getting involved with someone who couldn’t be with me openly.
But I didn’t move. Neither did he.
“Wesley—” Griffin’s voice was rough.
“We shouldn’t,” I said, but the words lacked conviction.
“I know.”
The moment stretched, heavy with possibility and danger. Then Griffin did step back, breaking the connection, his expression shifting to something more controlled.
“I should let you finish up,” he said. “I’m sure you have work to do.”
“Yeah. Lots of social media content to post.” I paused, then pulled up my calendar on my phone. “Actually, can we get together tomorrow to work on your speech for the chamber of commerce luncheon? Monday’s coming up fast, and we should craft something that really resonates with that audience.”
“Yeah, that works. What time?”
“How about lunch at my apartment? Noon? We can work without interruptions, and I’ll order food.”
Griffin’s expression shifted slightly, his voice dropping low enough that I had to lean closer to hear him. “Is it wise for us to get together alone at your apartment?”
The question hung between us. He was right to ask—being alone together in a private space was exactly the kind of situation we should probably avoid.
But we genuinely did need to work on the speech, and my apartment offered a quiet space as opposed to the coffee shop.
My office would have worked, but a casual setting would put Griffin more at ease and give us space to spread out.
“We’ll be working,” I said firmly, though I wasn’t entirely sure if I was reassuring him or myself. “Speech writing, talking points, nothing unprofessional. I promise.”
I texted him my address.
Griffin glanced at his phone when it buzzed, then met my eyes again. “Okay. I’ll see you then.”
He walked away, his shoulders set with that captain’s posture that made everything look controlled. But I’d seen the hunger in his eyes, felt the pull between us that grew stronger every time we were alone together.
Here I go again. I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes briefly. Making the same mistake. Getting closer to another closeted man.
I’d set boundaries. Had been clear about what I wouldn’t accept. Had promised myself I wouldn’t repeat Nashville’s painful lessons.
But Griffin wasn’t making it easy to keep those promises. And I was discovering that knowing what you should do and actually doing it were very different things—especially when every interaction made you want to throw caution aside and reach for something you knew would complicate everything.
I was in trouble. Trouble that came from wanting something I couldn’t have, from caring about someone in ways that made professional distance impossible to maintain.
And the worst part was, I wasn’t sure I wanted to stop.
Even knowing where this path led, even remembering the pain of being someone’s secret—part of me kept reaching toward Griffin anyway, hoping this time might somehow be different.
Which was probably the definition of insanity. Or at least, the definition of someone about to make a very complicated mistake.