Chapter 15 #2
The chicken had turned out perfectly—moist and flavorful, the mozzarella melted into creamy pockets of richness. Griffin took his first bite and made a sound that was almost obscene.
“This is incredible.” He looked at me with something like awe. “You made this look easy.”
“It is easy. You just need practice.” I speared a green bean.
“Though maybe start with something less knife-intensive. Pasta, perhaps. Hard to mess up boiling water.” I reconsidered and shook my head.
“On second thought, maybe not. Pasta can be tricky—getting the tenderness just right takes practice.”
“I’ve managed to screw up instant ramen.” Griffin took another bite and hummed in appreciation. “But seriously, this is amazing. Thank you for teaching me. Or trying to, anyway.”
We ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes, a quiet that felt companionable rather than awkward.
“Can I ask you something?” Griffin set down his fork and furrowed his brow.
“Of course.” My gut twisted at his serious expression.
“What do you want? Long term, I mean. For your career.” He paused, as if choosing his words carefully. “You said you came to Portland for a fresh start. Is this it? Or is there something else you’re working toward?”
The question caught me off guard—not because I hadn’t thought about it, but because no one had asked except in job interviews.
Charles certainly never had. Our relationship had existed in a bubble where the future was something we avoided discussing, as if naming our goals might make the impossibility of achieving them together too obvious.
“Honestly?” I took a sip of beer and gathered my thoughts.
“I think I’ve reached the pinnacle of what I want professionally.
I’m the PR manager for an NHL expansion team.
I get to shape narratives, manage crises, help build something from the ground up.
This is the job I’ve been working toward my entire career. ”
“So, you want to stay in Portland?” Griffin’s tone was neutral, but I caught an undercurrent of hope.
“I want to stay in one place,” I clarified.
“Build a life instead of constantly moving between cities. I did that for years—climbing the ladder, taking new positions, always chasing the next opportunity. But I’m thirty-eight.
I’m ready to put down roots. Have a home that feels permanent. Buy a house.”
Griffin was quiet. “What if I get traded? I don’t have a no-trade clause.”
The question hung between us, heavy with implications. I’d been trying not to think about it—the very real possibility that they could trade Griffin to another team, that our careful plans could be derailed by factors completely outside our control.
“Then I’d have to rethink my career path,” I said honestly. “Figure out if there’s a way to follow you without making it obvious. Or if long distance is sustainable for however many years you have left playing.”
“That’s not fair to you.” Griffin’s expression darkened. “You finally have the position you want, in a city you like, and I’m a risk to all of it.”
“You’re not a risk. You’re just a complication.” I reached across the table and laid my hand over his. The contact felt significant, grounding. “And one I’ve chosen to navigate. If you get traded, we’ll figure it out. Together.”
“But what if—”
“Griffin.” I squeezed his hand gently. “I’m a PR manager.
I see possibilities where other people see problems. If you get traded, maybe I find a remote consulting position.
Maybe I take a job with whatever team you land on.
Maybe we do long distance, and I fly out for home games.
There are options. We don’t have to solve it right now. ”
The rational part of my brain whispered that I might be getting ahead of myself—that four to six years was a lifetime in relationship terms, especially with all the complications we faced.
But I’d always been an optimist, sometimes to my own detriment, and I wasn’t about to start catastrophizing now.
Not when Griffin was finally letting himself hope.
Griffin turned his hand over, lacing his fingers through mine. “You make it sound simple.”
“It’s not simple. But it’s not impossible either.” I held his gaze. “What about you? What do you want? Besides four to six more years of playing.”
“I want to stay in Portland.” Griffin’s answer came quickly, definitively.
“I know that’s not guaranteed—hell, Colorado proved that nothing’s guaranteed in pro sports.
But if I have any choice in the matter, I want to build something here.
Lead this team. Prove that the Stormhawks made the right decision by bringing me in as captain. ”
“And after retirement?”
“I don’t know.” Griffin’s thumb traced circles on the back of my hand.
The gentle motion seemed absent-minded. “I’ve spent my entire life focused on hockey.
