Chapter 20 #2
“You can have it.” Wesley was quiet, but certain. “Just not yet. Four to six years, then retirement, then coming out. Then all of this…” He gestured vaguely toward where the couple sat. “Can be yours too.”
Four to six years felt like an eternity right now. Four to six years of hiding, performing, maintaining perfect control. Four to six years of watching other people live openly while I calculated every interaction and measured every risk.
But that was the plan. The timeline. The promise I’d made to myself and to Wesley.
“You know,” Wesley said thoughtfully. “The Stormhawks want to do an inclusivity initiative this season. A ‘hockey is for everyone’ type program. Davidson mentioned wanting an ambassador. You’d be perfect for it.”
The irony was hilarious. Me, the closeted captain, serving as the face of LGBTQ+ inclusion. The ultimate performance—advocating for authenticity while hiding my own truth.
“I don’t know about that.” I kept my voice neutral. “Wouldn’t that be hypocritical?”
“Think about it.” Wesley’s eyes held mine with an intensity that suggested he saw possibilities I couldn’t. “Being an ally publicly, supporting inclusivity even while you’re not ready to come out yourself—that’s valuable. That’s leadership.”
“Maybe.” I wasn’t convinced, and the hesitation made me sound ashamed. I wasn’t—I just wasn’t sure I was the right person to lead it.
Wesley’s phone chimed with a text, and he glanced at the screen. “Sorry, that’s Natalie. My PR specialist. I should check in with her about Thursday’s media logistics.”
“Go ahead.”
Wesley typed a quick response, then a longer one, in business mode. After a few exchanges, he set down his phone and started packing up his laptop. “I should go home. It’s been a long day, and I need to eat something that isn’t coffee shop pastries.”
Disappointment settled in my gut, but I nodded. “Yeah. I should head out too.”
We left separately—Wesley first, with a professional wave and a “see you Thursday at the presser,” then me a few minutes later after finishing my coffee and scrolling through meaningless emails on my phone.
But instead of heading back to my apartment, I found myself driving toward Wesley’s building. Found myself parking in the visitor lot and walking up to his door, my heart pounding with the recklessness of what I was doing.
I knocked, and when Wesley opened his door, surprise flickered across his face.
“Griffin. What—”
“I can’t stay away.” The admission felt like exposing a vulnerability, revealing a weakness that contradicted everything my mind told me to hide. “I know I should. I know it’s risky. But I needed to see you. Really see you, not just the civil version across a coffee shop table.”
Wesley’s expression softened, and he stepped back to let me in. “You’re going to give me a heart attack showing up unannounced like this.”
“Sorry.” I wasn’t sorry. I stepped inside, and Wesley closed the door behind me.
“Hungry?” Wesley moved toward his kitchen. “I was about to make dinner. Nothing fancy—spaghetti and meat sauce.”
“I could eat.” I followed him. He pulled a pound of ground beef from his fridge. “Want help?” I asked.
“You can try to not destroy my kitchen while I cook.” Wesley’s smile took the sting out of the words. “Sit. Talk to me. Tell me what’s really going on.”
I sat at his kitchen bar as Wesley worked. He moved through the space with comfortable familiarity, browning beef, boiling water, and measuring spices, his movements sure.
“I’m scared about Thursday,” I admitted, able to be honest with Wesley like no one else in my life. “Scared I’ll fail. Scared I won’t live up to expectations. Scared that everything Colorado said about me was true—that I’m past my prime, that I can’t lead a team, that I was expendable.”
“None of that is true.” Wesley looked up from opening a jar of marinara sauce. “Colorado made a business decision based on their goals. It wasn’t about your value as a player or a leader. It was about roster construction and salary cap management.”
“My head knows that. But my gut…” I pressed my hand against my stomach, where anxiety had been sitting like a weight for days. “My gut says I have to be perfect on Thursday. Have to prove I’m worth what Portland invested. Have to show that I’m valuable.”
“You’re already valuable.” Wesley turned off the burners and crossed to where I sat, his hands cupping my jaw with gentle certainty. “Not because of your stats or your leadership or your performance. You’re valuable because you’re you. Griffin Lapierre the person, not the captain.”
The words landed in that tender place where my father’s voice still echoed, where the fear of being worthless lived. Wesley was offering a different narrative—one where my worth existed independent of success, where being myself was enough.
I wanted to believe him. Wanted to internalize that truth and make it my own.
Instead, I kissed him.
Wesley responded immediately, his mouth opening against mine, his hands sliding from my face to my shoulders to my back. I stood and pulled him closer, needing the physical connection to ground me when my thoughts spiraled.
We stumbled toward the couch, then past it to Wesley’s bedroom, our hands working at each other’s clothes with increasing urgency.
This wasn’t the exploratory passion of Sunday afternoon.
This was desperate and urgent and slightly out of control, fueled by my anxiety about Thursday and the constant pressure of hiding and the simple need to feel something real when everything else felt like projecting an image.
Wesley’s bed was unmade, the sheets still rumpled from this morning, and we fell into it together. His hands traced my body with increasing confidence, learning what made me gasp, what made my fingers tighten in his hair, what made me pull him closer and demand more.
I tried to give back the same attention, reading his responses and adjusting accordingly, wanting him to feel as wanted and desired as he made me feel.
The physical connection felt like communication—saying with touch what I couldn’t articulate with words, expressing the depth of feeling I wasn’t ready to name out loud.
