I made it to my room—a standard business hotel setup, nothing special—and dropped my bag by the door. My phone showed a handful of congratulatory texts from former teammates, a message from Michael praising my performance, but nothing from the one person I really wanted to hear from.
I stripped off my clothes and changed into a T-shirt and sweats while my mind raced ahead to tomorrow. Vancouver. The memories. The pressure of playing in my father’s city.
And Wesley. Somewhere in this hotel, probably several floors away, likely in his own room processing the day.
I wanted to see him. Wanted to celebrate this victory with someone who understood what it meant, who knew the weight I carried and the progress we’d made. Wanted to just be Griffin instead of Captain Lapierre for a few stolen hours.
But it was after midnight. The team was in the hotel. Teammates occupied rooms on multiple floors, and any one of them could see me in the hallway, could question where I was going, could draw conclusions that would destroy everything.
I sat on the edge of the bed and stared at my phone.
This is stupid. Go to sleep. Don’t risk it.
My fingers moved before I could talk myself out of it.
Griffin
You still awake?
The response came almost immediately.
Wesley
Yes. Can’t sleep. Too much adrenaline from the win.
Relief flooded through me, followed by nervous anticipation.
Griffin
What’s your room number?
Three dots appeared, disappeared, reappeared. I held my breath, giving Wesley the chance to say no, to establish boundaries, to remind me this was too dangerous.
Wesley
734
My pulse quickened. He’d said yes. Was willing to risk this despite the danger, despite the proximity to teammates, despite every logical reason we should maintain distance.
I stood, then hesitated. This was reckless. Stupid. Exactly the kind of behavior that could expose us both.
But I needed this. Needed him. Needed to share this victory with someone who saw me as more than just the captain, more than just the perfect image.
I grabbed my room keycard and typed one more message.
Griffin
Be right there.
I slipped into the hallway, acutely aware of every sound—the hum of the elevator, distant voices from a room down the hall, my own heartbeat thundering in my ears.
Seventh floor. Room 734.
What am I doing? This is insane. Turn around. Go back to your room. Don’t risk everything for one night.
But my feet kept moving, carrying me toward the elevator, toward Wesley, toward something that felt inevitable despite being impossible.
The elevator doors opened. I stepped inside and pressed seven.
