Wesley’s expression shifted—something that looked like disappointment flickering across his features before he glanced away toward the darkened window. “Right. The job.”
We talked for the rest of the flight—about books we’d read, places we’d traveled, the comfort of diner food. Conversation that had nothing to do with hockey or PR or the careful professional relationship we were supposed to be maintaining.
When we landed in Portland, the team filed off the plane in sleepy, subdued groups. I grabbed my duffel and followed Wesley down the narrow aisle, suddenly aware of how long we’d been sitting together, how obvious our connection must have looked to anyone paying attention.
At the bottom of the stairs, our GM, Owen Davidson, stood talking with Coach Roberts, both men watching as players exited. Davidson’s eyes tracked Wesley and me emerging together, his eyebrow raising slightly in an expression I couldn’t quite read.
Disapproval? Curiosity? Concern?
My stomach tightened with familiar anxiety. How had it looked, the captain spending both flights sitting with the PR manager instead of with his team? Roberts had already questioned it this morning. What conclusions were people drawing?
Then shame hit harder than the anxiety—shame that my first instinct was worry about appearances rather than defiance about my right to choose with whom I sat. The non-fraternization policy covered romantic relationships, notfriendships. I was allowed to have professional friendships with staff members.
Except what Wesley and I had didn’t feel entirely professional anymore, and I suspected people were starting to notice.
I said goodbye to Wesley in the parking lot, keeping my tone casual and my body language appropriate. Then I drove home along nearly deserted freeways, replaying the entire day—the speech practice, Roberts’s subtle warning, Wesley’s eyes on my bare skin, Brooks flirting in the restaurant, the loss, the late-night conversation that had felt more intimate than any physical contact.
Despite the irony of tomorrow’s speech, I’d sat on a plane with Wesley and had an honest conversation about pressure and performance and who we actually were beneath our professional roles. I’d felt more like myself than I had in years.
We were going to stay friends. Nothing more. That’s what I told myself as I fell into bed, exhausted and conflicted and painfully aware that every day made that promise harder to keep.
Just friends. Professional colleagues. Nothing more.
The lie was getting easier to tell, even as the truth became harder to ignore.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Griffin
My phone chimed with a text message during the drive back from the chamber of commerce luncheon, Wesley’s name lighting up the screen. I waited until I’d parked in my apartment’s garage before reading the message.
Wesley
Just got off the phone with the chamber president. Said your speech was “exactly what Portland’s business community needed to hear” and wants to book you for next year. Well done, Captain.
Relief and pride settled in my gut. The speech had gone better than I’d expected—the audience engaged, laughing at the right moments, nodding during the serious parts. But standing up there talking about authentic leadership while hiding fundamental truths about myself had felt like skating with a loose blade—one wrong word away from disaster.
Griffin
Glad it worked. Felt good despite my misgivings about the whole authenticity angle.
Wesley
You earned the compliment.
I stared at my phone, and my thumb hovered over the keyboard. The smart thing, the safe thing, was to thank him and move on. Keep the conversation professional, maintain the boundaries we’d agreed on, continue the careful distance that was supposed to protect us both.
But sitting in my car, remembering yesterday’s flight home after the game when we’d veered into personal territory—the way Wesley had looked at me when I’d almost said too much, the disappointment in his expression when I’d defaulted to “appreciate” instead of whatever truth had been trying to escape—made the distance feel impossible.
I wanted to see him. Not at the facility where we had to act for everyone else, not in public where every interaction was measured and careful. Just… see him. Talk to him. Exist in the same space without the constant vigilance.
My fingers moved before I could talk myself out of it.
Griffin
Want to come over tonight? I’ll order dinner. We can watch the LA-Anaheim preseason game.
I hit send and immediately regretted it. Too forward. Too obvious. Friends didn’t invite each other over with this kind of nervous energy, this desperate need for proximity.