I worked the buttons of his shirt, fingers fumbling, and kissed every inch of skin as I exposed it. His breath hitched. I sat up, pulled my T-shirt over my head, and tossed it to the floor.
I lay back down beside him and pressed my chest against his. The intimacy could have felt awkward—I had zero experience with meaningful encounters. But with Wesley, everything felt natural.
And then I kissed him again as we fumbled with belts, buttons, and zippers, knees bumping. I peeled his pants open and exposed his boxer briefs—bright pink, which suited his personality. We slid each other’s pants off, and they joined my T-shirt on the floor.
I was naked with Wesley. Exposed to him physically and emotionally, yet somehow it felt right.
I pushed him to his back and kissed down his furred chest, following the trail of dark hair to his hard cock.
Molten desire flowed through my veins, and my dick throbbed.
I wrapped my lips around the glistening head of his erection and swirled my tongue around the tip, tasting salty precum.
One of us moaned. Or maybe both of us did.
He clutched my shoulders. “That’s it,” he said, breathless. His fingers dug painfully into my muscles.
I took him deeper until he hit the back of my throat.
“Ungh.” His encouragement was wordless.
I sucked, bobbed, and licked until he was writhing and begging, applying myself to wringing as much pleasure out of him as I could. He bucked into my mouth, and I suppressed a gag, determined to give him everything I had.
He tapped my shoulder. “I’m going to…”
I swallowed around the head of his cock. He pulsed in my mouth and came down my throat with a shout.
And then he quickly withdrew.
And pounced.
He pushed me to my back and took my dick into his hot, wet mouth. It only took him a few hungry sucks of my cock before I came with a shouted curse down his throat.
He collapsed to my side, both of us breathing hard. “That was…” he said.
“Yes, it was.” His enthusiasm and my competitive drive were a volatile combination in bed.
Wesley wrapped around me, tucked his leg between mine, and gripped my waist tightly. The room was dim, the only light coming from the kitchen, and the sounds of Beaverton’s evening traffic provided gentle background noise.
“I should go.” I didn’t move, didn’t want to move, wanted to stay here in Wesley’s bed.
“You should.” He squeezed me around the middle. “But not yet. It’s only seven. Not suspicious if you leave by seven thirty.”
“Okay.” I closed my eyes and savored the simple pleasure of being held. “Just a few more minutes.”
We lay in comfortable silence, and I let myself imagine what life could be like after retirement. After coming out. When moments like this wouldn’t require sneaking around and careful timing and constant vigilance. When I could just exist with Wesley without calculating every risk.
Four to six years. Then freedom.
If I could survive that long without hiding my true self destroying me first.
At seven thirty, I reluctantly extracted myself from Wesley and fumbled with my clothes. He walked me to the door, and we paused in that transition space between his private sanctuary and the public world.
“Thursday’s going to be great.” Wesley’s voice was certain, reassuring. “You’re going to lead that team to victory. The fans are going to love you. And I’ll be watching from the press box, proud of everything you are.”
“Thanks.” The word felt inadequate, but I didn’t know how to articulate the depth of what Wesley’s support meant.
“Anytime.” Wesley squeezed my hand briefly, then released it. “Now go. Be careful about leaving. Text me when you’re home safe.”
“I will.”
I cracked the door, checked to make sure no one was around, then slipped outside with my pulse elevated and my mind spinning.
Back in my apartment fifteen minutes later, I stood in my living room and stared at my reflection in the darkened window.
The same face I saw every day—short buzz cut, ice-blue eyes, the strong jaw and broad shoulders that made me look every inch the professional athlete.
The image I’d carefully constructed and maintained for sixteen years.
But underneath, I was tired. Tired of calculating every interaction, tired of measuring every risk, tired of hiding fundamental truths about who I was while advocating for authenticity as a leader.
The couple at Beaverton Beans lived openly, posting photos with hashtags about inclusion and being themselves without fear. I’d smiled and thanked them while being devastatingly jealous of the freedom they took for granted.
Wesley thought I should be the team’s inclusivity ambassador. Should advocate for the LGBTQ+ community while being closeted myself. Should lead the “Hockey is for everyone” initiative while hiding that hockey wasn’t for me, not if I wanted to be authentic.
The irony was almost unbearable.
But the alternative—coming out now, being the first NHL player to publicly acknowledge being gay—felt impossible.
My agent and mother would be devastated.
Michael’s voice echoed in my head: Coming out would destroy your career, make you a distraction, overshadow everything you’ve accomplished.
My father’s memory hung over every decision: You can’t let anyone know. Your career depends on hiding.
And Wesley. Understanding, patient Wesley, who’d agreed to hide again despite Nashville’s trauma, despite promising himself never again. Wesley, who looked at me with warmth and desire even though I couldn’t give him the open relationship he deserved.
I pulled out my phone and typed a message.
Griffin
Home safe. Thank you for tonight.
The response came quickly.
Wesley
Anytime. Sleep well, Griffin. Thursday’s going to be amazing.
I wanted to believe him. Wanted to silence the voice that said I was only valuable if I was perfect, only worthy if I achieved, only deserving of love if I successfully maintained the image everyone expected.
But lying in bed that night, staring at my ceiling and processing the day’s conflicting emotions, I couldn’t escape the truth that was becoming increasingly clear.
I was caught between the growing desire for authenticity and duty to the team, between personal happiness and professional obligation, between being who I actually was, and being who everyone needed me to be.
And eventually, something would have to give.