The finality in his voice suggested this wasn’t a theoretical discussion. Something kept Griffin locked behind his carefully constructed image.
I wanted to ask what that was, wanted to understand what made someone as capable and charismatic as Griffin feel like authenticity was too dangerous to risk. Had I picked up on something? The thought crept in unbidden, and I turned it over in my mind.
Griffin never mentioned dating. Never brought up agirlfriend, never told stories about nights out or casual hookups the way other players did. He deflected personal questions, kept careful distance even when we were growing closer.
Could that be what he was hiding?
My pulse quickened at the possibility. Was Griffin gay? Was that the secret he guarded so carefully, the authenticity he felt was too risky to show?
I wanted to be wrong. Not because it would matter to me—God, it wouldn’t matter at all except to make my attraction to him even more complicated—but because if Griffin was closeted, the weight of that secret in professional hockey must be crushing. The fear, the isolation, the constant performance.
But I couldn’t ask. Couldn’t push. If Griffin was hiding that, forcing the conversation would only make him retreat further.
So I filed the thought away, watching him across from me, wondering what truths he carried that felt too dangerous to speak aloud.
The raw vulnerability in his expression stopped me.
“Well,” I said, changing directions. “Until you’re ready to give up the performance entirely, I’m here to help you manage it. That’s what they’re paying me for, after all.”
Griffin’s smile was small but genuine. “Best decision the organization made, hiring you.”
“I’ll make sure to include that quote in my next performance review.”
We talked for another hour after that, the conversation flowing easily between hockey strategy and personal observations, professional concerns, and casual banter. Griffin asked about my family, and I found myself telling him about my parents in Boston, my younger sister who thought my job was “babysitting overpaid athletes,” mycollege roommate who still gave me grief about leaving my smelly socks on the floor.
In return, Griffin shared stories about growing up as the son of a hockey legend, moving from city to city following his father’s elite career, the peculiar isolation of being identified as a future NHL player from age twelve.
“Did you have friends outside hockey?” I asked.
“Not really. Hockey was everything—practices, games, training, camps. My social circle was whoever was on my team that season.” He shrugged.
When I finally checked my watch, I was shocked to discover we’d been talking for nearly two hours. The afternoon had disappeared into conversation, and I hadn’t thought about work once—a rarity for someone whose mind usually operated on five different tracks simultaneously.
“I should leave you alone,” Griffin said, though he didn’t sound particularly eager to end the conversation. “I’m sure you have actual work to do instead of listening to me complain about team chemistry issues.”
“This is work,” I said, though we both knew that was only technically true. “Understanding team dynamics helps me craft better narratives.”
“Sure. Let’s call it that.” He chuckled, his voice deep.
There was something knowing in Griffin’s smile, an acknowledgment that whatever had just happened between us had crossed some invisible line from purely professional to something more complicated.
Tremblay’s warning replayed in my mind.Maintain professional boundaries. Perception matters as much as reality.
I’d definitely failed at maintaining boundaries. Two hours of increasingly personal conversation, sharing stories and vulnerabilities, enjoying Griffin’s company in a way that had nothing to do with PR strategy—Tremblay would have a field day if he knew.
But Griffin hadn’t seemed to care. If anything, he’d seemed relieved to have someone to talk to, someone who understood the pressure he was under without requiring him to maintain his captain’s image.
And I’d enjoyed every minute, despite knowing I should have kept things more professional, despite understanding the risks of getting emotionally involved with someone whose public image I was supposed to be managing.
Griffin stood. His smile was warm, genuine, and transformed his face from merely handsome to something that made my chest tight. “See you around, Wesley.”
As he descended the stairs, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d just crossed a line I shouldn’t have crossed, made a choice that could complicate everything about my carefully rebuilt career.
But I also couldn’t shake the warmth in my chest, or the way Griffin had looked at me like I was someone who mattered—not just as his PR manager, but as a person he genuinely wanted to spend time with.
Tremblay’s warning echoed in my head:It’s important that relationship remains strictly professional.
Too late for that, I thought. Whatever was developing between Griffin and me had already moved past strictly professional into territory I wasn’t entirely sure how to navigate.
