Home safe. Thank you for tonight. For everything.
I smiled and typed back.
Wesley
Anytime. Sleep well, Captain.
The three dots appeared, disappeared, then reappeared before his response came through.
Griffin
Good night, Wesley. Dream of possibilities.
I set down my phone and closed my eyes, Griffin’s words echoing through my mind. Dream of possibilities. That was my gift and my curse—the ability to see multiple futures, various paths forward, and all the ways this could work out.
I just had to hope that one of those possibilities included Griffin finding the courage to choose authenticity over image, to choose us over the closet, to choose the life he deserved over the life everyone else expected him to live.
Four to six years.
It felt impossibly long and terrifyingly short all at once.
But for now, tonight, I chose to focus on what we had rather than everything we didn’t. On the laughter in mykitchen and the kiss on my couch and the future we were tentatively beginning to build together.
That was enough.
It had to be enough.
Even if the fear occasionally whispered that this time might not be different after all, that seeing someone in secret would eventually mean losing them entirely, that I was setting myself up for another heartbreak I might not survive.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Griffin
I was halfway out of my suit pants when Wesley boarded the plane, his messenger bag slung over one shoulder and his attention on his phone. The team’s plane hummed with pre-flight energy—players stowing duffel bags and settling into seats, the low rumble of conversation mixing with the flight crew’s final preparations.
I’d claimed a seat on the aisle, dress shirt already folded in the bag on the seat beside me. I was reaching for my jeans when Wesley’s gaze found mine.
His expression shifted—subtle, but unmistakable. A slight smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, those warm brown eyes lighting with amusement at catching me mid-change.
I couldn’t help it; I smiled and winked.
The gesture was automatic, instinctive, born from stolen moments and the memory of Wesley’s choked laugh when I’d squirted the tomato across the counter. It was a casual intimacy that felt natural when we were alone but wasabsolutely reckless here, surrounded by twenty-plus teammates and coaching staff.
Wesley’s dimple peeked out for a second before he schooled his expression back to professional neutrality and slid into a seat.
“Something funny, Lapierre?”
Turner’s voice cut through my momentary satisfaction like a sharp blade. He stood in an aisle seat three rows back, duffel still in hand, his expression twisted into something between suspicion and disgust.
My gut clenched. Turner had seen the exchange. Had watched me wink at Wesley like we were sharing some private joke, which we absolutely were, and now his scowl suggested he was drawing exactly the kind of conclusion I couldn’t afford anyone to draw.
“Just thinking about the game.” I forced casualness into my voice as I buttoned my jeans and reached for my T-shirt. “Ready to hand the Seattle Surge their asses?”
Turner’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t respond. He shoved his bag into the overhead compartment with more force than necessary and dropped into his seat, still watching me with that calculating expression that made my shoulders tense.
Fuck.
I yanked on my T-shirt and my mind raced through the implications. Turner had noticed. Had he seen something in that brief exchange that triggered his homophobic radar? And Turner wasn’t the type to keep suspicions to himself—he’d been vocal about his bigotry, had made his opinions about “that gay PR guy” crystal clear in the locker room.
