Epilogue
Griffin
The scent of roasted turkey filled my mother’s Vancouver kitchen—savory and warm, mixed with the sweetness of cranberry sauce and the rich butter of her famous stuffing.
I helped Wesley carry dishes to the dining room table while Mom fussed over the presentation, adjusting the placement of serving bowls and straightening silverware with the precision of someone who’d been hosting Christmas dinner for decades.
“Griffin, can you grab the wine?” Mom gestured toward the counter where two bottles of red sat breathing. “And Wesley, honey, could you bring the gravy boat?”
“Of course.” Wesley picked up the gravy boat, then paused to admire the spread. “Liz, this looks incredible. You actually know how to cook, unlike your son.”
“I can cook.” I scoffed
“You can burn water.” Wesley grinned at me, then turned to my mother. “Seriously, Liz, I’ve tried teaching him. He’s hopeless.”
“He always has been.” Mom’s smile was fond, indulgent. “Even as a teen, Griffin could barely manage toast without setting off the smoke alarm.”
“That was one time!” I protested, though it had been more than once. “And I was twelve.”
“You were eighteen.” Mom patted my arm as she passed, heading back to the kitchen for the mashed potatoes. “And it was three times.”
Wesley’s laugh was warm, familiar, the sound of someone completely comfortable in this home, with this family. Three months ago, I couldn’t have imagined this—Wesley and my mother teasing me together, the easy domesticity of Christmas dinner, the simple joy of being ourselves without hiding.
We settled around the table—the three of us, intimate and perfect. Mom said grace, her voice catching slightly when she thanked God for having us both here, safe and happy. I squeezed Wesley’s hand under the table, and he squeezed back.
“So.” Mom passed the turkey platter to Wesley. “Tell me about the season. I’ve been following the scores online, but I want to hear it from you. How’s the team doing?”
“Twenty wins, thirteen losses, three overtime losses.” Wesley accepted the platter and served himself before passing it to me. “The Stormhawks are sitting third in the Pacific Division right now. Solid for an expansion team’s first season.”
“That’s wonderful!” Mom’s expression showed genuine pride. “And Griffin, your statistics?”
“Twelve goals, twenty assists in thirty-six games.” I kept my tone modest despite the satisfaction of knowing those were elite numbers. “On pace for about seventy points over a full season.”
“Which is exceptional,” Wesley added, his tone leaving no room for any self-deprecation. “Especially given everything else happening this season.”
Mom looked between us, understanding the weight behind Wesley’s words. “You mean Griffin coming out.”
“Yes.” Wesley met her eyes directly, respectful but honest. “There were concerns—from some people—that being openly gay might affect his performance or create distractions for the team. The statistics prove otherwise. Griffin’s playing some of the best hockey of his career, and the team is succeeding.
The strong record validates the inclusive culture. ”
She reached across the table and squeezed my hand. “I’m proud of you, Griffin. For being brave. For being honest. And for proving that being yourself doesn’t mean sacrificing excellence.”
The words made my throat tight with unexpected emotion. Three months ago, my mother had been worried, uncertain, struggling to reconcile her fears with her love for me. Now she was actively proud, celebrating not just my hockey success but my courage in being authentic.
“Thanks, Mom.” I kept my voice steady. “That means a lot.”
But not everyone was happy. I took a sip of Pinot Noir, the fruity flavor exploding on my tongue.
Turner’s face flashed through my mind—his hostility in the locker room, his barely concealed disgust, the way he made every team meeting tense with his presence.
The homophobic comments he muttered just loud enough to be heard but not quite loud enough to be officially reported.
Turner was still there, still difficult, still making his disapproval known in dozens of small ways. But at least he couldn’t claim my sexuality was causing a losing record. And Turner’s bitterness was becoming increasingly isolated as other teammates rallied around our inclusive culture.
He’ll either adapt, or he’ll be gone. The franchise wouldn’t tolerate him undermining what we were building.
Michael had apologized in November, during a phone call that had lasted two hours.
He’d admitted that his advice over the years had been based on fear rather than wisdom, that he’d projected his own internalized homophobia onto my career trajectory, that watching me succeed while living openly had changed his understanding of what was possible.
“I gave you sixteen years of bad advice,” he’d said, his voice rough with emotion. “I made you afraid because I was afraid. I’m sorry, Griffin. I should have told you to be brave instead of telling you to hide.”
