Chapter 22 #2
Wesley turned his phone toward me, and I saw the social media post immediately. Cory Boucher had posted again.
Expansion team celebrates home-opener win like they won the Cup. Adorable. Congrats @Griff_Lapierre #Stormhawks #Perspective
The sarcasm was obvious. The dig clear. Boucher was trying to minimize tonight’s victory, to suggest that what we’d accomplished wasn’t actually impressive.
It stung. Not as much as his previous attacks, but enough that I felt the old insecurity try to creep back in. The voice that said Colorado was right to let me go, that I wasn’t elite anymore, that I was celebrating mediocrity rather than excellence.
But then I looked around the bar—at my teammates laughing and celebrating, at the social media notifications still flooding my phone with praise, at Wesley standing beside me with concern in his eyes.
Boucher could say whatever he wanted. Tonight had been real. The victory had been earned. My leadership was working.
“He’s just bitter,” Wesley said quietly. “Ignore it. Tonight was incredible, and everyone knows it.”
“Yeah.” I pocketed my phone, refusing to let Boucher’s pettiness diminish this moment. “Not even that asshole can bring me down tonight.”
Wesley’s smile returned, warm and genuine. “Good. Don’t let him.”
I leaned slightly closer, lowering my voice so only Wesley could hear. “Come over later? After this is done? Want to celebrate properly.”
Wesley’s eyes darkened with understanding. “Griffin—”
“Please. I know it’s risky. But I want to share this with you. Really share it, not just stolen looks across a bar.”
Wesley was quiet for a moment, then nodded almost imperceptibly. “Okay. But we leave separately. At least thirty minutes apart.”
“I’ll text you when I’m home.”
The rest of the evening passed by in a blur of celebration and team bonding.
I played pool with Laasko, talked strategy with Holloway, listened to the rookies analyze plays with the enthusiasm of players still establishing themselves.
The energy was everything I’d hoped for—genuine camaraderie, building chemistry, the foundation of something that could be special.
I left near midnight, making my goodbyes and emphasizing how proud I was of everyone’s effort. Wesley had already slipped out twenty minutes earlier, maintaining the careful space we’d agreed on.
Back at my apartment, I texted Wesley.
Griffin
Home. Coast is clear.
The response came quickly.
Wesley
Be there in 10.
I changed out of my suit into more comfortable clothes—sweatpants and a T-shirt—and tried to calm the nervous energy still coursing through my system. Tonight had been perfect. The goal, the win, the team bonding, the media praise. Everything I’d been working toward since arriving in Portland.
And now I got to share it with Wesley. In private, without performance, just the two of us celebrating something that felt monumental.
Wesley arrived, and I pulled him inside before anyone could see him in the hallway. He barely had time to set down his keys before I was kissing him—urgent and celebratory and hungry all at once.
“We won,” I said against his mouth, stating the obvious but needing to say it anyway.
“You won,” Wesley corrected, his hands finding my waist. “That goal was incredible. The way you read the play, found the lane, buried it—”
I kissed him again, effectively ending the analysis. We stumbled toward my bedroom, shedding clothes along the way, the physical urgency reflecting the emotional intensity of the night.
But when we reached my bedside, something shifted. The desperation eased into something slower, more deliberate. This wouldn’t be just celebratory sex or stress relief. This felt deeper, more significant—like we were acknowledging something neither of us had named out loud.
I was falling for him. I was falling for the way he saw through my performance to the person underneath.
For his optimism that made impossible things seem achievable.
For the way he made me laugh while teaching me to cook, and how he talked me down from spiraling anxiety with patient understanding.
For his courage in choosing me despite Nashville’s scars, despite every rational reason to protect himself.
I was falling for Wesley Hutton, and the terrifying part wasn’t the falling—it was realizing I’d already landed.
Wesley’s touch was gentle, exploring, claiming.
I tried to give back the same attention, showing with actions what I couldn’t articulate with words—that he mattered, that tonight meant more because he was part of it, that his presence in my life had become essential in ways that terrified and thrilled me equally.
Wesley’s hands came to rest on my hips, his expression both tender and heated. He searched my face for a long moment, then spoke quietly. “I want to give you something special tonight. I want to take things further.” His thumb traced small circles against my hipbone. “May I?”
The question hung between us—respectful, giving me space to choose, to say no if I needed to.
My heart pounded against my ribs as I nodded, then found my voice.
“I’d like that.” The words came out rougher than I intended, weighted with want and trust and something deeper I wasn’t ready to name. “Yeah. I’d really like that.”
Wesley’s eyes darkened with desire and something softer—care, maybe, or tenderness. He leaned in and kissed me slowly, thoroughly, like he had all the time in the world and intended to use every second.
Then he dropped to his knees at my feet, and heat seared through me like lightning.
He licked a line down my aching erection, and a shiver ran through me.
“Fuck,” I whispered. “Yes.”
Slowly, he sucked me into his mouth until he had taken all of me. Then he set up a leisurely rhythm, up and down my shaft, unhurried and deliberate, until my knees grew weak. He lifted his gaze to me and raised his eyebrows.
“Please, don’t stop.”
He doubled down and kept working me with the perfect amount of suction. He swirled his tongue around the head of my dick until whimpers escaped me.
“I’m so close.” My voice was low and husky. “Touch yourself. Let’s come together.” I wanted to share the experience as much as possible.
