Chapter 28
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Wesley
I woke Monday morning with Griffin’s arm draped across my waist, his breathing deep and even against the back of my neck.
For a moment—just one blissful, disorienting moment—I forgot everything that had happened the previous day.
Forgot the press conference and the viral posts and the entire world suddenly knowing about us.
Then reality settled back in, but instead of panic, I felt… peace.
Griffin had come out. I’d posted my statement. We’d made love knowing the whole world had watched our story unfold. And we’d fallen asleep wrapped around each other, exhausted and terrified and hopeful all at once.
I shifted, careful not to wake him, and just watched.
Griffin’s face was relaxed in sleep, the captain’s mask completely absent.
His buzz cut was flattened against my pillow, and in the early morning light filtering through my curtains, he looked younger, more vulnerable than he ever allowed himself to appear in public.
This is what love looks like. Not the grand gestures or the public declarations—though those mattered too.
But this, the quiet intimacy of waking up beside someone who saw you clearly and chose you.
Someone who’d risked everything to stand with you.
Someone who made you believe the truth was worth more than safety.
With Charles, I’d never had this. Never the peaceful morning after, never the certainty that we were building something real. Every moment with Charles had been borrowed time, the constant awareness that he’d choose his family and his closet over me when it mattered.
But Griffin had chosen differently. Had stood in front of cameras and reporters and acknowledged who he was, knowing it could cost him everything. Had read my post and responded not with anger at my independence but with gratitude for my partnership.
This is different. He’s different. We’re different.
Griffin stirred and his arm tightened around me briefly before his eyes opened. For a second, he looked disoriented—then awareness returned, and he smiled, sleepy and genuine.
“Morning,” he murmured, his voice rough.
“Morning.” I ran a thumb across his stubbled cheek. “How are you feeling?”
Griffin considered the question seriously, his blue eyes searching mine. “Scared. Relieved. Like everything changed yesterday, but also like nothing changed because you’re still here.”
“I’m still here.” I kissed him softly. “Always.”
“I need to go home. Shower, change clothes, deal with the aftermath.” Griffin grimaced. “My phone’s probably exploded overnight.”
“Mine too.” I’d silenced all notifications before we’d fallen asleep, unable to handle any more input. “But we have a few minutes. Stay for coffee?”
“Yeah. I’d like that.”
We moved through my apartment in comfortable domesticity—Griffin pulling on his jeans and T-shirt from yesterday while I started coffee, both of us gliding around each other with easy familiarity.
Through my living room window, Monday morning Beaverton looked completely normal, people heading to work, traffic building, the world continuing despite everything that had shifted in mine.
“What’s your plan for today?” Griffin accepted the coffee mug I handed him.
“I honestly don’t know. I’m still suspended. I can’t go to the facility, can’t do my job.” The reminder made my stomach tighten. “I guess I just… wait. See what Davidson decides.”
Griffin winced. “This is my fault. If I hadn’t—”
“Stop.” I cut him off firmly. “We both made choices. And I’d make the same ones again.”
“Even knowing you might lose your job?”
“Even knowing that.” I meant it. “Griffin, what we have—what we’re building—that matters more than any job. And besides, I’m good at what I do. Even if the Stormhawks let me go, I’ll land somewhere.”
The confidence in my voice was part optimism, part genuine assessment of my skills. I’d rebuilt once after Nashville. I could do it again if necessary.
But I really hoped it wouldn’t be necessary.
Griffin left after finishing his coffee, both of us reluctant to separate but acknowledging the practical realities of Monday morning. Morning skate waited for no one.
I stood at my door and watched him walk to his SUV. He turned back once to smile at me—open, honest, a smile he’d never been able to give me in public before.
Everything’s changed. And somehow, that’s okay.
I closed my door and returned to my living room, finally allowing myself to check my phone. The screen lit up with notifications—hundreds of them. Thousands, maybe.
My social media post had gone viral in ways I’d hoped for but hadn’t fully anticipated.
Instagram showed two-point-three million views, eight hundred and forty-seven thousand likes, one hundred and fifty-six thousand shares.
Facebook was similar. LinkedIn—my most professional platform—had been flooded with messages from colleagues and contacts.
I scrolled through responses, my coffee growing cold as I read.
