“You don’t have to do that,” I said, though I appreciated the help.
“Team building goes both ways,” Wesley replied. “Besides, I want to see if your recycling situation is as organized as everything else in this apartment.”
We moved around each other awkwardly at first—both reaching for the same pizza box, bumping shoulders at the recycling bin, doing that dance where you try to go around someone and both pick the same direction. But somehow the awkwardness felt comfortable, natural, like we were figuring out how to exist in the same space together.
“The evening went well.” Wesley tied off a garbage bag. “Did you see how Fournier and Petrov’s communication evolved over the three games?”
“That’s exactly what I was hoping for. They started out barely coordinating, ended up reading each other’s tendencies.”
“Think it’ll translate to the ice?”
“If it doesn’t, at least they learned they can work together under pressure. Even virtual pressure.” I binned the last bottle and turned to face him. “Thanks for coming. And for documenting it.”
“Thanks for inviting me.” Wesley leaned against the counter, his expression warm and open. “Though I’m pretty sure you could have taken the photos yourself.”
“Probably. But you’re better at it.”
“Is that the only reason you invited me?” He raised an eyebrow.
The question hung between us, loaded with implications neither of us seemed ready to address directly. I could have deflected, could have maintained the professional justification we both knew was only partially true.
Instead, I was honest. “No. It’s not.”
Wesley’s expression shifted—surprise, warm pleasure, and something that looked like concern flashing across his features. “Griffin?—”
“I know. I know all the reasons this is complicated.” I ran a hand across my jaw, frustration bleeding into my voice. “Michael’s warnings, professional boundaries, the risk of anything getting… misconstrued. I know.”
I wanted to tell Wesley why Michael was so worried, wanted to explain that the real complication wasn’t just professional—it was that I was gay and attracted to him in ways that made every interaction feel charged with possibility and danger. But the words stuck in my throat. Years of practiced silence choked off the truth before it could escape.
“Then why?—”
“Because I like talking to you. I like having you around. You make this whole situation—” I gestured vaguely at the apartment, the city beyond the windows, the weight of expectations I carried “More manageable somehow.”
Wesley was quiet for a long moment, his expression unreadable. “I like being around you too. Which is probably something I shouldn’t admit.”
“We seem to be doing a lot of things we probably shouldn’t.”
“Yeah.” Wesley smiled, but there was wariness underneath it. “We should probably talk about that. About what’s happening here. I’m gay, and you’re?—”
“Yeah, we should probably talk.” But I didn’t want to talkabout it, didn’t want to analyze or define or confront whatever was developing between us. Talking about it would require acknowledging realities I wasn’t ready to face. “But not tonight. Tonight was about team building. The rest can wait.”
Wesley studied me for a long moment, and I had the uncomfortable sense that he saw more than I wanted him to—the fear underneath my casual dismissal, the way I kept reaching for connection while simultaneously pushing it away.
“Okay,” he said finally. “Not tonight.”
After Wesley left, I stood at my windows looking out at Beaverton’s lights and thought about Michael’s warning.Be careful. Maintain professional distance.
The problem was, I felt closer to Wesley every time we were alone together. Comfortable in a way I hadn’t felt comfortable with anyone in years, like I could stop acting and just exist. That comfort was seductive and terrifying in equal measure.
Because getting closer to Wesley—falling for him—would jeopardize everything I’d worked for. My carefully maintained image, my career trajectory, my ability to lead effectively. Everything I’d sacrificed to get here.
I thought about Boucher’s mocking posts, the media questioning whether I was too old, too washed up to lead an expansion team. The doubt I saw in some of my teammates’ eyes, the division that still fractured our locker room despite my best efforts.
I couldn’t afford distractions. Couldn’t afford complications that might undermine my authority or create questions about my focus. I needed to be the best captain the expansion team would ever have, needed to prove every doubter wrong, needed to show Boucher and Colorado and everyone else that trading me had been their biggest mistake.
Personal feelings—especially feelings for someone I couldn’t openly acknowledge—had no place in that equation.
Maybe Michael was right. Maybe the smart thing, the safe thing, was to maintain distance before whatever was developing between Wesley and me became something neither of us could ignore.