He wrapped his hand around his hard cock and shuttled it along its length, matching his cadence to mine.
“That’s it… I’m… so close. Pull off… if you… need to.”
He only hummed and sucked harder.
My vision sheeted white, my legs trembled, and I exploded into his mouth with a shout. I just barely kept my hips from jerking and driving my cock down his throat.
He quickly pulled off my dick, gave himself a few more quick tugs, and moaned as he came.
I ran my fingers through his silky, short hair. “Okay?”
“Never better,” he panted, his voice hoarse.
I raised him to his feet and drew him to me, needing him close.
I cupped his face as I kissed him—slow and deep and reverent, tasting myself but not caring.
I poured everything I wasn’t saying into the kiss: gratitude, awe at his generosity, the terrifying depth of feeling that had taken root in my chest. Thank you.
You’re incredible. I’m falling for you. All the words I couldn’t yet speak translated into the press of my mouth against his, the careful way I held him like he was precious, the tremor in my breath when we finally parted.
Wesley’s eyes were soft when they opened, understanding written across his face like he’d heard every unspoken word.
After we gently cleaned each other up, we lay under the covers with our legs woven together, the celebratory energy fading into satisfied exhaustion. Wesley’s head rested on my shoulder, and I felt more content than I had in months. Maybe years.
“Tonight was perfect,” I murmured. I ran my hand down Wesley’s arm, which was wrapped around my waist. “Being here with you is perfect. The win was perfect. Everything I hoped it would be.”
“It was pretty spectacular.” His voice was warm, pleased. “First of many wins. I can feel it.”
The comment sparked something in my mind—a realization that landed with an uncomfortable weight. I was quiet for a moment, processing, then said, “You realize what this means, don’t you? I could never come out during my career, even if I wanted to.”
Wesley stilled against me. “What? Why?”
“Tonight proved it. The team is working. The chemistry is building. We’re winning.
” I stared at the ceiling, articulating the conflict that was building in my gut.
“If I come out now—or even in a few years while I’m still playing—it risks everything.
Team chemistry, media focus, sponsor relationships.
I can’t disrupt this when it’s finally working. ”
“Griffin—” He sat up and looked down at me.
“Tonight—seeing the team succeed, the fans celebrating, the media praising my leadership—made me realize how much I have to lose if I come out.”
“Or how much you have to gain.” Wesley’s voice was gentle but firm. “Griffin, I’m not going to pressure you. Your timeline is your timeline. But don’t let one perfect night convince you that hiding is the only option. That’s fear talking, not wisdom.”
“Maybe fear is wisdom.” I sat up too, facing him. “Maybe recognizing that coming out would jeopardize everything I’ve worked for is actually being smart, not cowardly.”
Wesley was quiet for a long moment, his brown eyes searching mine. Finally, he said, “I can’t tell you what to do. This is your life, your career, your choice.”
“I can’t jeopardize everything tonight represented. The team, the fans, the success. I’ve worked my entire life for this. Tonight underscores why I have to hide.” My gut churned. The risk had never been clearer.
“I know.” Wesley’s expression was pained but understanding. “And I’m not suggesting you sacrifice your career. But I’m just suggesting you don’t sacrifice yourself. There’s a difference.”
We sat in tense silence, the post-orgasm glow having completely dissipated, replaced by the harsh reality of my impossible situation.
Tonight had been perfect—the goal, the win, the celebration.
But perfection came with a price: the realization that I couldn’t risk disrupting it.
That success made authenticity more dangerous, not less.
“Let’s not figure this out tonight,” Wesley said finally, standing and gathering his clothes. “Tonight was incredible. Let’s end it on that note and deal with the complicated stuff later.”
“Okay.” Relief flooded through me—grateful for the reprieve, for permission to avoid the hard conversation a little longer.
Wesley dressed, and I walked him to the door. In that threshold between private and public, between who we were together and who we had to be for the world, we paused.
“I’m proud of you,” Wesley said softly. “Tonight was everything you deserved. Don’t let the fear steal that from you.”
“Thanks.” I wanted to kiss him, to hold him, to make promises I wasn’t sure I could keep. But he was already slipping into professional mode, preparing to leave my apartment and return to being just the PR manager who’d helped prepare the captain for his successful media appearances.
After he left, I sat on my couch and scrolled through social media on my phone. Fans praised the comeback, media analyzed the goal, teammates posted celebration photos from Cascadia. The perfect night documented and shared, my leadership validated, my worth proven.
But underneath the satisfaction and pride, something darker settled: the realization that success made hiding necessary. That everything I’d achieved tonight—the team chemistry, the fan adoration, the validation of my leadership—existed because I maintained the perfect image.
Coming out would jeopardize all of it. Would shift the narrative from “captain leads expansion team to dramatic victory” to “gay captain comes out, team must adjust.” It would make the story about me instead of the team’s success.
I couldn’t do that to them. Couldn’t risk the chemistry we’d built, the success we were achieving, the morale I was establishing.
But I didn’t know how to reconcile my growing desire for authenticity with my duty to the team, my need for personal happiness with my professional obligations, my feelings for Wesley with my terror of losing everything I’d worked for.
Tonight had been perfect.
And that perfection felt like a cage I’d locked myself into, with no clear path to freedom.