Chapter 21
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Wesley
I stared at my laptop screen, the words blurring together into meaningless shapes. Home-opener media schedule. Press release draft. Social media posts. All the things I should have been focused on the night before the biggest game of Portland’s inaugural season.
Instead, I kept thinking about Griffin.
The way he’d looked at that couple in Beaverton Beans—the longing in Griffin’s intense blue eyes had been almost painful to witness, like watching a kid press their face against a window at a toy store they couldn’t enter.
And his comment about the inclusivity initiative. The hesitation when I’d suggested he be the team ambassador. The way he’d said “I’m not sure I’m the right person” when we both knew he was exactly the right person—if only he could be authentic about why it mattered to him.
I closed my laptop and rubbed my eyes, exhaustion settling into my bones. It was nine o’clock and I should get ready for bed and grab a book. Griffin had the home opener tomorrow—he needed rest, needed space to prepare, needed to focus on the game without distractions.
Leave him alone. Let him have tonight to prepare. Be professional.
But my mind spun through possibilities, each one more compelling than the last. What if Griffin was alone, spiraling about tomorrow?
What if the pressure was building, and he had no one to talk to?
What if this was exactly when he needed someone, and I was sitting in my apartment trying to convince myself that maintaining distance was the right choice?
My phone sat on the coffee table, the screen dark, mocking me with its silence.
Don’t text him. He’s fine. He’s a professional athlete who’s handled pressure his entire career. He doesn’t need you hovering.
But the image of his expression at the coffee shop—that desperate longing for something he couldn’t have—wouldn’t leave my mind.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I grabbed my phone and typed.
Wesley
How are you doing? Big day tomorrow.
I hit send and immediately regretted it. Too clingy. Too obvious that I’d been thinking about him all evening. Too much like I was checking up on him instead of letting him get ready.
My phone buzzed almost immediately.
Griffin
Can’t relax. Can’t focus. Keep thinking about tomorrow.
Concern flooded through me. He wasn’t fine. He was exactly as wound up as I’d suspected.
Wesley
Want company? I could come over.
I stared at the message before sending it, my finger hovering over the button. This was breaking our careful rules. This was inviting myself over, admitting I needed him as much as he might need me, revealing that I couldn’t stay away even when distance would be smarter.
Fuck it.
I sent the message.
No response. Each second of silence made my pulse spike higher, convinced I’d pushed too hard, revealed too much, crossed a line.
Finally, a text came through.
Griffin
Yes. Please.
Two words. But they landed with the weight of so much more—admission that he needed me, that he wanted me there, that whatever we were doing had moved into something neither of us seemed able to control.
I was already grabbing my keys and wallet before I’d fully processed the decision. My apartment door closed behind me with a decisive click, and I headed for my car while my rational brain tried to catch up with my actions.
You’re being reckless. You’re supposed to be the careful one, the one who learned from Nashville, the one who doesn’t repeat mistakes.
But this didn’t feel like a mistake. This felt like something I needed—to see Griffin, to make sure he was okay, to be the person he reached for when he was vulnerable.
With Charles, I’d always waited to be invited. Had let him dictate when and where and how we saw each other. Had accepted being an afterthought, someone Charles squeezed into his schedule when convenient and safe.
Griffin was different. Griffin texted please. Griffin wanted me there. Griffin wasn’t making me beg for scraps of attention while he prioritized everyone else.
The drive to Griffin’s apartment took six minutes, and I spent every one of them processing what I was doing.
Going to his place the night before the most important game of his season.
Admitting through action that I couldn’t stay away.
Acknowledging that this relationship—whatever we were calling it—had become something I needed rather than just something I wanted.
I’m falling for him. Maybe already fell.
The realization should have terrified me. Should have sent me driving in the opposite direction, back to my apartment and my laptop and the safe distance of professional boundaries.
Instead, it made me press the accelerator a little harder.
I parked in a visitor’s space at Griffin’s building and made my way up to his floor, my heart pounding with anticipation and nerves. What if he’d changed his mind? What if someone saw me? What if this was the moment everything fell apart?
