“I’m taking Anaheim. Their goaltending has been solid, and sometimes that’s enough to steal games.”
We ate and watched as the game started, keeping up running commentary on plays and strategies. It felt comfortable, natural, exactly what I’d imagined when I’d invited him over.
Except I was aware of every point where our bodies almost touched. The way Wesley’s thigh was inches from mine on the couch. How his hand rested on the cushion between us, close enough that I could feel its warmth without actual contact.
Halfway through the first period, I shifted slightly closer, testing. Wesley didn’t move away.
After LA scored on a power play, I moved again, our shoulders now touching. Wesley leaned into the contact instead of retreating, the simple acceptance making my pulse quicken.
I stretched my arm along the back of the couch, the gesture casual but deliberate. My hand rested near Wesley’s shoulder, not quite touching but present. An offer, a question, a line being drawn that either of us could choose not to cross.
Wesley leaned back slightly, his shoulder blade pressing against my forearm. Permission. Acknowledgment. Answer.
“Wesley.” My voice came out rough.
He turned to face me, his expression serious, searching. “Yeah?”
The game continued in the background—whistles, commentary, the distant roar of the arena crowd—but it felt like white noise, irrelevant compared to the moment happening on my couch.
“I’m attracted to you.” The words felt too simple for what I was trying to express, but I forced myself to continue. “I’ve been trying to ignore it, trying to maintain professional distance, trying to convince myself we could just be colleagues. But I can’t do it anymore.”
Wesley’s eyes stayed fixed on mine, unreadable. “Griffin?—”
“I know all the reasons this is a bad idea. I know what we agreed on. But sitting next to you, I can’t keep pretending there’s nothing here.” I paused, gathering courage. “I want to try this. Being together. Privately. I want to be who I truly am with someone who knows me. With you.”
Wesley pulled back slightly, putting physical distance between us even as his furrowed brow showed conflict rather than rejection. “Do you understand what you’re asking? The non-fraternization policy isn’t just about keeping things quiet—we’d be actively violating team rules. If we’re caught, I’d lose my job. I’d get blacklisted from sports PR. You might face discipline, but with the power difference, you’d survive it. I wouldn’t.”
The reality of it hit like ice in the face. I’d been so focused on the risk to my career if my sexuality was discovered that I hadn’t fully considered the concrete professional danger to Wesley just from the relationship itself.
“I’m sorry,” I said quietly. “I’m asking you to take that risk, which makes me selfish as hell. But I’ll protect you—if we’re discovered, I’ll make sure you’re not the one who pays the price.”
“You can’t guarantee that.”
“No. But I can promise I’ll try. And that if it comes down to your career or mine, I choose yours.”
Wesley stood up, pacing to my windows and looking out at Beaverton’s lights. He shoved his hands in his pockets and his shoulders tightened with tension.
“Do you know what happened in Nashville?”
“Yes,” I said with regret.
“I promised myself something after that,” Wesley said, not turning around. “I promised I wouldn’t date another closeted man. That I wouldn’t be someone’s secret again, hidden away like something shameful.”
The words struck deep because they were fair, because I was asking him to be exactly that.
“Tell me about him,” I said. “Charles.”
Wesley turned and leaned against the window frame. “We met at a sports media event. He was a TV color commentator for the Nashville broadcast team—former player, well-connected, everyone loved him. Smart, funny, genuinely kind. We started seeing each other secretly because he wasn’t out.”
“How long were you together?”
“Three years. Three years of hotel rooms and careful distance in public. Three years of him canceling plans because someone might see us. Three years of watching him appear on broadcasts talking about family values.” Wesley’s voice was steady, but the pain underneath was evident. “His father was a famous TV preacher—prominent evangelical church in Nashville. When his father found out about us, he showed up at my house with his congregation. Staged a protest and prayer vigil on my front lawn, saying I’d corrupted his son, that I was leading Charles into sin. They vandalized my house. I received death threats.”
My jaw tightened. “Shit.”
“Charles had a choice. Stand with me or save his career and his relationship with his family. He chose them. Went on local news, denounced me publicly, said I’d pursued him inappropriately despite his objections.” Wesley’s expression was carefully controlled. “I managed to keep the team out of the scandal—spun it as a personal matter, not organizational. But I couldn’t stay in Nashville after that. Every time I walked into the arena, I’d see Charles in the broadcast booth. Every game, I’d hear his voice doing commentary. I needed to start over where no one knew the story. Where I was safe.”
The casual cruelty of it—the public humiliation, the betrayal, the way Charles had sacrificed Wesley to protect himself—made something protective and angry flare in my chest.
