Chapter 2 Griffin
TWO
Griffin
The overhead string lights cast everything in warm amber, making our room look like something out of a cozy cabin instead of a college dormitory.
Two weeks had passed since Jen Harding had interviewed us all, and the semester was hitting its stride.
Practice, gym sessions, and lectures were forming their familiar rhythm, though most of the guys were still riding the wave of welcome-back parties.
The kegs would disappear soon enough once midterms started breathing down our necks, but for now, hangovers were more common than homework stress.
I glanced over at Andrei, who was sprawled across his bed with his digital camera balanced on his chest, clicking through photos.
The braided leather bracelet I’d bought him at some Renaissance fair when we were kids was still wrapped around his left wrist, darker now from years of wear and sweat and rain.
His light brown curls were messy from a shower, and the desk lamp next to his bed highlighted the sharp angles of his jaw as he concentrated on whatever he was reviewing.
Our room was pure organized chaos. Two beds, two desks, two closets that barely contained our gear.
Hockey memorabilia covered every available surface: trophies from high school tournaments, NHL team scarves draped over chair backs, a collection of action figures that had survived multiple moves.
Stacks of comics mixed with textbooks on the shelves, and my gaming console sat beneath our wall-mounted TV like a faithful companion.
The old paint stains on the carpet caught the light, stubborn reminders of whatever artistic episode had happened before we’d moved in.
When I’d asked Phoenix about them after failing to scrub them out, he’d just grinned and said, “Oh, that’d be Sebastian when he got into finger painting.
Good stuff, that,” without offering any further explanation.
My phone buzzed against the nightstand, lighting up with an email notification. The sender’s name made me sit up straighter.
“We got them,” I announced, excitement bubbling up before I’d even opened the message.
Andrei snorted without looking up from his camera. “Got what?”
I was already reading, my eyes scanning Jen Harding’s cheerful greeting and the attachment that outlined my “season-long character arc.” The words made me blink twice.
“What did you get?” I asked, stalling while I processed what I was seeing.
“Brooding bad boy,” Andrei replied with the enthusiasm of someone announcing a root canal appointment.
“Man, they read you like an open book.”
He shot me a side glance that could have frozen the rink. “And you?”
“Casanova, apparently.” The word felt foreign in my mouth, like trying on clothes that didn’t quite fit.
Andrei’s dry laugh filled the space between us. “So you’re basically playing yourself. Good to know.”
“I’m not,” I said, maybe a little too quickly.
He shook his head, returning his attention to the camera. “Right.”
I stared at the email again, bewildered.
Was that really how people saw me? Some smooth operator who spent his free time collecting phone numbers?
The thought made me uncomfortable in a way I couldn’t name.
Sure, I talked to girls. I cracked jokes, made them laugh, enjoyed their company.
But a womanizer? That seemed like a stretch.
I swung my legs off the bed, suddenly needing space to think. “I’m going downstairs.”
The team house opened up below me as I descended the stairs, all warm wood and comfortable furniture arranged for maximum hangout potential.
The kitchen dominated one side with its massive island and industrial-grade appliances that could feed a small army.
Our long dining table stretched across the middle, surrounded by mismatched chairs we’d collected over the years.
Chaise lounges faced each other near the fireplace, low tables between them cluttered with remote controls and empty cups.
It was the heart of our little hockey family, the place where we argued over what to watch and who was cooking dinner.
I continued past the kitchen toward the basement stairs, following the sound of voices.
The games room was our sanctuary: a soccer table, comfortable sofas, a minifridge stocked with beer, and vintage arcade machines that had apparently been here since the first Arctic Titans occupied the space.
Dartboards hung on one wall, the wall itself pockmarked from years of questionable aim.
Several teammates were scattered around the room, all staring at their phones with varying degrees of dismay. Toby was grinning like he’d won the lottery. Mason’s eyes had narrowed to slits. Damon’s expression was unreadable as always. Phoenix looked ready to throw his phone across the room.
“Gay pioneer,” Phoenix sneered, his voice dripping with disgust. “Are they fucking kidding me?”
Toby looked confused. “What do you mean?”
