“Yeah.” I pocketed my phone, refusing to let Boucher’s pettiness diminish this moment. “Not even that asshole can bring me down tonight.”
Wesley’s smile returned, warm and genuine. “Good. Don’t let him.”
I leaned slightly closer, lowering my voice so only Wesley could hear. “Come over later? After this is done? Want to celebrate properly.”
Wesley’s eyes darkened with understanding. “Griffin?—”
“Please. I know it’s risky. But I want to share this with you. Really share it, not just stolen looks across a bar.”
Wesley was quiet for a moment, then nodded almost imperceptibly. “Okay. But we leave separately. At least thirty minutes apart.”
“I’ll text you when I’m home.”
The rest of the evening passed by in a blur of celebration and team bonding. I played pool with Laasko, talked strategy with Holloway, listened to the rookies analyze plays with the enthusiasm of players still establishing themselves. The energy was everything I’d hoped for—genuine camaraderie, building chemistry, the foundation of something that could be special.
I left near midnight, making my goodbyes and emphasizing how proud I was of everyone’s effort. Wesley had already slipped out twenty minutes earlier, maintaining the careful space we’d agreed on.
Back at my apartment, I texted Wesley.
Griffin
Home. Coast is clear.
The response came quickly.
Wesley
Be there in 10.
I changed out of my suit into more comfortable clothes—sweatpants and a T-shirt—and tried to calm the nervous energy still coursing through my system. Tonight had been perfect. The goal, the win, the team bonding, the media praise. Everything I’d been working toward since arriving in Portland.
And now I got to share it with Wesley. In private, without performance, just the two of us celebrating something that felt monumental.
Wesley arrived, and I pulled him inside before anyone could see him in the hallway. He barely had time to set down his keys before I was kissing him—urgent and celebratory and hungry all at once.
“We won,” I said against his mouth, stating the obvious but needing to say it anyway.
“Youwon,” Wesley corrected, his hands finding my waist. “That goal was incredible. The way you read the play, found the lane, buried it?—”
I kissed him again, effectively ending the analysis. We stumbled toward my bedroom, shedding clothes along the way, the physical urgency reflecting the emotional intensity of the night.
But when we reached my bedside, something shifted. The desperation eased into something slower, more deliberate. This wouldn’t be just celebratory sex or stress relief. This felt deeper, more significant—like we were acknowledging something neither of us had named out loud.
I was falling for him. I was falling for the way he saw through my performance to the person underneath. For his optimism that made impossible things seem achievable. For the way he made me laugh while teaching me to cook, and how he talked me down from spiraling anxiety with patient understanding. For his courage in choosing me despite Nashville’s scars, despite every rational reason to protect himself.
I was falling for Wesley Hutton, and the terrifying part wasn’t the falling—it was realizing I’d already landed.
Wesley’s touch was gentle, exploring, claiming. I tried to give back the same attention, showing with actions what I couldn’t articulate with words—that he mattered, that tonight meant more because he was part of it, that his presence in my life had become essential in ways that terrified and thrilled me equally.
Wesley’s hands came to rest on my hips, his expression both tender and heated. He searched my face for a long moment, then spoke quietly. “I want to give you something special tonight. I want to take things further.” His thumb traced small circles against my hipbone. “May I?”
The question hung between us—respectful, giving me space to choose, to say no if I needed to. My heart pounded against my ribs as I nodded, then found my voice. “I’d like that.” The words came out rougher than I intended, weighted with want and trust and something deeper I wasn’t ready to name. “Yeah. I’d really like that.”
Wesley’s eyes darkened with desire and something softer—care, maybe, or tenderness. He leaned in and kissed me slowly, thoroughly, like he had all the time in the world and intended to use every second.
Then he dropped to his knees at my feet, and heat seared through me like lightning.
He licked a line down my aching erection, and a shiver ran through me.
