“Is it?” The question came out more raw than I’d intended. “My whole life has been about living up to his legacy. Being good enough, successful enough, perfect enough to honor his memory. And the one thing he told me I couldn’t do—couldn’t be—was openly gay.”
Wesley was quiet, letting me work through the thoughts I’d been avoiding.
“I believed him,” I continued. “When he said coming out would ruin my career, that I had to hide to succeed. I was sixteen, and he was my hero. Of course I believed him.” My throat tightened.
“I know,” he said softly. “But that’s the thing about being an adult, making your own choices. Eventually, you have to stop living for what your father wanted and start living for what you want.”
“What if what I want disrespects his memory?”
“That’s not up to you.” Wesley’s expression was fierce, protective. “Griffin, you’re an incredible hockey player and an exceptional leader. Your father should have been proud of those things. And if he couldn’t be proud of you being gay—if he prioritized your image over your happiness—then that’s his failure, not yours.”
The words hit something deep in my chest, a knot of grief and guilt I’d been carrying since I was sixteen. My father had been my hero, and heroes weren’t supposed to fail their children. But by telling me to hide, by prioritizing my career over my authenticity, maybe he had.
“I wish I knew what he’d think about me coming out after I retire,” I said quietly. “If he’d understand. I’ll never get that answer.”
“No, you won’t.” Wesley shifted closer, his forehead resting against mine. “But you get to make your own decisions now. You get to decide when and how you come out, if you come out at all. Your father’s opinion—whatever it might have been—doesn’t have to control your choices anymore.”
“Doesn’t it, though?” I pulled back slightly to meet his eyes. “Everything Michael and my mom say is framed as ‘what your father would have wanted.’ Every decision is filtered through his legacy. How do I separate what I actually want from what I’ve been conditioned to believe I should want?”
“By asking yourself hard questions. By imagining what your life would look like in ten years, twenty years, and deciding if that’s the life you want or the life you think you’re supposed to want.” Wesley’s hand cupped my jaw, his touch gentle. “By being here with me, risking everything for a few stolen hours, because some part of you knows this matters more than the mask.”
He was right. Being here, in this hotel room, choosing a connection over safety—that was authenticity. Small, secretive, dangerous authenticity, but authenticity nonetheless.
“Tomorrow’s going to be hard,” I admitted. “Playing in that arena. Feeling the weight of his legacy. Knowing the media will ask about him, knowing the comparisons will come.”
“Then tonight, you don’t have to think about any of that.” Wesley closed the remaining distance between us, his mouth finding mine in a kiss that was tender and thoughtful. “Tonight, you’re just Griffin. Not a captain, not a legacy, not an image. Just you.”
The kiss deepened, becoming less gentle and moreurgent. My hands gripped the hem of his T-shirt. Wesley sat up to help as I pulled it up and over his head in one smooth motion. His skin was warm under my palms, solid muscle over a toned frame, and he made a small sound of approval as my hands explored.
His fingers yanked at my tee, fumbling slightly in his eagerness, and I helped him—shrugging out of it and tossing it toward the chair where it missed and landed on the floor. Didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except the press of Wesley’s body against mine, the way he kissed me like I was precious and desired all at once.
We moved together, hands and mouths mapping new territory. Wesley’s touch was confident but gentle, reading my responses and adjusting accordingly, and I tried to do the same—paying attention to what made him gasp, what made his hands tighten on my shoulders, what made him pull me closer.
The intimacy built slowly, neither of us rushing despite the time constraints and danger. This was borrowed time, precious and fragile, and we both seemed determined to savor it rather than race through it.
I palmed his erection through his soft sleep pants, and he sucked in a breath.
“Yes,” he hissed.
Taking that as permission, I slipped my hand beneath his waistband. I hesitated, giving him time to refuse, but he nodded his approval. My fingers wrapped around his hot, hard cock, and I lightly swiped the head with my thumb.
He bucked against my hand. “Griffin,” he said on a breath. “Don’t tease me. Give it to me. Hard. Let me fuck your fist.”
A buzz shot straight to my balls at his words. I should have known Wesley’s enthusiasm would translate into avoracious hunger and dirty talk in bed. I grasped his dick and held on as he thrust into my grip. Gone was the slow burn of our earlier explorations, replaced by his urgent pounding as if he was railing my ass.
My dick throbbed, trapped within my boxer briefs.
His hips stuttered. He pulled a pillow over his head and shouted into it, the wordless sound muffled, as his cock pulsed in my hand. Liquid warmth coated my fingers.
I wrenched my hand from his pants, freed my erection, and frantically jerked off. A tingle raced down my spine, and I shot ropes of cum onto Wesley’s stomach, shuddering.
I collapsed to the bed, gasping as if I’d skated laps. “Oh my God.”
“You can say that again.” He lifted to view the mess on his abs. “I should probably clean up,” he said, but dropped his head back down onto the pillow.
I snorted. “I’ll take care of it.” I rolled out of bed, washed my hands in the bathroom, and retrieved a warm, wet washcloth for Wesley.
I climbed back into bed beside him, and we lay tangled together, Wesley’s head on my chest, his hands smoothing across my abs in absent, soothing strokes. The room was quiet except for our gradually slowing breathing and the hum of the room’s heating system.
