Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Wesley
The hot water pounded against my shoulders and steam filled my bathroom as I replayed last night in my head for what must have been the hundredth time. Griffin’s kiss. His hands around my back. The way he’d looked at me like I was worth every risk he was taking.
This could work.
I reached for the shampoo and worked it through my hair while my brain spun possibilities.
We could be careful. Meet at Griffin’s place or mine, never in public.
Keep our professional interactions completely neutral.
Separate our work from our relationship like a sharp blade cutting through fresh ice.
Unlike with Charles, there was an end date. Four to six years seemed like forever, but it was still a timeline, a plan, something concrete to work toward. Griffin would retire, come out, and we could have a real relationship. No more hiding, no more closet.
I rinsed my hair and reached for the body wash, the familiar ritual grounding me even as my thoughts raced ahead.
At least I knew what I was getting into this time. Eyes wide open, full awareness of the risks. That was agency, not victimhood. That was choosing rather than being chosen, deciding rather than having it decided for me.
Charles had never acknowledged what he was asking of me, had framed it as temporary until it became permanent through inertia and cowardice. Griffin was different. Griffin understood exactly what he was asking and had said it out loud, had given me every opportunity to walk away.
I rinsed, stepped out of the shower, and grabbed a towel, my reflection in the mirror showing someone who looked more awake, more alive than he had in months. Despite the fear, despite the very real risks, something about last night had felt right in a way nothing had since Nashville.
This was my choice. Not forced, not manipulated, not discovered and weaponized. Mine.
I moved to my closet and selected a charcoal suit, white dress shirt, and a burgundy tie.
Professional armor for a day that would require careful handling.
As I buttoned the shirt, I thought about how this time, the hiding felt strategic rather than shameful.
With Charles, I’d felt dirty, like our relationship was something to be embarrassed about.
With Griffin, the secrecy felt like protection—temporary, necessary, but not reflective of any shame about who we were.
I was in control this time.
The tie went on smoothly, my hands steady despite the nervous energy thrumming through my system.
I was good at crisis management—that’s what I did professionally, constantly anticipating problems and spinning solutions.
If anyone could navigate a secret relationship with a closeted NHL captain while maintaining perfect professional boundaries, it was me.
I just had to treat it like any other complex PR challenge. Assess risks, develop strategies, execute flawlessly.
In the kitchen, my bagel popped up from the toaster and I slathered it with cream cheese while acknowledging the truth I’d been dancing around since I’d awakened: I was already in deeper than I’d expected.
Already more invested, already more vulnerable than was probably wise after one evening of officially being together.
I took a bite of the bagel, the familiar yeasty and creamy tastes comforting as I let myself imagine the future. Griffin retiring, coming out, us being public. Attending team events together openly. Meeting each other’s families. Normal relationship things that other couples took for granted.
If I walked away now to protect myself, would I always wonder what if?
After all, what if this was the best thing that ever happened to me and I walked away because of fear?
The answer was obvious. I didn’t want to spend the next however-many years wondering what if about Griffin.
I deserved to take this risk for love.
Griffin made me happy. Genuinely happy in ways I’d almost forgotten were possible. That was worth fighting for, worth the careful choreography we’d have to maintain, worth the fear that occasionally spiked through my optimism.
I finished the bagel, rinsed my plate, and checked my watch. Seven forty-five. Time to head to the facility and face our first day of faking normalcy while everything had fundamentally changed.
As I grabbed my messenger bag and keys, I thought about how I’d come to Portland for a fresh start.
Maybe this was part of that—not running from my past with Charles, but running toward something better with Griffin.
Taking the lessons I’d learned and applying them to a situation where I had more control, more awareness, more choice.
And if this blew up spectacularly? If we got caught and I lost my job?
I locked my apartment door behind me and headed for my car, the morning air crisp and clear. If disaster struck, I could reinvent myself. Move to another city, maybe pivot to a sports news organization. I’d rebuilt once after Nashville. I could do it again if necessary.
