“Go ahead.”
Wesley typed a quick response, then a longer one, in business mode. After a few exchanges, he set down his phone and started packing up his laptop. “I should go home. It’s been a long day, and I need to eat something that isn’t coffee shop pastries.”
Disappointment settled in my gut, but I nodded. “Yeah. I should head out too.”
We left separately—Wesley first, with a professional wave and a “see you Thursday at the presser,” then me a few minutes later after finishing my coffee and scrolling through meaningless emails on my phone.
But instead of heading back to my apartment, I found myself driving toward Wesley’s building. Found myself parking in the visitor lot and walking up to his door, my heart pounding with the recklessness of what I was doing.
I knocked, and when Wesley opened his door, surprise flickered across his face.
“Griffin. What?—”
“I can’t stay away.” The admission felt like exposing a vulnerability, revealing a weakness that contradicted everything my mind told me to hide. “I know I should. I know it’s risky. But I needed to see you. Really see you, not just the civil version across a coffee shop table.”
Wesley’s expression softened, and he stepped back to let me in. “You’re going to give me a heart attack showing up unannounced like this.”
“Sorry.” I wasn’t sorry. I stepped inside, and Wesley closed the door behind me.
“Hungry?” Wesley moved toward his kitchen. “I was about to make dinner. Nothing fancy—spaghetti and meat sauce.”
“I could eat.” I followed him. He pulled a pound of ground beef from his fridge. “Want help?” I asked.
“You can try to not destroy my kitchen while I cook.” Wesley’s smile took the sting out of the words. “Sit. Talk to me. Tell me what’s really going on.”
I sat at his kitchen bar as Wesley worked. He moved through the space with comfortable familiarity, browning beef, boiling water, and measuring spices, his movements sure.
“I’m scared about Thursday,” I admitted, able to be honest with Wesley like no one else in my life. “Scared I’ll fail. Scared I won’t live up to expectations. Scared that everything Colorado said about me was true—that I’m past my prime, that I can’t lead a team, that I was expendable.”
“None of that is true.” Wesley looked up from opening a jar of marinara sauce. “Colorado made a business decision based on their goals. It wasn’t about your value as a player or a leader. It was about roster construction and salary cap management.”
“My head knows that. But my gut…” I pressed my hand against my stomach, where anxiety had been sitting like a weight for days. “My gut says I have to be perfect on Thursday. Have to prove I’m worth what Portland invested. Have to show that I’m valuable.”
“You’re already valuable.” Wesley turned off the burners and crossed to where I sat, his hands cupping my jaw with gentle certainty. “Not because of your stats or your leadership or your performance. You’re valuable because you’re you. Griffin Lapierre the person, not the captain.”
The words landed in that tender place where my father’s voice still echoed, where the fear of being worthless lived.Wesley was offering a different narrative—one where my worth existed independent of success, where being myself was enough.
I wanted to believe him. Wanted to internalize that truth and make it my own.
Instead, I kissed him.
Wesley responded immediately, his mouth opening against mine, his hands sliding from my face to my shoulders to my back. I stood and pulled him closer, needing the physical connection to ground me when my thoughts spiraled.
We stumbled toward the couch, then past it to Wesley’s bedroom, our hands working at each other’s clothes with increasing urgency. This wasn’t the exploratory passion of Sunday afternoon. This was desperate and urgent and slightly out of control, fueled by my anxiety about Thursday and the constant pressure of hiding and the simple need to feel something real when everything else felt like projecting an image.
Wesley’s bed was unmade, the sheets still rumpled from this morning, and we fell into it together. His hands traced my body with increasing confidence, learning what made me gasp, what made my fingers tighten in his hair, what made me pull him closer and demand more.
I tried to give back the same attention, reading his responses and adjusting accordingly, wanting him to feel as wanted and desired as he made me feel. The physical connection felt like communication—saying with touch what I couldn’t articulate with words, expressing the depth of feeling I wasn’t ready to name out loud.
I worked the buttons of his shirt, fingers fumbling, and kissed every inch of skin as I exposed it. His breath hitched. I sat up, pulled my T-shirt over my head, and tossed it to the floor.
I lay back down beside him and pressed my chest against his. The intimacy could have felt awkward—I had zero experience with meaningful encounters. But with Wesley, everything felt natural.
And then I kissed him again as we fumbled with belts, buttons, and zippers, knees bumping. I peeled his pants open and exposed his boxer briefs—bright pink, which suited his personality. We slid each other’s pants off, and they joined my T-shirt on the floor.
I was naked with Wesley. Exposed to him physically and emotionally, yet somehow it felt right.
I pushed him to his back and kissed down his furred chest, following the trail of dark hair to his hard cock. Molten desire flowed through my veins, and my dick throbbed. I wrapped my lips around the glistening head of his erection and swirled my tongue around the tip, tasting salty precum. One of us moaned. Or maybe both of us did.
