Chapter 23 #2
Davidson’s office door was open when we arrived. He sat behind his massive desk, his expression radiating barely suppressed fury. The disappointment in his eyes was almost worse than the anger. Sarah Thomas, the HR director, was already seated in the corner. That was fast.
“Come in. Close the door. Sit,” Davidson ordered.
We obeyed silently, moving like condemned prisoners to the chairs across from his desk. Griffin sat with his shoulders back, his captain’s composure trying to reassert itself even as I could see the fear underneath. I folded my hands in my lap to keep them from shaking.
Davidson stared at us for a long moment, letting the silence build, making us sit with what we’d done. When he finally spoke, his voice was measured but cold.
“Are you gay, Griffin?”
The question landed like a punch. Direct, invasive, a question that had no right being asked in a professional setting but somehow felt inevitable given the circumstances.
Griffin went still beside me, his breathing shallow.
I could feel the weight of the moment—this was it, the question he’d been dreading his entire career, asked by his GM after being caught kissing a male staff member.
There was no deflecting, no hiding, no maintaining the careful facade he’d built over sixteen years.
Anger flared hot in my chest, cutting through my shock and fear.
This is wrong. This is so wrong. Davidson had no right to force Griffin to come out, to demand an answer to a question that was fundamentally personal, to use his position of power to extract a confession Griffin should have been able to make on his own terms, in his own time.
I wanted to protest, to tell Davidson that this was inappropriate and invasive and exactly the kind of thing that made LGBTQ+ athletes terrified to be honest. But I couldn’t. I was powerless.
So I sat in furious silence while my heart broke for Griffin being forced into this moment. But this was also a test for us, whether Griffin would keep his word or throw me under the bus like Charles had.
“Yes.” Griffin’s voice was quiet but steady. “I’m gay.”
The admission hung in the air—simple, honest, devastating in its implications.
I exhaled in relief and pride and reassurance, but Davidson’s expression was unreadable—not shocked, not disgusted, just calculating.
“This can’t get out,” Davidson said finally. “Do you understand? If word spreads that the team captain is gay, that you’re in a relationship with a male staff member, the media circus alone would be devastating. The distraction, the questions, the scrutiny. It would affect the entire team.”
Griffin’s jaw tightened, muscles working as he processed Davidson’s words. I watched something die in his eyes—hope, maybe, or the possibility that this could end any way except badly.
“I understand,” Griffin said, his voice carefully controlled.
But I heard what he wasn’t saying: I understand I have to stay closeted. I understand being honest would be a “distraction.” I understand my authentic self is a problem to be managed, not a truth to be supported.
Disappointment settled over me like a weight, adding to the fear and anger and guilt already churning in my gut.
Davidson had the power here. Had the platform.
Could choose to lead, to make the Stormhawks an organization that supported their captain regardless of his sexuality, to use this moment as an opportunity for progressive leadership.
Instead, he was choosing silence. Choosing protection of his brand’s image over his player’s truth. Choosing to make Griffin’s sexuality a secret to be kept rather than a reality to be embraced.
He could be the bigger man here and lead the league in inclusivity. He could show that the Stormhawks are different.
But he wasn’t going to. I could see it in his expression, in the shrewd way he was processing this information. Griffin being gay was a complication to be managed, not a fact to be celebrated or even neutrally accepted.
Davidson leaned back in his chair, his expression still cold. “How long has this been going on between you two?”
I glanced at Griffin, trying to communicate silently—let me handle this. I’m the PR professional. I can manage this.
But Griffin spoke first, his voice steady despite the circumstances. “Sir, I need you to understand—this is my fault. I pursued Wesley despite knowing the non-fraternization policy. Despite understanding the risks. He tried to maintain boundaries, but I—”
“Don’t.” Davidson cut him off, his tone sharp. “Don’t insult my intelligence by pretending this was one-sided. I saw what I saw. That wasn’t you forcing yourself on an unwilling subordinate. That was mutual. How. Long?” he repeated.
I found my voice, the PR training kicking in even as my personal life crumbled. “A couple of weeks. Since late September.”
“A couple of weeks.” Davidson’s expression hardened further. “So, through the road trip to Seattle and Vancouver. Through the home opener. Through dozens of media appearances and team meetings and professional interactions where you both knew you were violating team policy.”
It wasn’t a question, but the accusation was clear. We’d been lying by omission every day, maintaining the facade of professional distance while conducting a secret relationship.
“We tried to be careful,” Griffin said, his voice tight. “We never let it affect our work or—”
“It affects everything.” Davidson leaned forward, his hands flat on his desk.
“You’re the team captain, Griffin. The face of this franchise.
And Wesley, you’re supposed to manage Griffin’s public image, help him navigate media and community relationships.
The power dynamic alone creates a massive liability for this organization. ”
“There’s no power dynamic,” I said quickly, needing him to understand. “We belong to two different organizations. The team and staff. Griffin has no superiority over me. This was completely voluntary on both sides.”
“Captain and staff member.” Davidson’s tone was grim. “That’s an inherent power imbalance regardless of hierarchy. And the non-fraternization policy exists precisely to prevent these situations.”
The non-fraternization policy. The document we’d both signed when we joined the franchise, acknowledging that romantic relationships between players and staff were prohibited and could result in termination.
“Mr. Davidson, please.” Griffin’s composure was cracking, desperation bleeding through. “Don’t punish Wesley for this. If there are consequences, they should be mine. I’m the one who—”
“Stop.” Davidson held up a hand. “You both made choices. You both violated policy. You both knew better.”
