“Fair point.” Griffin was quiet for a moment, then added softly, “This is nice. Just being here. Doing normal things.”
I turned to face him, recognizing the vulnerability in his expression. “When was the last time you did something like this? Just cooked dinner with someone?”
“Honestly? I don’t think I ever have. Not like this.” Griffin’s gaze held mine. “I’ve had off-season hookups. Brief encounters in anonymous hotel room in cities without NHL teams where no one would recognize me. But nothing that felt like… this. Domestic. Real.”
The admission made something protective flare in my chest. Sixteen years of hiding. Sixteen years of stolen moments and anonymous one-night stands. No wonder he looked so relaxed in my kitchen—this simple act of cooking dinner together was something he’d never allowed himself to experience.
“Well, you’re doing it now.” I turned to him, close enough to see the flecks of gray in his light-blue eyes. “And you’re not completely terrible at it, despite your best efforts with the mozzarella.”
“High praise.” Griffin’s smile was soft, intimate. “Thank you. For this. For being patient with my incompetence.”
“Anytime.” I wanted to kiss him—wanted it so badly my lips tingled with anticipation. But the timer on the oven showed only another twenty minutes, and I had vegetables to sauté. “Come on. You can attempt to help me with the green beans.”
Griffin’s attempt to help involved him hovering uncertainly near the stove, holding a wooden spoon like itmight bite him, while I did most of the actual work. But his running commentary—observations about how the beans changed color, surprise at how quickly garlic could burn, general amazement that food could be transformed through the simple application of heat—kept me laughing.
By the time we sat down to eat, I felt lighter than I had in months. Maybe years. The kind of easy happiness I’d almost forgotten was possible.
The chicken had turned out perfectly—moist and flavorful, the mozzarella melted into creamy pockets of richness. Griffin took his first bite and made a sound that was almost obscene.
“This is incredible.” He looked at me with something like awe. “You made this look easy.”
“It is easy. You just need practice.” I speared a green bean. “Though maybe start with something less knife-intensive. Pasta, perhaps. Hard to mess up boiling water.” I reconsidered and shook my head. “On second thought, maybe not. Pasta can be tricky—getting the tenderness just right takes practice.”
“I’ve managed to screw up instant ramen.” Griffin took another bite and hummed in appreciation. “But seriously, this is amazing. Thank you for teaching me. Or trying to, anyway.”
We ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes, a quiet that felt companionable rather than awkward.
“Can I ask you something?” Griffin set down his fork and furrowed his brow.
“Of course.” My gut twisted at his serious expression.
“What do you want? Long term, I mean. For your career.” He paused, as if choosing his words carefully. “You said you came to Portland for a fresh start. Is this it? Or is there something else you’re working toward?”
The question caught me off guard—not because I hadn’tthought about it, but because no one had asked except in job interviews. Charles certainly never had. Our relationship had existed in a bubble where the future was something we avoided discussing, as if naming our goals might make the impossibility of achieving them together too obvious.
“Honestly?” I took a sip of beer and gathered my thoughts. “I think I’ve reached the pinnacle of what I want professionally. I’m the PR manager for an NHL expansion team. I get to shape narratives, manage crises, help build something from the ground up. This is the job I’ve been working toward my entire career.”
“So, you want to stay in Portland?” Griffin’s tone was neutral, but I caught an undercurrent of hope.
“I want to stay in one place,” I clarified. “Build a life instead of constantly moving between cities. I did that for years—climbing the ladder, taking new positions, always chasing the next opportunity. But I’m thirty-eight. I’m ready to put down roots. Have a home that feels permanent. Buy a house.”
Griffin was quiet. “What if I get traded? I don’t have a no-trade clause.”
The question hung between us, heavy with implications. I’d been trying not to think about it—the very real possibility that they could trade Griffin to another team, that our careful plans could be derailed by factors completely outside our control.
“Then I’d have to rethink my career path,” I said honestly. “Figure out if there’s a way to follow you without making it obvious. Or if long distance is sustainable for however many years you have left playing.”
“That’s not fair to you.” Griffin’s expression darkened. “You finally have the position you want, in a city you like, and I’m a risk to all of it.”
“You’re not a risk. You’re just a complication.” I reachedacross the table and laid my hand over his. The contact felt significant, grounding. “And one I’ve chosen to navigate. If you get traded, we’ll figure it out. Together.”
“But what if?—”
“Griffin.” I squeezed his hand gently. “I’m a PR manager. I see possibilities where other people see problems. If you get traded, maybe I find a remote consulting position. Maybe I take a job with whatever team you land on. Maybe we do long distance, and I fly out for home games. There are options. We don’t have to solve it right now.”
The rational part of my brain whispered that I might be getting ahead of myself—that four to six years was a lifetime in relationship terms, especially with all the complications we faced. But I’d always been an optimist, sometimes to my own detriment, and I wasn’t about to start catastrophizing now. Not when Griffin was finally letting himself hope.
Griffin turned his hand over, lacing his fingers through mine. “You make it sound simple.”