I’d forgiven him. How could I not, when I understood exactly how fear could distort judgment, how the closet could make cowardice seem like wisdom?
“Griffin?” Wesley pulled me back to the present. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” I smiled, genuine and present. “Just thinking about how good this is. Being able to be here with both of you.”
“It is good.” Wesley’s expression was soft, warm. “Really good.”
We finished dinner with light conversation—Mom asking about Wesley’s work, Wesley sharing stories about managing media coverage of my coming out, me interjecting with details about particularly memorable games.
The tension I’d carried for so long, the fear that my mother wouldn’t fully accept us, seemed to have finally dissolved into this: a comfortable family dinner, laughter, belonging.
After we’d eaten our fill of turkey and all the sides, Wesley and I cleared the table while Mom protested that we were guests and should sit.
“We’re family,” Wesley said firmly, stacking plates. “Family helps clean up.”
Mom’s eyes got slightly misty at that, and she didn’t argue further.
In the kitchen, we rinsed plates and loaded the dishwasher. Or rather, Wesley loaded the dishwasher enthusiastically but incorrectly, and I had to rearrange everything.
“You’re doing it wrong.” I moved a plate he’d positioned at an angle that would block the spray arm.
“There’s a wrong way to load a dishwasher?” His voice was teasing. We’d been over this many—many—times before.
“Yes. Your way.” I repositioned three more plates, adjusted the silverware basket, and moved a serving bowl to the top rack. “How have you survived this long without basic dishwasher competency?”
“I survived just fine, thank you.” Wesley hip-checked me playfully. “You’re just weirdly particular about appliance loading.”
“I’m efficient. There’s a difference.”
“You’re obsessive.”
“Potayto, potahto.”
We finished cleaning up with the banter of people who’d grown comfortable with each other’s quirks, then joined Mom in the living room where she’d set out Christmas cookies and rum-spiked eggnog.
The Christmas tree stood in the corner—a seven-foot Douglas fir decorated with ornaments I recognized from my childhood mixed with new ones Mom had collected over the years. Presents sat underneath in neat stacks, wrapped in festive paper.
“Ready for gifts?” Mom settled into her armchair with her eggnog, looking content in ways I hadn’t seen since before my father died.
“Absolutely.” Wesley sat beside me on the couch, our shoulders touching.
We exchanged presents—Mom giving Wesley a beautiful scarf she’d knitted herself, giving me a framed photo of my father and me from when I was ten.
Dad and I were both in our hockey gear, his arm draped around my shoulders in relaxed affection.
I traced my finger over my father’s broad smile—the same smile I saw in the mirror on my best days—and my heart clenched with longing and hope tangled together.
I chose to believe he would have been proud of me.
Wesley gave my mother a cookbook from a chef she loved. I gave her a spa day gift certificate she’d been hinting about for months.
Then I pulled a small box from my pocket, wrapped in silver paper with a blue ribbon. My heart rate picked up as I handed it to Wesley.
“This one’s from me.”
Wesley accepted the box with a curious expression, weighing it in his hand. “It’s light.”
“Open it.”
He tore into the wrapping paper with enthusiastic abandon—typical Wesley, who approached gift opening like a kid on Christmas morning—and opened the small box inside.
A key rested against the white satin lining. Simple, brass, unremarkable except for what it represented.
Wesley stared at the key, and a funny look crossed his face—something between surprise and amusement, like he was holding back laughter. His mouth twitched, and he pressed his lips together, clearly fighting a smile.
“What is it?” I asked, suddenly nervous. This wasn’t the reaction I’d expected. “I mean, it’s a key. To my apartment. I’m asking if—Wesley, will you move in with me?”
The words came out in a rush, less smooth than I’d practiced in my head, but honest. “I know it’s only been three months.
I know that’s fast. But I don’t want to keep living in separate apartments, spending half our time apart.
I want to wake up with you every morning.
I want our lives to be… integrated. Together. Officially.”
Wesley burst out laughing—not cruel or mocking, but genuine, delighted laughter that made his whole face light up. He doubled over, the key still in his hand, his shoulders shaking.
“What’s so funny?” I looked at my mother, who was watching with obvious amusement, then back at Wesley. “I just asked you to move in with me. That’s not usually a laughing moment.”
“I’m sorry.” Wesley visibly tried to compose himself, failed, laughed harder. “It’s just—hold on.”