Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Griffin
This is stupid. Go back to your room.
The door opened before I could retreat. Wesley’s hand shot out, grabbed my T-shirt, and pulled me inside. The door clicked shut behind me and the lock engaged with a soft snick that sounded absurdly loud in the quiet.
“Damn, it’s good to see you.” He smiled as his hands framed my face, and he kissed me.
The kiss was congratulatory and hungry all at once—Wesley’s mouth warm and insistent against mine, his soft beard brushing my lip, his body pressing close enough that I could feel his heartbeat through our T-shirts.
All the adrenaline from the game that had nowhere to go suddenly found direction, and I kissed him back hard enough that he made a small sound of surprise and pleasure.
When we broke apart, both breathing harder, Wesley’s eyes were bright with satisfaction. “Hell of a game, Captain. That goal in the second period was beautiful.”
“Caught the rebound.” My hands had found his waist without conscious decision, thumbs brushing the bare skin where his T-shirt had bunched up. “Team played well.”
“You played well. Goal and an assist, multiple blocked shots, constant communication with your lines.” Wesley’s smile was genuine, proud in a way that made something warm expand in my chest. “You’re becoming exactly the leader this team needs.”
The praise landed differently coming from Wesley than from coaches or teammates. He saw past the performance to the person underneath, recognized the work I put in beyond just statistics and highlight reels.
“Come on.” Wesley took my hand and led me toward the bed. “Tell me about it. The whole game.”
We stretched out on top of the covers, facing each other, close enough that our knees touched.
The position was intimate without being sexual, comfortable in a way I’d never experienced with my brief, anonymous hookups.
This felt like something real—like a relationship instead of just physical release.
“Turner saw,” I said quietly, the worry I’d been carrying since the plane finally finding voice. “On the team plane, when you boarded. I winked at you, and he saw. He scowled at me like he knew exactly what it meant.”
Wesley’s expression sobered. “Shit. What did you do?”
“Played it off. Made some comment about being ready for the game. But he noticed, Wes. He’s already wary about you being gay, and now he’s going to be watching me more carefully.”
“Then we have to be even more careful.” Wesley’s hand found mine between us on the bed, his fingers lacing through my own. “No more winks. No more looks. Perfect professional distance when anyone else is around.”
“I know. I just…” I paused, trying to articulate the frustration. “I hate that being around you requires so much caution. That I can’t just smile at you without calculating whether someone’s watching.”
“I hate it too.” Wesley squeezed my hand gently. “But that’s the reality we’re navigating. At least for now.”
Four to six years. The timeline that felt both manageable and impossibly long.
“Let’s talk about something better.” Wesley shifted closer, and his warm brown eyes searched mine. “How do you feel about tomorrow—tonight? Vancouver?”
The question landed heavier than he probably intended. I was quiet for a moment, processing the tangle of emotions that came with playing in my father’s city.
“Complicated,” I admitted finally. “Vancouver was Dad’s last team. He was the captain there for five years. I was playing junior and then major junior hockey while he was there, but I saw some of his games. Watched him lead that team, saw how the fans loved him, how his teammates respected him.”
“That’s a lot of legacy to carry.” Wesley’s voice was gentle, understanding.
“He was legendary. One of the greatest centers of his generation. When people in Vancouver see Lapierre on my jersey, they make comparisons. And I’m not sure I live up to them. Especially now, with a transition team.” The admission felt vulnerable.
“You don’t have to be your father.” Wesley’s thumb traced circles on the back of my hand, the gentle motion settling. “You just have to be yourself. Griffin Lapierre, captain of the Stormhawks, who just led his team to a road victory. That’s enough.”
“Is it?” The question came out more raw than I’d intended. “My whole life has been about living up to his legacy. Being good enough, successful enough, perfect enough to honor his memory. And the one thing he told me I couldn’t do—couldn’t be—was openly gay.”
Wesley was quiet, letting me work through the thoughts I’d been avoiding.
“I believed him,” I continued. “When he said coming out would ruin my career, that I had to hide to succeed. I was sixteen, and he was my hero. Of course I believed him.” My throat tightened.
“I know,” he said softly. “But that’s the thing about being an adult, making your own choices. Eventually, you have to stop living for what your father wanted and start living for what you want.”
“What if what I want disrespects his memory?”
