As the doors closed and the elevator rose, I caught myreflection in the polished metal—a man whose entire career depended on secrets and perfect control, about to risk it all for a few stolen hours with someone who made me feel like myself.
Worth it. He’s worth it.
The elevator dinged. Seventh floor.
I stepped into the hallway and headed toward room 734, my heart racing with equal parts anticipation and terror.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Griffin
I knocked on Wesley’s door—three quick, quiet raps that wouldn’t carry down the hallway—and immediately second-guessed everything. The hotel corridor was empty at 12:47 a.m., but that could change in seconds. A teammate coming back from the ice machine, a coach doing a sweep of the bar, anyone with insomnia deciding to wander the halls.
This is stupid. Go back to your room.
The door opened before I could retreat. Wesley’s hand shot out, grabbed my T-shirt, and pulled me inside. The door clicked shut behind me and the lock engaged with a softsnickthat sounded absurdly loud in the quiet.
“Damn, it’s good to see you.” He smiled as his hands framed my face, and he kissed me.
The kiss was congratulatory and hungry all at once—Wesley’s mouth warm and insistent against mine, his soft beard brushing my lip, his body pressing close enough that I could feel his heartbeat through our T-shirts. All the adrenaline from the game that had nowhere to go suddenlyfound direction, and I kissed him back hard enough that he made a small sound of surprise and pleasure.
When we broke apart, both breathing harder, Wesley’s eyes were bright with satisfaction. “Hell of a game, Captain. That goal in the second period was beautiful.”
“Caught the rebound.” My hands had found his waist without conscious decision, thumbs brushing the bare skin where his T-shirt had bunched up. “Team played well.”
“Youplayed well. Goal and an assist, multiple blocked shots, constant communication with your lines.” Wesley’s smile was genuine, proud in a way that made something warm expand in my chest. “You’re becoming exactly the leader this team needs.”
The praise landed differently coming from Wesley than from coaches or teammates. He saw past the performance to the person underneath, recognized the work I put in beyond just statistics and highlight reels.
“Come on.” Wesley took my hand and led me toward the bed. “Tell me about it. The whole game.”
We stretched out on top of the covers, facing each other, close enough that our knees touched. The position was intimate without being sexual, comfortable in a way I’d never experienced with my brief, anonymous hookups. This felt like something real—like a relationship instead of just physical release.
“Turner saw,” I said quietly, the worry I’d been carrying since the plane finally finding voice. “On the team plane, when you boarded. I winked at you, and he saw. He scowled at me like he knew exactly what it meant.”
Wesley’s expression sobered. “Shit. What did you do?”
“Played it off. Made some comment about being ready for the game. But he noticed, Wes. He’s already wary about you being gay, and now he’s going to be watching me more carefully.”
“Then we have to be even more careful.” Wesley’s hand found mine between us on the bed, his fingers lacing through my own. “No more winks. No more looks. Perfect professional distance when anyone else is around.”
“I know. I just…” I paused, trying to articulate the frustration. “I hate that being around you requires so much caution. That I can’t just smile at you without calculating whether someone’s watching.”
“I hate it too.” Wesley squeezed my hand gently. “But that’s the reality we’re navigating. At least for now.”
Four to six years.The timeline that felt both manageable and impossibly long.
“Let’s talk about something better.” Wesley shifted closer, and his warm brown eyes searched mine. “How do you feel about tomorrow—tonight? Vancouver?”
The question landed heavier than he probably intended. I was quiet for a moment, processing the tangle of emotions that came with playing in my father’s city.
“Complicated,” I admitted finally. “Vancouver was Dad’s last team. He was the captain there for five years. I was playing junior and then major junior hockey while he was there, but I saw some of his games. Watched him lead that team, saw how the fans loved him, how his teammates respected him.”
“That’s a lot of legacy to carry.” Wesley’s voice was gentle, understanding.
“He was legendary. One of the greatest centers of his generation. When people in Vancouver see Lapierre on my jersey, they make comparisons. And I’m not sure I live up to them. Especially now, with a transition team.” The admission felt vulnerable.
“You don’t have to be your father.” Wesley’s thumb traced circles on the back of my hand, the gentle motion settling. “You just have to be yourself. Griffin Lapierre, captain of the Stormhawks, who just led his team to a road victory. That’s enough.”
