I locked my apartment door behind me and headed for my car, the morning air crisp and clear. If disaster struck, I could reinvent myself. Move to another city, maybe pivot to a sports news organization. I’d rebuilt once after Nashville. I could do it again if necessary.
But I was hopeful it wouldn’t come to that. Excited even, about the possibility of making this work. My optimism was in full force, seeing the path forward and believing we could navigate it successfully.
Griffin was worth the risk.Wewere worth the risk.
I just had to make sure my idealism didn’t blind me to the very real dangers we’d be facing every single day.
My office at the facility was larger than I’d had in Nashville—enough room for a desk, two visitors’ chairs, and a bookshelf I’d only half filled with PR resources and media materials. I spent my morning responding to email messages, posting on social media, and writing a press release while the sounds of practice drifted up the two stories from the rink. An hour after silence had fallen, a knock sounded on my door.
Griffin stood in my doorway holding two cups from Beaverton Beans, his expression carefully neutral, but his eyes warm in a way that made my pulse quicken.
“Thought you could use a caffeine boost,” he said, his voice professional as he glanced down the hallway before stepping inside. He left the door partially open—smart, maintaining the appearance of a routine interaction between colleagues.
“A caramel latte?” The words came out before I couldmoderate my tone, too much genuine pleasure bleeding through. My face broke into a smile I couldn’t quite control.
Griffin’s expression softened, his professional mask slipping for just a moment. “Of course.”
I stood from my desk and accepted the cup while forcing myself not to close the distance between us the way every instinct demanded. I wanted to kiss him, to touch him, to acknowledge what had changed between us in some physical way. But we were at work. The door was open, and anyone could walk by.
I stepped closer—too close for a purely professional distance—then caught myself and took a deliberate step back. My brain was screaming warnings:Stop smiling so much. You look like an idiot. Anyone passing by could notice.
“Thanks,” I managed, and tried to moderate my expression into something more appropriate for a colleague bringing another colleague coffee. “Did you need to go over something for the schedule?”
Griffin remained standing, completely respectable. He looked every inch the composed team captain—shoulders back, expression even. But his eyes told a different story and betrayed feelings that had nothing to do with media schedules and everything to do with last night.
“Among other things.” His voice dropped low, more intimate. “Wanted to see how you’re doing. After last night.”
I smiled. “I’m—” My phone rang, and the screen lit up with the GM’s name. “It’s Owen Davidson. Sorry, I’ve got to take this.” I held up my forefinger to indicate he should wait. I answered.
“Wesley, find Griffin. I’d like to see you both in my office as soon as possible.”
“Actually, he’s here right now. He just stopped by to discuss some scheduling.” I winced at the lie and glanced at Griffin. He grimaced.
“Perfect. Come to my office.”
“Of course. We’ll be right there.”
I ended the call and met Griffin’s eyes. “Do you think he knows?” I said low, in case someone was in the hallway.
“How could he? It’s been less than twelve hours.” Griffin’s voice was steady, but I could see his shoulders tense. “We haven’t done anything suspicious.”
“Except sit together on the San Jose flights,” I pointed out, my brain immediately cataloging every interaction someone might have witnessed.
“Lots of people sit together on flights. And I was practicing my speech.” Griffin straightened to his full height, topping me by three inches. “We’re probably overreacting.”
“Probably.” Though my hope battled with very real anxiety. “Let’s go.”
We walked to Davidson’s office in careful silence, maintaining professional distance, both of us projecting composed competence even as my mind spun through worst-case scenarios. Maybe someone had seen me leave Griffin’s apartment late last night. Maybe Turner had said something. Maybe Michael had called Davidson with suspicions.
Davidson’s office was on the executive level, spacious, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the rink and the kind of furniture that suggested serious money. The GM stood from behind a massive desk. He was in his fifties, with graying hair and the shrewd expression of someone who’d spent decades evaluating talent and risk.
“Griffin, Wesley, come in. Sit.” He gestured to the chairs across from his desk.
We sat, and I forced myself to breathe normally. This was fine. We were fine. Davidson couldn’t possibly know anything this quickly.
“Griffin, I wanted to personally congratulate you on your speech at the chamber of commerce. I’ve already gotten callsfrom three sponsors who were there, all extremely impressed.”
Relief flooded through me, though I kept my expression businesslike. “Griffin did an excellent job. We worked on the speech together, and he delivered it perfectly.”