Wesley Hutton’s powerful statement about his relationship with Griffin Lapierre reframes coming-out story as one of love and partnership. Full story…
PR Manager Wesley Hutton refuses to let Griffin Lapierre shoulder coming out alone: “This is real. This is mutual. This is love.”
Wesley Hutton and Griffin Lapierre are showing what authentic love looks like in professional sports. We’re here for it.
The media coverage was overwhelmingly positive—my post being praised for its honesty, its strategic framing, its refusal to let Griffin be cast as either victim or villain.
Sports journalists were analyzing the PR strategy, LGBTQ+ outlets were celebrating the visibility, and random people were simply responding to the love story.
My direct messages were overflowing.
From a former colleague: Wesley, that post was incredible. You just demonstrated why you’re the best in the business. Call me if you need a reference.
From a Nashville contact: Saw your post. Crying. So glad you found someone who deserves you this time.
From an LGBTQ+ sports organization: Would love to talk about partnering on inclusion initiatives. Your story matters.
But underneath the positive response was the uncertainty gnawing at me. I was still suspended and facing potential termination.
I spent Monday morning in my apartment, alternating between reading responses to my post and trying to distract myself with a book. Distraction didn’t work.
The waiting was torture. My mind spun through possibilities—best-case scenarios where I was reinstated, worst-case scenarios where I was fired and blacklisted, and everything in between.
I tried to stay optimistic and believe what I’d told Griffin about landing anywhere, to see the opportunities rather than just the problems, but anxiety kept creeping in around the edges.
I liked working for the Stormhawks; it fulfilled me in a way no other job had before.
What if they decide I’m too much of a liability? What if the policy violation is unforgivable? What if Griffin’s coming out makes them want to clean house?
My phone rang just before three, interrupting my spiral. The caller ID showed a number from the Stormhawks’ headquarters.
My heart jumped into my throat as I answered. “Wesley Hutton.”
“Mr. Hutton, hello. This is Jennifer from Mr. Davidson’s office.” Her voice was professionally pleasant, giving away absolutely nothing. “Mr. Davidson would like to meet with you tomorrow morning at nine o’clock.”
“Tomorrow morning.” I stood and paced my living room with sudden nervous energy. “Did he say what it’s regarding?”
“He didn’t provide details, just asked me to schedule the meeting.” Still that same neutral, administrative tone—like she was scheduling a routine appointment rather than potentially my termination. “Does nine work for you?”
“Yes. Yes, that works.” My voice came out steadier than I felt. “Should I—is there anything I need to bring? Prepare?”
“Just yourself. I’ve got you down for nine o’clock Tuesday.”
“Okay. Thank you, Jennifer.”
“Have a good rest of your day, Mr. Hutton.”
She ended the call, and I stared at my phone, trying to extract meaning from a conversation that had been deliberately devoid of any.
Her tone hadn’t been sympathetic or apologetic—the kind you’d use if you knew you were summoning someone to their firing.
But it hadn’t been warm or encouraging either.
Just… professional. Neutral. Completely unreadable.
I texted Griffin.
Wesley
Owen wants to meet tomorrow morning.
His response came quickly.
Griffin
That’s good, right? At least he’s meeting with you.
Wesley
Or he’s firing me in person instead of over email.
Griffin
Don’t think like that. Could be good news. Want me to come over tonight?
I did want that—wanted Griffin’s presence, his certainty, his confidence that somehow made my anxiety more manageable. But he had his own consequences to handle.
Wesley
I’ll be okay. Just nervous.
Griffin
Whatever Davidson says tomorrow, we’ll handle it. Together.
Wesley
Together. I like the sound of that.
I spent the rest of Monday alternating between cautious optimism and creeping dread. The media coverage of my post remained positive. Social media responses continued to pour in. But none of that mattered if I’d lost my job and my career.
Even if they fire me, I’ll rebuild, I reminded myself. I’ve done it before. I can do it again.
And the difference this time was Griffin. Last time, after Nashville, I’d rebuilt alone—scarred and determined never to make the same mistakes. This time, if I had to rebuild, it would be with Griffin beside me. That changed everything.
I went to bed early Monday night, needing sleep before Tuesday’s meeting, but lay awake processing everything, wondering what the next day would bring.