Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Griffin
My phone chimed with a text message during the drive back from the chamber of commerce luncheon, Wesley’s name lighting up the screen. I waited until I’d parked in my apartment’s garage before reading the message.
Wesley
Just got off the phone with the chamber president. Said your speech was “exactly what Portland’s business community needed to hear” and wants to book you for next year. Well done, Captain.
Relief and pride settled in my gut. The speech had gone better than I’d expected—the audience engaged, laughing at the right moments, nodding during the serious parts.
But standing up there talking about authentic leadership while hiding fundamental truths about myself had felt like skating with a loose blade—one wrong word away from disaster.
Griffin
Glad it worked. Felt good despite my misgivings about the whole authenticity angle.
Wesley
You earned the compliment.
I stared at my phone, and my thumb hovered over the keyboard. The smart thing, the safe thing, was to thank him and move on. Keep the conversation professional, maintain the boundaries we’d agreed on, continue the careful distance that was supposed to protect us both.
But sitting in my car, remembering yesterday’s flight home after the game when we’d veered into personal territory—the way Wesley had looked at me when I’d almost said too much, the disappointment in his expression when I’d defaulted to “appreciate” instead of whatever truth had been trying to escape—made the distance feel impossible.
I wanted to see him. Not at the facility where we had to act for everyone else, not in public where every interaction was measured and careful. Just… see him. Talk to him. Exist in the same space without the constant vigilance.
My fingers moved before I could talk myself out of it.
Griffin
Want to come over tonight? I’ll order dinner. We can watch the LA-Anaheim preseason game.
I hit send and immediately regretted it. Too forward. Too obvious. Friends didn’t invite each other over with this kind of nervous energy, this desperate need for proximity.
The three dots appeared, disappeared, reappeared. My pulse hammered against my ribs as I watched the screen, each second of silence confirming that I’d crossed a line, pushed too hard, revealed too much.
Finally, Wesley’s response came through.
Wesley
What are we doing, Griffin?
The question landed like a punch from an enforcer. Honest, direct, asking me to name what we both knew was happening between us.
Griffin
Friends get together. Watch games. Order food. Nothing unprofessional about that.
Another long pause. I could practically see Wesley’s expression—that look he got when he was thinking three moves ahead, calculating possibilities and consequences.
Wesley
What time?
Griffin
7?
Wesley
I’ll be there.
I sat in my car for another five minutes, staring at the exchange and wondering what I’d just set in motion. Friends watching a game. That’s all I’d invited him for. That’s all it had to be.
The lie sat bitter on my tongue even as I tried to convince myself it was true.
By six thirty, my apartment was as ready as it could be—cleaned after I got home in a fit of nervous energy, living room arranged so the couch faced the TV at the optimal angle, menus from three different restaurants laid out on the counter because I couldn’t decide what to order.
I changed clothes twice, first into sweats that felt too casual, then into jeans and a button-down that felt too formal, finally settling on jeans and a Henley that split the difference. Then I felt ridiculous for caring what I wore to watch a hockey game in my own apartment.
The buzzer sounded just before seven, and my gut skittered like a puck across the ice.
I opened the door to find Wesley holding a six-pack of Beaverton Brews IPA. The soft gray sweater that skimmed his broad chest made his warm brown eyes look darker. His expression was carefully neutral, but I caught the slight tension in his shoulders that suggested he was as nervous as I was.
“Brought beer.” Wesley raised the six-pack. “Figured it went with the hockey-watching experience.”
“Thanks. Come in.”
He stepped past me into the apartment, and I caught the scent of his cedar body wash mixed with something spicy—his shampoo, maybe. The same combination that had been driving me crazy on the flight and in meetings and every other time we’d been in close proximity.
I closed the door and tried to ignore how the simple act of having Wesley in my space felt significant, charged with possibility and danger in equal measure.
“What sounds good for dinner?” I asked, gesturing to the menus. “I’ve got Thai, Chinese, or Mexican.”
“Mexican works. You order. I’ll open the beer.”