Silence fell again, heavier this time. I felt the walls closing in, felt the familiar sensation of my career imploding. Nashville’s ghost rose to mock me for thinking this time would be different.
Davidson’s expression shifted slightly—still angry, still disappointed, but something else underneath. Consideration, maybe. Calculation.
“Wesley.” His attention focused on me, and I forced myself to meet his gaze. “You’re suspended effective immediately. Pending investigation into the extent and nature of this relationship and whether any other policies were violated.”
The words landed like physical blows. Suspended. Investigation. The professional death knell I’d been dreading since Nashville, since the prayer vigil and Charles’s betrayal and the scramble to salvage my reputation.
“Sir—” Griffin started to protest, but Davidson cut him off.
“You’ll turn in your badge and leave your laptop with Natalie. You’re not to return to this facility or contact any team personnel until the investigation concludes. Is that clear?”
“Yes.” My voice came out steady, composed, the mask I’d perfected through years of crisis management. Inside, I was screaming.
“Griffin, we’ll discuss your consequences separately. But understand this—you’re team captain. You’re supposed to set an example. This is the opposite of leadership.”
Griffin flinched at that, the words hitting where they’d hurt most. His need for validation, for being seen as valuable and successful, was being directly challenged. He would feel he’d failed. He would feel he’d proven himself unworthy of the captain’s C.
“Griffin, stay here.” Davidson’s tone was firm. “Wesley, you have fifteen minutes to gather your things and turn in your credentials at security. I suggest you move quickly before word spreads.”
The dismissal was absolute. I stood on shaking legs, my mind already spinning through implications—career destroyed, reputation ruined, another scandal to explain to future employers, another relationship ending in professional disaster.
Why didn’t I learn? Why did I think this time would be different?
I made it to the door before Griffin’s voice stopped me.
“Wesley, I’m so sorry. This is my fault. I’ll fix this. I promise I’ll—”
I turned back, meeting his ice-blue eyes across Davidson’s office. He looked devastated, guilty, desperate to protect me even now.
“It’s not just your fault,” I said quietly. “We both made choices. We both knew the risks.”
Then I walked out, leaving Griffin to face whatever consequences awaited while I dealt with my own.
The walk back to my office felt surreal—moving through familiar hallways that would no longer be mine, past staff I’d worked with for months, toward the space I’d made my own since arriving in Portland for this “fresh start.”
Some fresh start. Same ending as Nashville, just with different players and a different city.
Natalie was waiting outside my office, her expression worried. “Wesley? What’s going on? Owen looked furious when he left your office, and then you and Griffin—”
“I’m suspended.” The words came out flat, professional. “Pending investigation. I need to get my things and leave my laptop with you.”
“Suspended? For what?” Her confusion was genuine, innocent. She had no idea what she’d been working alongside for weeks.
“I can’t discuss it. I’m sorry.” I moved past her into my office, started grabbing my few personal items—photos, books, the chipped coffee mug from SUNY.
I left my laptop and tablet on my desk and my Stormhawks hoodie on the chair. All the physical evidence of a career that was over before it really began.
Natalie hovered in the doorway, clearly wanting to help but not knowing how. “Wesley, if there’s anything I can do—”
“Take care of the team’s media presence. IT can give you access to my accounts.” I kept packing, kept moving, because if I stopped I might collapse. “You’re ready for this. You’ve been ready. Just keep doing what we’ve been doing.”
“But you’ll be back, right? After the investigation?”
I couldn’t answer that. Couldn’t promise something I had no control over. Just gave her what I hoped was a reassuring smile and kept packing.
Fifteen minutes. That’s all I had to erase my presence from this office, this facility, this team I’d been helping build from scratch.
I made it in twelve.
Jerry, the friendly guard who always greeted me by name, manned the security desk. Now he took my badge and parking pass with polite distance, documenting everything, probably wondering what I’d done to deserve this treatment.
“Sorry about this, Wesley,” he said quietly, sympathy in his eyes.
“Thanks, Jerry.” I managed to keep my voice steady. “Take care.”
Then I was walking through the facility’s main doors for what might be the last time, stepping out into Friday afternoon sunshine that felt obscenely cheerful given the circumstances.
My car sat in the parking lot where I’d left it hours ago, back when I’d been riding high on the home opener’s success, back when my biggest concern had been managing Griffin’s media requests, back before everything fell apart.
I climbed in, closed the door, and sat in silence for a long moment. My phone buzzed—probably Natalie with questions, or maybe Griffin trying to check on me despite Davidson’s orders about no contact.
I couldn’t look. Couldn’t process anything beyond the immediate reality.
My career was in jeopardy. The investigation would reveal everything—the relationship, the timeline, every moment we’d been together. And if they fired me, my professional reputation would be destroyed.
Just like Nashville. Just like Charles. Just like I’d promised myself would never happen again.
My hands gripped the steering wheel, and I finally let myself acknowledge the full weight of what had just happened.
I’d fallen in love with Griffin Lapierre. Had believed we could navigate the impossible. Had thought this time would be different.
And now I was suspended, possibly fired, definitely facing another scandal that would follow me for the rest of my career.
This is Nashville all over again. I knew better. Why didn’t I stop this?
But even as the thought formed, I knew the answer.
Because I loved him. Because despite every rational reason to walk away, despite Nashville’s lessons and my own boundaries and the very real risks, I’d chosen Griffin.
And now we were both paying the price.