I haven’t let myself think much beyond it because thinking about after meant acknowledging eventually I’d have to make choices about coming out, about living openly.
Easier to just focus on the next game, the next season. ”
“But now?” I prompted gently.
“Now I’m sitting in your apartment eating the chicken I helped cook, holding your hand, and thinking maybe there could be an after worth planning for.
” Griffin’s expression was soft, vulnerable.
“Maybe retiring doesn’t have to be the end of my life.
Maybe it could be the beginning of something better. ”
The words tightened my chest. This was what I’d hoped for—evidence that Griffin could imagine a future beyond the closet, that our timeline wasn’t just theoretical but something he genuinely wanted to work toward.
“What would that look like?” I kept my voice carefully neutral, not wanting to push too hard. “Your ideal coming-out scenario.”
Griffin was quiet for a long moment, clearly considering the question. “I don’t know. I’ve spent so long being terrified of it I haven’t thought about how it could actually happen. What it could look like if I had control over the narrative instead of being forced out by discovery or exposure.”
“Can I make a suggestion?” I waited for his nod before I continued.
“What if we planned it? Not now—not tomorrow or next month or even next season. But eventually, when you’re ready.
What if we created your perfect coming-out scenario?
The timing, the message, the medium. All of it designed to tell your story your way. ”
Griffin’s expression shifted—surprise, then consideration, then something that might have been cautious hope. “You think that’s possible?”
“I think with enough planning and the right strategy, almost anything is possible.” I saw the opportunity to reframe his fear into something actionable.
“You’re Griffin Lapierre. Team captain. Leader.
Face of the franchise. You have platform and credibility and respect. Those are assets we can use.”
“Assets,” he said, his tone thoughtful. “I’ve never thought of it that way. Always just saw coming out as loss—loss of image, loss of sponsorships, loss of my father’s legacy.”
“What if it wasn’t a loss?” I leaned forward, warming to the subject despite knowing I needed to be careful not to pressure him.
“What if it was expansion? Adding another dimension to who you are publicly instead of subtracting anything. The first NHL player to come out. That’s historic.
That’s leadership in a way that transcends hockey. ”
His eyes searched mine, looking for something—reassurance, perhaps, or proof that my optimism wasn’t just na?ve hope. “You really believe that?”
“I really believe that when you’re ready—truly ready—we can make this work in a way that honors who you are rather than destroying it.” I squeezed his hand. “But that’s a conversation for later. For now, let’s just focus on the present. On this. On us.”
“Us.” He smiled, the tension in his shoulders visibly easing. “I like this. Being here with you.”
I stood and tugged him up with me. “Come on. Let’s clean up, have dessert, and not worry about anything beyond tonight.”
Cleaning up after dinner showcased Griffin’s organizational skills in full force—he efficiently scraped plates, loaded the dishwasher with military precision, wiped down counters until they gleamed, and had my kitchen spotless in minutes.
I stood uselessly by and watched him work with the same focused intensity he brought to the ice.
“You’re making me look bad in my own kitchen.” I leaned against the counter.
Griffin glanced up with a slight smile. He hung the dish towel with precise alignment. “There. All done.”
“Well, since you’ve efficiently stolen my cleanup duties, I’ll bring the tiramisu and coffee into the living room.” I gestured toward the couch. “Go sit. Relax. Let me handle the easy part.”
Griffin retreated to my couch while I brewed coffee and plated the tiramisu. When I joined him, he’d settled into the corner, one arm stretched along the back cushions in casual invitation.
I handed him a plate and settled beside him, close enough that our thighs touched, close enough to feel his warmth.
The tiramisu was excellent—rich and creamy, the espresso and cocoa balanced perfectly.
We ate in comfortable silence, the kind that felt like intimacy rather than the absence of conversation.
“Thank you for tonight,” he said eventually, setting his empty plate on the coffee table. “For all of this. Teaching me to cook, talking about the future, just… being you.”
“Being me?” I set down my plate and turned to face him more fully.
“Optimistic. Strategic. Seeing possibilities instead of just problems.” Griffin’s hand took mine and his thumb resumed those gentle circles that made my pulse quicken. “You make me think maybe I can have what I want.”