We fell into an easy rhythm—me calling in the order while Wesley found glasses, opened beers, and bumbled around my kitchen looking for plates despite having been here for the video game tournament.
The food arrived twenty minutes later. We settled onto my couch with plates balanced on our laps, the coffee table pulled close for drinks and extra containers.
The TV showed pregame coverage of the LA Renegades-Anaheim Apex matchup, analysts discussing lineups and predictions with the kind of certainty that always amused me.
“Who are you picking?” Wesley dipped a chip into salsa.
“LA. They’ve got better depth, and Anaheim’s defense looked shaky in their first two games.”
“I’m taking Anaheim. Their goaltending has been solid, and sometimes that’s enough to steal games.”
We ate and watched as the game started, keeping up running commentary on plays and strategies. It felt comfortable, natural, exactly what I’d imagined when I’d invited him over.
Except I was aware of every point where our bodies almost touched. The way Wesley’s thigh was inches from mine on the couch. How his hand rested on the cushion between us, close enough that I could feel its warmth without actual contact.
Halfway through the first period, I shifted slightly closer, testing. Wesley didn’t move away.
After LA scored on a power play, I moved again, our shoulders now touching. Wesley leaned into the contact instead of retreating, the simple acceptance making my pulse quicken.
I stretched my arm along the back of the couch, the gesture casual but deliberate. My hand rested near Wesley’s shoulder, not quite touching but present. An offer, a question, a line being drawn that either of us could choose not to cross.
Wesley leaned back slightly, his shoulder blade pressing against my forearm. Permission. Acknowledgment. Answer.
“Wesley.” My voice came out rough.
He turned to face me, his expression serious, searching. “Yeah?”
The game continued in the background—whistles, commentary, the distant roar of the arena crowd—but it felt like white noise, irrelevant compared to the moment happening on my couch.
“I’m attracted to you.” The words felt too simple for what I was trying to express, but I forced myself to continue. “I’ve been trying to ignore it, trying to maintain professional distance, trying to convince myself we could just be colleagues. But I can’t do it anymore.”
Wesley’s eyes stayed fixed on mine, unreadable. “Griffin—”
“I know all the reasons this is a bad idea. I know what we agreed on. But sitting next to you, I can’t keep pretending there’s nothing here.” I paused, gathering courage. “I want to try this. Being together. Privately. I want to be who I truly am with someone who knows me. With you.”
Wesley pulled back slightly, putting physical distance between us even as his furrowed brow showed conflict rather than rejection.
“Do you understand what you’re asking? The non-fraternization policy isn’t just about keeping things quiet—we’d be actively violating team rules.
If we’re caught, I’d lose my job. I’d get blacklisted from sports PR.
You might face discipline, but with the power difference, you’d survive it. I wouldn’t.”
The reality of it hit like ice in the face. I’d been so focused on the risk to my career if my sexuality was discovered that I hadn’t fully considered the concrete professional danger to Wesley just from the relationship itself.
“I’m sorry,” I said quietly. “I’m asking you to take that risk, which makes me selfish as hell. But I’ll protect you—if we’re discovered, I’ll make sure you’re not the one who pays the price.”
“You can’t guarantee that.”
“No. But I can promise I’ll try. And that if it comes down to your career or mine, I choose yours.”
Wesley stood up, pacing to my windows and looking out at Beaverton’s lights. He shoved his hands in his pockets and his shoulders tightened with tension.
“Do you know what happened in Nashville?”
“Yes,” I said with regret.
“I promised myself something after that,” Wesley said, not turning around. “I promised I wouldn’t date another closeted man. That I wouldn’t be someone’s secret again, hidden away like something shameful.”
The words struck deep because they were fair, because I was asking him to be exactly that.
“Tell me about him,” I said. “Charles.”
Wesley turned and leaned against the window frame. “We met at a sports media event. He was a TV color commentator for the Nashville broadcast team—former player, well-connected, everyone loved him. Smart, funny, genuinely kind. We started seeing each other secretly because he wasn’t out.”
“How long were you together?”