But as I replayed the evening in my mind—Wesley laughing with Petrov at his gaming incompetence, the way he’d instinctively helped clean up, the warmth in his eyes when I’d admitted I’d invited him for reasons beyond promotional documentation—I knew it was already too late for distance.
Whatever this was, whatever was growing between us, I was already in too deep to simply walk away.
Which meant I was in trouble. Serious, career-threatening, everything-I’d-worked-for-at-risk kind of trouble.
And the worst part was, I wasn’t sure I cared enough to stop it.
CHAPTER NINE
Griffin
We had a light game-day practice on Friday, and afterward the locker room hummed with energy—the sharp scents of sweat mixing with soap and deodorant, the steady drum of water from multiple showers, the clatter of gear being gathered by the equipment manager. I sat at my locker, wearing only a towel, and observed Fournier, Petrov, and Martin move around the space with a different energy than they’d had just two days ago.
Practice had been good. Better than good, actually. The second line had clicked during drills in a way they hadn’t before, their communication sharper, their timing more synchronized. Fournier anticipated Petrov’s moves before they happened. Williams covered defensive gaps without being told. Small improvements, maybe, but progress nonetheless.
Maybe the video game tournament had worked.
“Nice passing in that last drill, Petrov,” Fournier called out, a towel wrapped around his waist as he headed toward his stall. “Almost made me look good out there.”
“Almost,” Petrov replied, deadpan. “You still have work to do.”
Williams emerged from the showers, water still dripping from his hair, and laughed at something Martin said.
The easy banter felt more natural, with the locker room gradually transforming from a collection of strangers into something resembling a team. Not there yet, but closer.
The locker room door opened, and Wesley stepped inside, his eyes immediately scanning the room until they found me. Then his gaze registered the state of undress around him—players in various stages of towels and bare asses—and his eyes quickly averted, a flush creeping up his neck.
“Sorry, I was looking for—” Wesley started.
“What the fuck are you doing in here?” Turner’s voice cut across the room, sharp and hostile. He stood near his stall, fully dressed but radiating aggression. “Gays don’t belong in men’s locker rooms. Get out.”
The locker room went silent. Every conversation stopped. Every player froze.
Wesley’s expression hardened, and his jaw tightened. “I’m the PR manager. I have legitimate business being here, unlike your bigotry.”
“I don’t want some?—”
“Enough.” The word came out like a whip, my voice carrying across the space with enough force that Turner actually took a step back. “That kind of talk doesn’t belong in my locker room. You want to be part of this team, you treat staff with respect. All staff.” My voice was a low growl that I barely recognized.
Turner’s sneer was ugly. “You defending him, Lapierre? That’s interesting.”
Something hot and defensive flared in my gut—protective instinct mixed with panic that Turner might seetoo much, might understand why his words hit so close to home.
“I’m defending basic human decency,” I said, my voice tight with barely controlled anger. “Which seems to be a concept you struggle with. If you have a problem with any member of our organization based on who they are, take it up with management. But I guarantee you’ll lose that fight.”
The silence stretched uncomfortably. Other players looked between us, reading the tension, uncertain where to land. Laasko caught my eye and gave a small nod of support. Martin’s mouth twisted with disgust as he faced Turner. But a few others—including Williams—remained carefully neutral.
Wesley’s voice was calm when he spoke again, though I could hear the steel underneath. “Griffin, can I see you in my office when you’re dressed?”
“Yeah. Give me five minutes.”
Wesley left without another word, his posture rigid with controlled emotion.
I whipped off my towel, threw it into the laundry bin, and yanked on jeans. My hands shook slightly as I pulled a T-shirt over my head—adrenaline, anger, and something like fear coursed through my system.
Turner’s words echoed in my head.Gays don’t belong in men’s locker rooms.The casual cruelty, the absolute certainty that his prejudice was justified, the way he’d looked at me when I’d defended Wesley—You defending him, Lapierre? That’s interesting.
I needed to see Wesley. Needed to know he was okay, that Turner’s ugliness hadn’t wounded him more deeply than he’d shown.
