The three dots appeared, disappeared, reappeared. My pulse hammered against my ribs as I watched the screen, eachsecond of silence confirming that I’d crossed a line, pushed too hard, revealed too much.
Finally, Wesley’s response came through.
Wesley
What are we doing, Griffin?
The question landed like a punch from an enforcer. Honest, direct, asking me to name what we both knew was happening between us.
Griffin
Friends get together. Watch games. Order food. Nothing unprofessional about that.
Another long pause. I could practically see Wesley’s expression—that look he got when he was thinking three moves ahead, calculating possibilities and consequences.
Wesley
What time?
Griffin
7?
Wesley
I’ll be there.
I sat in my car for another five minutes, staring at the exchange and wondering what I’d just set in motion. Friends watching a game. That’s all I’d invited him for. That’s all it had to be.
The lie sat bitter on my tongue even as I tried to convince myself it was true.
By six thirty, my apartment was as ready as it could be—cleaned after I got home in a fit of nervous energy, living room arranged so the couch faced the TV at the optimalangle, menus from three different restaurants laid out on the counter because I couldn’t decide what to order.
I changed clothes twice, first into sweats that felt too casual, then into jeans and a button-down that felt too formal, finally settling on jeans and a Henley that split the difference. Then I felt ridiculous for caring what I wore to watch a hockey game in my own apartment.
The buzzer sounded just before seven, and my gut skittered like a puck across the ice.
I opened the door to find Wesley holding a six-pack of Beaverton Brews IPA. The soft gray sweater that skimmed his broad chest made his warm brown eyes look darker. His expression was carefully neutral, but I caught the slight tension in his shoulders that suggested he was as nervous as I was.
“Brought beer.” Wesley raised the six-pack. “Figured it went with the hockey-watching experience.”
“Thanks. Come in.”
He stepped past me into the apartment, and I caught the scent of his cedar body wash mixed with something spicy—his shampoo, maybe. The same combination that had been driving me crazy on the flight and in meetings and every other time we’d been in close proximity.
I closed the door and tried to ignore how the simple act of having Wesley in my space felt significant, charged with possibility and danger in equal measure.
“What sounds good for dinner?” I asked, gesturing to the menus. “I’ve got Thai, Chinese, or Mexican.”
“Mexican works. You order. I’ll open the beer.”
We fell into an easy rhythm—me calling in the order while Wesley found glasses, opened beers, and bumbled around my kitchen looking for plates despite having been here for the video game tournament.
The food arrived twenty minutes later. We settled ontomy couch with plates balanced on our laps, the coffee table pulled close for drinks and extra containers. The TV showed pregame coverage of the LA Renegades-Anaheim Apex matchup, analysts discussing lineups and predictions with the kind of certainty that always amused me.
“Who are you picking?” Wesley dipped a chip into salsa.
“LA. They’ve got better depth, and Anaheim’s defense looked shaky in their first two games.”
