“It’s not simple. But it’s not impossible either.” I held his gaze. “What about you? What do you want? Besides four to six more years of playing.”
“I want to stay in Portland.” Griffin’s answer came quickly, definitively. “I know that’s not guaranteed—hell, Colorado proved that nothing’s guaranteed in pro sports. But if I have any choice in the matter, I want to build something here. Lead this team. Prove that the Stormhawks made the right decision by bringing me in as captain.”
“And after retirement?”
“I don’t know.” Griffin’s thumb traced circles on the back of my hand. The gentle motion seemed absent-minded. “I’ve spent my entire life focused on hockey. I haven’t let myself think much beyond it because thinking about after meant acknowledging eventually I’d have to make choices aboutcoming out, about living openly. Easier to just focus on the next game, the next season.”
“But now?” I prompted gently.
“Now I’m sitting in your apartment eating the chicken I helped cook, holding your hand, and thinking maybe there could be an after worth planning for.” Griffin’s expression was soft, vulnerable. “Maybe retiring doesn’t have to be the end of my life. Maybe it could be the beginning of something better.”
The words tightened my chest. This was what I’d hoped for—evidence that Griffin could imagine a future beyond the closet, that our timeline wasn’t just theoretical but something he genuinely wanted to work toward.
“What would that look like?” I kept my voice carefully neutral, not wanting to push too hard. “Your ideal coming-out scenario.”
Griffin was quiet for a long moment, clearly considering the question. “I don’t know. I’ve spent so long being terrified of it I haven’t thought about how it could actually happen. What it could look like if I had control over the narrative instead of being forced out by discovery or exposure.”
“Can I make a suggestion?” I waited for his nod before I continued. “What if we planned it? Not now—not tomorrow or next month or even next season. But eventually, when you’re ready. What if we created your perfect coming-out scenario? The timing, the message, the medium. All of it designed to tell your story your way.”
Griffin’s expression shifted—surprise, then consideration, then something that might have been cautious hope. “You think that’s possible?”
“I think with enough planning and the right strategy, almost anything is possible.” I saw the opportunity to reframe his fear into something actionable. “You’re Griffin Lapierre. Team captain. Leader. Face of the franchise. Youhave platform and credibility and respect. Those are assets we can use.”
“Assets,” he said, his tone thoughtful. “I’ve never thought of it that way. Always just saw coming out as loss—loss of image, loss of sponsorships, loss of my father’s legacy.”
“What if it wasn’t a loss?” I leaned forward, warming to the subject despite knowing I needed to be careful not to pressure him. “What if it was expansion? Adding another dimension to who you are publicly instead of subtracting anything. The first NHL player to come out. That’s historic. That’s leadership in a way that transcends hockey.”
His eyes searched mine, looking for something—reassurance, perhaps, or proof that my optimism wasn’t just naïve hope. “You really believe that?”
“I really believe that when you’re ready—truly ready—we can make this work in a way that honors who you are rather than destroying it.” I squeezed his hand. “But that’s a conversation for later. For now, let’s just focus on the present. On this. On us.”
“Us.” He smiled, the tension in his shoulders visibly easing. “I like this. Being here with you.”
I stood and tugged him up with me. “Come on. Let’s clean up, have dessert, and not worry about anything beyond tonight.”
Cleaning up after dinner showcased Griffin’s organizational skills in full force—he efficiently scraped plates, loaded the dishwasher with military precision, wiped down counters until they gleamed, and had my kitchen spotless in minutes. I stood uselessly by and watched him work with the same focused intensity he brought to the ice.
“You’re making me look bad in my own kitchen.” I leaned against the counter.
Griffin glanced up with a slight smile. He hung the dish towel with precise alignment. “There. All done.”
“Well, since you’ve efficiently stolen my cleanup duties, I’ll bring the tiramisu and coffee into the living room.” I gestured toward the couch. “Go sit. Relax. Let me handle the easy part.”
Griffin retreated to my couch while I brewed coffee and plated the tiramisu. When I joined him, he’d settled into the corner, one arm stretched along the back cushions in casual invitation.
I handed him a plate and settled beside him, close enough that our thighs touched, close enough to feel his warmth. The tiramisu was excellent—rich and creamy, the espresso and cocoa balanced perfectly. We ate in comfortable silence, the kind that felt like intimacy rather than the absence of conversation.
“Thank you for tonight,” he said eventually, setting his empty plate on the coffee table. “For all of this. Teaching me to cook, talking about the future, just… being you.”
“Being me?” I set down my plate and turned to face him more fully.
“Optimistic. Strategic. Seeing possibilities instead of just problems.” Griffin’s hand took mine and his thumb resumed those gentle circles that made my pulse quicken. “You make me think maybe I can have what I want.”
“You can have what you want. It just requires planning and patience and probably a lot of luck.” I shifted closer, closing the remaining distance between us. “But yeah, I think you can have it. I think we can have it.”
Griffin’s free hand came up to cup my jaw, his palm warm against my beard. “Four to six years feels like a long time right now.”
“It does,” I agreed, not wanting to diminish the truth. “But it also feels manageable. Like something we can actually do if we’re careful and smart about it.”
