Chapter 18 #2
Wesley scrambled off the couch, fingers fumbling to fix his shirt while I grabbed the remote and shut off the TV.
We both ran hands through our hair, straightened clothing, repositioned our dicks, and tried to make ourselves look like we’d been doing anything except what we’d very obviously been doing.
Another knock, more insistent this time.
“Lapierre? You home?”
Holloway’s voice. My alternate captain, one of my closest friends on the team, standing outside my door while Wesley and I tried to look innocent.
I debated whether I should answer, but he’d probably heard the TV.
“Just a second!” I called, then turned to Wesley and whispered urgently, “How do I look?”
“Like you were making out on your couch.” Wesley adjusted my hood and pulled at the hem of my sweatshirt. “Better. Go. I’ll stay here.”
I crossed to the door and opened it, projecting calm I absolutely didn’t feel. “Hey, Eric. What’s up?”
Holloway held up a six-pack of light beer. “Brought these over. Thought we could hang out, decompress from Vancouver.” His gaze strayed past me into the apartment, and I saw the moment he registered Wesley’s presence. “Oh. You’ve got company. Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“No interruption.” The lie came easily, automatically, born from years of hiding. “Wesley and I were just going over some media prep for Thursday. Home opener stuff.”
Holloway’s eyes narrowed slightly, taking in the scene—Wesley standing awkwardly near the couch, no laptop or tablet visible.
“Media prep… on a Sunday?” Holloway’s tone was carefully neutral, but I caught the curiosity underneath. “Thought you had the day off.”
“Big game Thursday. Wanted to be prepared.” I stepped aside, even though every instinct screamed to keep him in the hallway. “Come on in.”
Wesley grabbed his phone from the coffee table with slightly too much urgency.
“Actually, I should get going. Let you guys have your Sunday.” He moved toward the door, meeting my eyes briefly with an expression that said we’ll talk later.
“Thanks for lunch, Griffin. We’ll finish the media prep tomorrow at my office. ”
“Sounds good. See you tomorrow.”
Wesley nodded to Holloway as he passed. “Eric. Good to see you.”
“Yeah. You too, Wesley.”
The door closed behind Wesley, and the apartment suddenly felt too quiet, too charged with the question Holloway wasn’t asking but clearly thinking.
“So.” Holloway set the beer on my kitchen bar, his expression curious rather than accusatory. “Media prep, huh?”
“Home opener’s a big deal. Wanted to make sure I’m ready for the presser.” I leaned against the bar.
“Beer?” Holloway offered a bottle. I took it, grateful to have something to do with my hands.
But he wasn’t done with the topic. “You and Wesley seem to work together a lot.”
My stomach tightened. This was exactly the kind of conversation I couldn’t afford—teammates noticing, asking questions, connecting dots that would lead to conclusions that would destroy everything.
“He’s the PR manager. Part of his job is making sure I’m prepared for media obligations.” I took a long drink of my beer, buying time to construct the right response. “As captain, I have more appearances than anyone else. Makes sense we’d work together frequently.”
“Right.” Holloway was quiet for a moment and sipped his beer.
Then he set his bottle down and looked at me directly.
“You know, I wouldn’t care, right? If you were into guys.
Wouldn’t matter to me at all.” He said it casually, but there was weight behind the words.
“You and Wesley—” He gestured vaguely. “I don’t know.
There’s something there. The way you look at him sometimes. ”
My heart stopped. Then started pounding so hard I was sure Holloway could hear it.
“I’m not—” I started, but Holloway held up a hand.
“I’m not asking you to confirm or deny anything. I’m just saying—if that’s your situation, you’ve got at least one teammate who wouldn’t give you shit for it. That’s all.” He picked up his beer again. “Figured you should know that. In case it ever matters.”
He moved to the living room, and I followed. I was grateful to see that Wesley and I had at least managed to straighten things enough that there was no obvious evidence of what we’d been doing. The couch looked normal.
“Vancouver was rough.” Holloway changed the subject, and I breathed a sigh of relief. “You played hard, though. Just didn’t get the bounces.”
“Story of the game.” I settled into the armchair rather than the couch, not wanting to sit where Wesley and I had been tangled together minutes ago. “Thursday will be different. Home ice, our fans, fresh start to the regular season.”
“You ready? First home game as captain of a new franchise—that’s a lot of pressure.”
“I’m ready.” The words came out with more confidence than I felt, but that was the performance. The captain who never doubted, never faltered, never revealed the cracks in his perfect image.
We talked about the home opener for another twenty minutes—line combinations Coach Roberts might use, Vegas’s defensive strategies we could exploit, the energy the home crowd would bring. Easy, comfortable conversation between teammates who’d been building trust since training camp.
But underneath it all, I felt the weight of Holloway’s comments settling into my chest. He’d noticed something. And if Holloway had noticed, who else had? How many other teammates were watching me and Wesley and connecting dots?
When he finally left, leaving the remaining beers and promising to see me at practice the next day, I closed the door and leaned against it. I exhaled with relief and frustration.
Later that evening, my phone buzzed with a text from Wesley—sent from his personal number, not the work account.
Wesley
That was close. You okay?
Griffin
Yeah. Holloway suspects, though.
Wesley
Shit. Did you deny it?
Griffin
I couldn’t even get the denial out convincingly. He said he’s noticed how I look at you. If Holloway sees it, who else does?
Minutes passed as I stared at my phone, wondering if he was going to answer. Then:
Wesley
Hey. Breathe.
Wesley
Holloway’s observant but that doesn’t mean everyone is. We’re okay. We just need to be more careful.
I stared at the text thread, feeling the burden of that truth in my gut. This was my apartment—my private space, the one place I should be able to relax and just exist without putting on a public face. But even here, I couldn’t risk having Wesley over without the constant threat of discovery.
I can’t even have private time in my own home.
The admission felt bitter, angry. I’d agreed to this arrangement—had asked Wesley to enter into a secret relationship despite knowing the risks.
But I hadn’t fully calculated how suffocating it would feel to have nowhere that was truly safe, no space where I could just be Griffin instead of Captain Lapierre projecting perfect heterosexuality.
Griffin
I know. I’m sorry. This is harder than either of us expected.
Wesley
Not your fault. I knew what I was signing up for.
Griffin
Doesn’t make it less frustrating.
I looked around my apartment—at the couch where Wesley and I had been when Holloway intruded, at the kitchen where we’d eaten lunch, at the space that should have felt like sanctuary but felt like another stage where I had to act.
Four to six years of this. Four to six years of sneaking around and interrupted intimacy and the constant vigilance required to protect a secret that felt increasingly impossible to keep.
Wesley
For what it’s worth—I’m glad you remembered my sandwich order. That meant something.
I smiled despite the frustration and fear.
Griffin
Everything about you means something to me. Good night, Wesley.
Wesley
Good night, Griffin.
I sank onto my couch and stared at the blank TV screen. I sat in the silence of my apartment and acknowledged the truth I’d been avoiding since Vancouver, since the hotel room, since the moment I’d invited Wesley into my life and my secrets.
This arrangement—this relationship—required sacrifices I hadn’t fully understood when I’d asked Wesley to try. It meant no spontaneous visits, no casual afternoons together, no simple act of having someone over without calculating every risk and consequence.
It meant living in a constant state of awareness, even in my own home.