“That’s not up to you.” Wesley’s expression was fierce, protective.
“Griffin, you’re an incredible hockey player and an exceptional leader.
Your father should have been proud of those things.
And if he couldn’t be proud of you being gay—if he prioritized your image over your happiness—then that’s his failure, not yours. ”
The words hit something deep in my chest, a knot of grief and guilt I’d been carrying since I was sixteen. My father had been my hero, and heroes weren’t supposed to fail their children. But by telling me to hide, by prioritizing my career over my authenticity, maybe he had.
“I wish I knew what he’d think about me coming out after I retire,” I said quietly. “If he’d understand. I’ll never get that answer.”
“No, you won’t.” Wesley shifted closer, his forehead resting against mine. “But you get to make your own decisions now. You get to decide when and how you come out, if you come out at all. Your father’s opinion—whatever it might have been—doesn’t have to control your choices anymore.”
“Doesn’t it, though?” I pulled back slightly to meet his eyes. “Everything Michael and my mom say is framed as ‘what your father would have wanted.’ Every decision is filtered through his legacy. How do I separate what I actually want from what I’ve been conditioned to believe I should want?”
“By asking yourself hard questions. By imagining what your life would look like in ten years, twenty years, and deciding if that’s the life you want or the life you think you’re supposed to want.
” Wesley’s hand cupped my jaw, his touch gentle.
“By being here with me, risking everything for a few stolen hours, because some part of you knows this matters more than the mask.”
He was right. Being here, in this hotel room, choosing a connection over safety—that was authenticity. Small, secretive, dangerous authenticity, but authenticity nonetheless.
“Tomorrow’s going to be hard,” I admitted. “Playing in that arena. Feeling the weight of his legacy. Knowing the media will ask about him, knowing the comparisons will come.”
“Then tonight, you don’t have to think about any of that.” Wesley closed the remaining distance between us, his mouth finding mine in a kiss that was tender and thoughtful. “Tonight, you’re just Griffin. Not a captain, not a legacy, not an image. Just you.”
The kiss deepened, becoming less gentle and more urgent.
My hands gripped the hem of his T-shirt.
Wesley sat up to help as I pulled it up and over his head in one smooth motion.
His skin was warm under my palms, solid muscle over a toned frame, and he made a small sound of approval as my hands explored.
His fingers yanked at my tee, fumbling slightly in his eagerness, and I helped him—shrugging out of it and tossing it toward the chair where it missed and landed on the floor.
Didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except the press of Wesley’s body against mine, the way he kissed me like I was precious and desired all at once.
We moved together, hands and mouths mapping new territory. Wesley’s touch was confident but gentle, reading my responses and adjusting accordingly, and I tried to do the same—paying attention to what made him gasp, what made his hands tighten on my shoulders, what made him pull me closer.
The intimacy built slowly, neither of us rushing despite the time constraints and danger. This was borrowed time, precious and fragile, and we both seemed determined to savor it rather than race through it.
I palmed his erection through his soft sleep pants, and he sucked in a breath.
“Yes,” he hissed.
Taking that as permission, I slipped my hand beneath his waistband. I hesitated, giving him time to refuse, but he nodded his approval. My fingers wrapped around his hot, hard cock, and I lightly swiped the head with my thumb.
He bucked against my hand. “Griffin,” he said on a breath. “Don’t tease me. Give it to me. Hard. Let me fuck your fist.”
A buzz shot straight to my balls at his words.
I should have known Wesley’s enthusiasm would translate into a voracious hunger and dirty talk in bed.
I grasped his dick and held on as he thrust into my grip.
Gone was the slow burn of our earlier explorations, replaced by his urgent pounding as if he was railing my ass.
My dick throbbed, trapped within my boxer briefs.
His hips stuttered. He pulled a pillow over his head and shouted into it, the wordless sound muffled, as his cock pulsed in my hand. Liquid warmth coated my fingers.
I wrenched my hand from his pants, freed my erection, and frantically jerked off. A tingle raced down my spine, and I shot ropes of cum onto Wesley’s stomach, shuddering.
I collapsed to the bed, gasping as if I’d skated laps. “Oh my God.”
“You can say that again.” He lifted to view the mess on his abs. “I should probably clean up,” he said, but dropped his head back down onto the pillow.