I knocked on his door—three quiet raps that wouldn’t carry down the hallway.
Griffin opened it almost immediately, and the sight of him made something in my chest tighten.
He looked vulnerable in ways I rarely saw—scruff on his jaw like he hadn’t shaved for days, wearing gray sweatpants and a threadbare T-shirt, barefoot, his ice-blue eyes wide and wild with the anxiety he usually hid behind his captain’s mask.
“I’m glad you came.” His voice was rough, honest. “Couldn’t stand being alone with my thoughts tonight.” He moved back to allow me to enter.
“That’s what I figured.” I stepped inside, and Griffin closed the door behind me, shutting out the world. “Thought you might need company.”
The lights were low in his apartment, and it looked different that evening—softer somehow, more lived in.
The sleek modern furniture that looked like a showroom during the day now just looked like a space where someone lived.
A protein shake sat abandoned on the kitchen counter, suggesting he’d attempted dinner and given up.
The TV was on ESPN, the sound off, probably some analyst show he’d been trying to watch without actually processing.
His phone lay face down on the coffee table—possibly avoiding social media, avoiding the pressure, avoiding anything that might add to his spiraling thoughts.
“Want something to drink?” Griffin gestured toward the kitchen. “I’ve got water, beer, protein shakes that taste like chalk…”
“Water’s good.” I followed him to the kitchen, watching the way tension rode his shoulders, the way his movements were stilted and controlled. “Have you eaten anything besides that?” I nodded toward the mostly full shake.
“Not really hungry.” Griffin grabbed two bottles of water from his fridge and handed me one. “Stomach’s too tight. Always gets like this before big games.”
“You need to eat something. Can’t play on an empty stomach.” My tone was gentle but firm. “Want me to order food? Or make you something simple? Do you have eggs for an omelet?”
“Maybe later.” Griffin leaned against the counter and gripped his water bottle like an anchor. “Right now, I just… I don’t know. Need to not think about tomorrow for a while.”
“Okay.” I closed the distance between us. “We can do that. What do you want to do?”
Griffin’s gaze met mine, and I saw the vulnerability underneath the anxiety—the admission that he’d needed me here, that being alone had been unbearable. “Want to finish The Name of the Wind? We never got past the first act.”
“Sure.” The suggestion felt safe, normal, the kind of thing that didn’t require difficult conversations or emotional processing. “Where’d we leave off before we were interrupted?”
“Kvothe just entered the University, I think.” Griffin moved to the couch, grabbed the remote, and settled into the corner with space beside him. “I honestly don’t remember. We got pretty distracted.”
I sat beside him—not quite touching, but close enough to feel his warmth as Griffin pulled up the movie and found where we’d left off. The notes of the score filled the apartment, and I tried to focus on the screen.
Kvothe’s journey through the University unfolded in beautiful cinematography and haunting music. The actor playing him captured the character’s brilliance and arrogance and vulnerability perfectly, and the magic system looked even better than I’d imagined while reading the books.
But I was hyperaware of Griffin beside me.
The way he shifted slightly closer after a few minutes.
The way his arm stretched along the back of the couch, not quite touching my shoulders but present.
The way our thighs were inches apart, close enough that I could feel the heat of his body without direct contact.
My hand rested on my thigh. The space of a few inches felt like a chasm and an invitation all at once.
On screen, Kvothe met Ambrose for the first time—the antagonist who would plague him throughout his university years. Their confrontation crackled with tension, but I was only half watching.
I shifted and closed the gap between us by another inch. Griffin’s response was immediate—his arm dropped from the back of the couch to my shoulders, and he pulled me gently against his side.
I let myself lean into him, my head finding the space between his shoulder and neck that seemed designed for exactly this. Griffin’s other hand found mine, lacing our fingers together with casual certainty that suggested this was normal, natural, something we’d done a thousand times.
The movie continued. Kvothe’s rivalry with Ambrose escalated. Master Elodin appeared with his strange wisdom and unpredictable teaching methods. Denna made her mysterious entrance, capturing Kvothe’s attention and heart.