The parking lot was deserted when I emerged into theOctober night, the chill air a shock after the warmth of Griffin’s arms. I climbed into my car and sat for a moment, my hands gripping the steering wheel while I processed what had just happened.
I’d gone to Griffin’s apartment because I couldn’t stay away. Had spent the evening wrapped around him on his couch. Had fallen asleep in his arms like that was normal, like we were a real couple who could do domestic things like fall asleep watching movies together.
Had wanted to stay when he asked, wanted it so badly my chest physically ached with the denial.
I started my car and headed home, the streets of Beaverton quiet in the early-morning hours. My mind raced through everything—the tenderness of the evening, the way Griffin had looked at me, the plea in his voice when he’d asked me to stay.
I’m not falling for him.
I’ve already fallen. Completely, irrevocably, terrifyingly fallen.
The realization should have sent me into panic mode. Should have triggered all my Nashville-learned instincts about protecting myself, maintaining boundaries, never getting too attached to someone who couldn’t publicly acknowledge me.
But instead, I just felt… certain. Certain that Griffin was different from Charles. Certain that what we had was real in ways my previous relationship never was. Certain that despite all the very good reasons this was dangerous and potentially devastating, I was exactly where I wanted to be.
Four to six years, I reminded myself.That’s the plan. Four to six years until he retires and can come out. We can survive that. It’ll be worth the wait.
But doubt crept in around the edges of that optimism. Four to six years of hiding. Four to six years of nights liketonight where we had to be apart instead of together. Four to six years of him asking me to stay and me having to leave because the risks were too high.
Can we really do this? Can we survive that long keeping this secret without it destroying us both?
I didn’t have an answer. Didn’t know if anyone could maintain a relationship under those conditions without the strain breaking something essential.
But I knew I wanted to try. Griffin was worth the risk and the years of careful choreography and stolen moments.
Please let him be worth it. Please let this be different from Nashville. Please let us make it.
I arrived home at two thirty, exhausted and wired all at once. My apartment felt empty after the warmth of Griffin’s presence, the silence oppressive rather than peaceful.
I climbed into bed but couldn’t sleep, my mind replaying the evening—the way Griffin had looked when he opened the door, the tenderness of making out on his couch, the peaceful expression on his face when he’d fallen asleep in my arms, the longing in his voice when he’d asked me to stay.
Tomorrow, he plays the home opener. He’ll prove he’s the captain Portland needs. He’ll succeed in front of eighteen thousand fans who believe in him.
And I would be there, watching from the press box, proud and terrified all at once.
Because somewhere between press conference coaching and coffee shop meetings and cooking lessons and that night—somewhere in all those moments I’d been carefully cataloging and treasuring—I’d fallen for Griffin Lapierre.
And that changed everything.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Griffin
Fifteen seconds left. Tied 2–2 with Vegas. Faceoff in their defensive zone.
My heart hammered against my ribs and sweat trickled down my back as I lined up for what might be our last chance. The sellout crowd—18,247 fans packed into our home arena—roared with desperate hope, their voices creating a wall of sound that vibrated into my bones.
Coach Roberts had pulled Gagnon thirty seconds ago, giving us the extra attacker. Six on five. Everything on the line.
I crouched for the draw, staring down Vegas’s center across the dot. Holloway positioned himself at the point, Laasko and Martin on the opposite side. Turner and Williams held the blue line, ready to keep the puck in the zone.
Win this draw. Get possession. Find the net.
The puck dropped.
I won it clean, pulling it back to Holloway in one smooth motion. He controlled it, surveyed options, thenfired a shot toward the net. The Vegas goalie made the save, but the rebound kicked out to the corner.
Martin battled for it, coming away with possession. He centered it toward the slot where I’d positioned myself, reading the play, anticipating the pass.
