We left HR together, walking through the facility side by side without having to maintain a careful distance or pretend we were just colleagues. Staff members who saw us didn’t seem surprised or scandalized—most had probably read thenews coverage by now, knew about our relationship, had already contemplated the reality.
“This feels fantastic,” Griffin said quietly as we approached my office. “Walking beside you without calculating every interaction. I didn’t realize how exhausting the hiding was until I didn’t have to do it anymore.”
“Me neither.” And it was true. The constant vigilance, the careful distance, performing professional neutrality—all of it had been exhausting in ways I hadn’t fully recognized until it was gone.
At my office door, Griffin paused. “Dinner tonight? I’ll actually cook something. Or attempt to.”
“Please don’t burn down your apartment.” I smiled and kept my tone light despite wanting to touch him, kiss him, acknowledge physically what we could now acknowledge openly. “But yes. Dinner sounds perfect.”
“See you tonight.” Griffin’s expression was warm, open, the closeted mask completely absent. Then he walked away, and my gaze tracked his firm ass with the simple pleasure of being allowed to look.
This is what freedom feels like. Not perfect. Not without consequences. But real and honest and ours.
We’d survived. More than survived—we’d somehow managed to turn a crisis into an opportunity, a scandal into a love story, fear into freedom.
It wasn’t the ending I’d expected when Davidson had walked in on us kissing last Friday. It was better than anything I’d dared hope for.
And tomorrow… tomorrow we’d face whatever came next. Together. Openly. Free.
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 leavingno 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.”