“You’re a freshman, so I’ll give you a pass,” Phoenix said, his patience clearly wearing thin.
He looked at the rest of us. “Haven’t they seen a single game this team played two or three years ago?
They wore fucking rainbows on ice when they won the Frozen Four.
Beckett and Caden made out in the middle of a packed rink, and they weren’t even the first. Without those guys, I’d be a closet case. ”
“What’s the big deal? It’s just a show.” Mason shrugged.
Phoenix stood up, his chair scraping against the floor.
“Sure. It’s just a show. Except they’re making me play something I’m not.
Oh, poor baby gay on a super-masculine team.
Boo-hoo.” His voice cracked with frustration.
“And I’ll tell you this, if they try to get me to talk about homophobia in male sports, I’m going to break a camera. ”
A few guys chuckled, but I could tell Phoenix was serious. I made my way over to the sofa and settled beside him while the others continued comparing their character assignments.
“I remember when they wore rainbows stitched on their uniforms,” I said quietly.
Phoenix’s shoulders sagged slightly. “Apparently, you and I are the only ones that remember. Sorry. This is touchy for me. Feels like I’m stealing other people’s hard work.”
I thought about that for a moment, watching Phoenix’s hands clench and unclench around his phone.
“Just because you came after those brave guys, it doesn’t mean you’re a coward.
It doesn’t mean you can’t be just as brave.
They proved it can be done, but you need to prove we’re still on the right course. ”
Phoenix turned to stare at me, his eyebrows raised in surprise. “When did you get all smart?”
I snorted. “I’m more than just a pretty face.”
That earned me a genuine smile. “Thanks, Griff. That actually made me feel better.” He glanced back at his phone, shaking his head. “They’re still lazy writers if this is the best they can come up with.”
“I’m playing a flirt,” I admitted. “I think they selected our roles randomly.”
Phoenix threw his head back and laughed, the sound echoing off the basement walls.
I tuned in to the conversations around us, catching fragments of everyone else’s assigned personas.
Toby was meant to be the rising star, all fresh-faced enthusiasm and untapped potential.
Damon got tagged as the hardworking grump, which wasn’t far off, considering his perpetual scowl during morning practices.
Mason was labeled the rebel, complete with attitude problems. Trevor, another freshman, was everyone’s little brother, which I could see, considering he looked like he was way out of his depth, excited to the point of being naive and pretty much missing only a lollipop before being confused for a wandering kid.
Most of them made sense, at least on a surface level. But why was I the playboy? Why not the friendly neighbor or the devoted teammate? Why did they zero in on charm and flirtation as my defining characteristics?
It felt wrong. Yes, I flirted with girls.
Who didn’t? But I wasn’t some silver-tongued devil with a little black book.
Half the time when I tried to be charming, girls would laugh and pat my shoulder like I was their harmless golden retriever of a friend.
The other half, even when there seemed to be mutual interest, something always held me back.
Maybe I was tired from practice. Maybe I didn’t want to leave Andrei nursing a beer alone at whatever bar we’d wandered into.
Maybe the conversation just felt forced, like I was going through the motions without any real investment.
Most nights, I ended up back in our room with blue balls and confused, forgetting about whatever girl I’d been talking to by morning. Not exactly the behavior of the campus Casanova that Jen Harding apparently thought I was.
They’d made a mistake. That had to be it.
But we were scheduled to film our first confessionals in two days, and the email had come with an attachment full of bullet points covering the topics they wanted me to discuss.
My supposed conquests, my approach to college romance, my thoughts on commitment versus casual fun. The list made my stomach turn.
I headed back upstairs, stopping in the kitchen to grab two bottles of water from the fridge. I could hear muffled voices from various rooms, teammates settling into their evening routines.
When I pushed open our door, I found Andrei at his desk with his camera plugged into his laptop.
A photo of me filled the screen, captured during that day’s practice.
My hair was flying in all directions, I held the helmet in one hand, a huge grin plastered across my face as I looked up at something beyond the frame.
The image was sharp and vibrant, colors perfectly balanced.
“No one ever takes such good photos of me,” I said, setting a water bottle on his desk.