But I was hopeful it wouldn’t come to that. Excited even, about the possibility of making this work. My optimism was in full force, seeing the path forward and believing we could navigate it successfully.
Griffin was worth the risk. We were worth the risk.
I just had to make sure my idealism didn’t blind me to the very real dangers we’d be facing every single day.
My office at the facility was larger than I’d had in Nashville—enough room for a desk, two visitors’ chairs, and a bookshelf I’d only half filled with PR resources and media materials.
I spent my morning responding to email messages, posting on social media, and writing a press release while the sounds of practice drifted up the two stories from the rink.
An hour after silence had fallen, a knock sounded on my door.
Griffin stood in my doorway holding two cups from Beaverton Beans, his expression carefully neutral, but his eyes warm in a way that made my pulse quicken.
“Thought you could use a caffeine boost,” he said, his voice professional as he glanced down the hallway before stepping inside. He left the door partially open—smart, maintaining the appearance of a routine interaction between colleagues.
“A caramel latte?” The words came out before I could moderate my tone, too much genuine pleasure bleeding through. My face broke into a smile I couldn’t quite control.
Griffin’s expression softened, his professional mask slipping for just a moment. “Of course.”
I stood from my desk and accepted the cup while forcing myself not to close the distance between us the way every instinct demanded. I wanted to kiss him, to touch him, to acknowledge what had changed between us in some physical way. But we were at work. The door was open, and anyone could walk by.
I stepped closer—too close for a purely professional distance—then caught myself and took a deliberate step back. My brain was screaming warnings: Stop smiling so much. You look like an idiot. Anyone passing by could notice.
“Thanks,” I managed, and tried to moderate my expression into something more appropriate for a colleague bringing another colleague coffee. “Did you need to go over something for the schedule?”
Griffin remained standing, completely respectable. He looked every inch the composed team captain—shoulders back, expression even. But his eyes told a different story and betrayed feelings that had nothing to do with media schedules and everything to do with last night.
“Among other things.” His voice dropped low, more intimate. “Wanted to see how you’re doing. After last night.”
I smiled. “I’m—” My phone rang, and the screen lit up with the GM’s name. “It’s Owen Davidson. Sorry, I’ve got to take this.” I held up my forefinger to indicate he should wait. I answered.
“Wesley, find Griffin. I’d like to see you both in my office as soon as possible.”
“Actually, he’s here right now. He just stopped by to discuss some scheduling.” I winced at the lie and glanced at Griffin. He grimaced.
“Perfect. Come to my office.”
“Of course. We’ll be right there.”
I ended the call and met Griffin’s eyes. “Do you think he knows?” I said low, in case someone was in the hallway.
“How could he? It’s been less than twelve hours.” Griffin’s voice was steady, but I could see his shoulders tense. “We haven’t done anything suspicious.”
“Except sit together on the San Jose flights,” I pointed out, my brain immediately cataloging every interaction someone might have witnessed.
“Lots of people sit together on flights. And I was practicing my speech.” Griffin straightened to his full height, topping me by three inches. “We’re probably overreacting.”
“Probably.” Though my hope battled with very real anxiety. “Let’s go.”
We walked to Davidson’s office in careful silence, maintaining professional distance, both of us projecting composed competence even as my mind spun through worst-case scenarios.
Maybe someone had seen me leave Griffin’s apartment late last night.
Maybe Turner had said something. Maybe Michael had called Davidson with suspicions.
Davidson’s office was on the executive level, spacious, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the rink and the kind of furniture that suggested serious money.
The GM stood from behind a massive desk.
He was in his fifties, with graying hair and the shrewd expression of someone who’d spent decades evaluating talent and risk.
“Griffin, Wesley, come in. Sit.” He gestured to the chairs across from his desk.
We sat, and I forced myself to breathe normally. This was fine. We were fine. Davidson couldn’t possibly know anything this quickly.
“Griffin, I wanted to personally congratulate you on your speech at the chamber of commerce. I’ve already gotten calls from three sponsors who were there, all extremely impressed.”