I made my way toward his table, projecting theconfidence of someone who’d stumbled upon a colleague by pure coincidence rather than someone who’d been deliberately searching and timing his arrival.
“Wesley.” I stopped beside his table, my tone friendly but appropriately distant. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”
Wesley’s head snapped up, surprise and a smile flickering across his face before he schooled his expression into something more neutral. “Griffin. Hey.” His eyes darted around the coffee shop, assessing who might be watching, who might notice. “What brings you by?” he asked, playing along.
“Needed coffee. Figured I’d watch some game tape away from my apartment.” I waved my iPad to support my excuse. “Mind if I sit?”
Wesley hesitated for a fraction of a second—long enough that I caught the calculation happening behind his eyes—then gestured to the chair across from him. “Sure. Of course.”
I sat, setting my coffee on the table, and flipped open my tablet like I actually intended to work. We maintained careful distance, our body language appropriate for colleagues who happened to run into each other, nothing that would suggest anything more.
“Griffin,” Wesley said quietly, his voice low enough that it wouldn’t carry beyond our table. “We have to be careful. This looks?—”
“If anyone asks, we’re working.” I met his eyes, letting him see the truth underneath the alibi. “But I had to see you.”
Wesley’s eyes softened, the professional mask slipping enough to show the warmth underneath. “You could have just texted.”
“Not the same.” I wrapped my hand around my cup, needing something to do with it that wasn’t reaching acrossthe table to touch him. “Wanted to see your face. Make sure you’re okay after yesterday.”
“I’m fine. Holloway showing up was close, but we handled it.” Wesley’s fingers drummed against the tabletop. “But how are you? Home opener is Thursday. That’s a lot of pressure.”
“Looking forward to it. We’re ready.” The automatic response, the captain’s answer. Then, more honestly, I leaned forward and admitted, “Terrified, actually. First regular season home game. First as captain of an expansion team. Feels like the entire city will watch to see if I fail.”
“You won’t fail.” Wesley was certain, supportive. “You’re one of the best players in the league, and you’ve been leading the team brilliantly. Thursday will prove that.”
I wanted to believe him. Wanted to internalize his confidence and make it my own. But the voice in my head—the one that measured my worth entirely through achievement—whispered that one bad, crucial game would prove Colorado right to trade me, would show Boucher I wasn’t worth the expansion draft pick, would reveal me as a fraud wearing a captain’s C in Portland I didn’t deserve.
“Tell me something good,” I said instead, changing the subject. “Distract me from spiraling about the game.”
Wesley smiled, and the genuine warmth of it made something in my chest expand. “Tickets are sold out. The energy in that building is going to be incredible.”
“That’s amazing that we have such support.” I took a sip of my coffee, savoring the rich, cold coffee. “What else?”
“Media requests are overwhelming—everyone wants access to you. Local stations, national sports networks, podcasts, print journalists. You’re the story everyone wants to cover.” Wesley smiled broadly, professional pride in his work clear. “I’ve been fielding requests all day, prioritizing the ones that make the most sense.”
“You’re good at your job.” The words came out husky, more intimate than I’d intended, revealing too much about how much I admired Wesley.
“Thanks.” Wesley’s eyes held mine for a moment too long, the space between us charged with everything we couldn’t say in a public coffee shop. “But you make my job easier. You’ve got a natural media presence, you handle pressure well, you say the right things.”
Heat crept up my cheeks. “I’ve had practice.” Sixteen years of practice projecting the perfect straight athlete, of crafting the image that made me valuable, of hiding anything that might diminish my worth.
We fell into quiet conversation—safe topics like line combinations and defensive strategies, media talking points and community appearances. But underneath the professional discussion, there was warmth and connection, the simple pleasure of being in each other’s company even if we had to maintain a cautious distance.
I was mid-sentence about power play adjustments when movement caught my eye. Two men approached our table holding hands, their body language showing the casual comfort of a couple completely at ease with their relationship.
“Excuse me,” the taller one said, his voice friendly but slightly wavering with nervousness. “Are you Griffin Lapierre?”
My public persona clicked into place automatically—shoulders back, smile warm and approachable, every inch the professional athlete who appreciated his fans. “I am. How are you guys doing?”
“We’re excited about the Stormhawks.” The shorter one practically vibrated with excitement. “We bought season tickets as soon as they went on sale. Can’t wait for Thursday’s home opener.”
“That’s great. Thanks for supporting the team.” I stood and offered my hand. Both men shook it enthusiastically. “I’m Griffin. And this is Wesley Hutton, our PR manager.”
The taller man introduced himself as Henry, and the shorter one was Sebastian.
“Nice to meet you.” Henry grinned at Wesley. “We follow the team’s social media. You do a great job.”
Wesley smiled, professional but warm. “Thank you. It’s always nice to meet fans.”
