And Wesley. Understanding, patient Wesley, who’d agreed to hide again despite Nashville’s trauma, despite promising himself never again. Wesley, who looked at me with warmth and desire even though I couldn’t give him the open relationship he deserved.
I pulled out my phone and typed a message.
Griffin
Home safe. Thank you for tonight.
The response came quickly.
Wesley
Anytime. Sleep well, Griffin. Thursday’s going to be amazing.
I wanted to believe him. Wanted to silence the voice that said I was only valuable if I was perfect, only worthy if I achieved, only deserving of love if I successfully maintained the image everyone expected.
But lying in bed that night, staring at my ceiling and processing the day’s conflicting emotions, I couldn’t escape the truth that was becoming increasingly clear.
I was caught between the growing desire for authenticity and duty to the team, between personal happiness and professional obligation, between being who I actually was, and being who everyone needed me to be.
And eventually, something would have to give.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Wesley
I stared at my laptop screen, the words blurring together into meaningless shapes. Home-opener media schedule. Press release draft. Social media posts. All the things I should have been focused on the night before the biggest game of Portland’s inaugural season.
Instead, I kept thinking about Griffin.
The way he’d looked at that couple in Beaverton Beans—the longing in Griffin’s intense blue eyes had been almost painful to witness, like watching a kid press their face against a window at a toy store they couldn’t enter.
And his comment about the inclusivity initiative. The hesitation when I’d suggested he be the team ambassador. The way he’d said “I’m not sure I’m the right person” when we both knew he was exactly the right person—if only he could be authentic about why it mattered to him.
I closed my laptop and rubbed my eyes, exhaustion settling into my bones. It was nine o’clock and I should get ready for bed and grab a book. Griffin had the home openertomorrow—he needed rest, needed space to prepare, needed to focus on the game without distractions.
Leave him alone. Let him have tonight to prepare. Be professional.
But my mind spun through possibilities, each one more compelling than the last. What if Griffin was alone, spiraling about tomorrow? What if the pressure was building, and he had no one to talk to? What if this was exactly when he needed someone, and I was sitting in my apartment trying to convince myself that maintaining distance was the right choice?
My phone sat on the coffee table, the screen dark, mocking me with its silence.
Don’t text him. He’s fine. He’s a professional athlete who’s handled pressure his entire career. He doesn’t need you hovering.
But the image of his expression at the coffee shop—that desperate longing for something he couldn’t have—wouldn’t leave my mind.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I grabbed my phone and typed.
Wesley
How are you doing? Big day tomorrow.
I hit send and immediately regretted it. Too clingy. Too obvious that I’d been thinking about him all evening. Too much like I was checking up on him instead of letting him get ready.
My phone buzzed almost immediately.
Griffin
Can’t relax. Can’t focus. Keep thinking about tomorrow.
