“I’m proud of you,” Wesley said softly. “Tonight was everything you deserved. Don’t let the fear steal that from you.”
“Thanks.” I wanted to kiss him, to hold him, to make promises I wasn’t sure I could keep. But he was already slipping into professional mode, preparing to leave my apartment and return to being just the PR manager who’d helped prepare the captain for his successful media appearances.
After he left, I sat on my couch and scrolled through social media on my phone. Fans praised the comeback, media analyzed the goal, teammates posted celebration photos from Cascadia. The perfect night documented and shared, my leadership validated, my worth proven.
But underneath the satisfaction and pride, something darker settled: the realization that success made hiding necessary. That everything I’d achieved tonight—the team chemistry, the fan adoration, the validation of my leadership—existed because I maintained the perfect image.
Coming out would jeopardize all of it. Would shift the narrative from “captain leads expansion team to dramatic victory” to “gay captain comes out, team must adjust.” It would make the story about me instead of the team’s success.
I couldn’t do that to them. Couldn’t risk the chemistry we’d built, the success we were achieving, the morale I was establishing.
But I didn’t know how to reconcile my growing desire for authenticity with my duty to the team, my need for personal happiness with my professional obligations, my feelings for Wesley with my terror of losing everything I’d worked for.
Tonight had been perfect.
And that perfection felt like a cage I’d locked myself into, with no clear path to freedom.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Wesley
Friday morning, the distant sounds of practice echoed from the rink on the floor below, and my inbox flooded with positive media coverage from the previous night’s home opener.
I sat at my desk and reviewed the overnight analytics, watching social media metrics climb with satisfaction that made me almost giddy. Griffin’s post-game interviews had gone viral—his leadership, his humility, his genuine emotion when talking about the team’s success. The local news had led with the Stormhawks’ dramatic victory. National sports outlets were praising the expansion team’s promising start.
Everything was working. The media strategy, the careful positioning, the narrative we’d been building since day one. Griffin was becoming exactly the face of the franchise we’d hoped for—charismatic, successful, inspiring.
And I was falling in love with him.
The thought surfaced unbidden as I scrolled through another glowing article about Griffin’s game-winning goal. I’d tried to keep my feelings categorized, manageable, withthe same problem-solving skills I applied to crisis management and media relations.
But last night—watching him celebrate with genuine joy, seeing him ride the high of victory, then our private celebration afterward at his apartment when he was still buzzing with adrenaline—had stripped away any pretense that this was casual or containable.
I was in love with Griffin Lapierre. Completely, terrifyingly, irrevocably in love.
Four to six years, I reminded myself.That’s the timeline. We can do this. Last night proved we can navigate this successfully.
My phone buzzed with a text from Natalie, my PR specialist:
Natalie
Media requests still pouring in for Griffin. How do you want to prioritize?
I typed back a response about scheduling strategy, then returned to my analysis. The home opener had exceeded every metric we’d hoped for—attendance, engagement, sentiment. The Stormhawks weren’t just an expansion curiosity anymore. They were legitimate.
A knock on my doorframe made me look up. Griffin stood there, dressed in post-practice casual—jeans, T-shirt, hair still slightly damp from a shower. He looked relaxed, confident in ways that made him even more attractive than usual.
“Got a minute?” His tone was appropriately professional, the voice of a captain checking in with his PR manager. But his eyes held a warmth that had nothing to do with work.
“Of course. Come in.” I gestured to the chair across from my desk, the proper distance for a work meeting.
Griffin closed the door behind him—not unusual forprivate conversations, and nothing that should arouse suspicions.
“What’s up?” I kept my voice neutral, aware that the wall between my office and Natalie’s was thin.
“Need to go over the sporting goods sponsor event next week.” Griffin settled into the chair, his posture casual. “What’s the plan?”
I pulled up the calendar on my computer, grateful for the legitimate reason for this meeting. “Monday afternoon, two to four. Meet and greet with the customers at their flagship store, sign merchandise, photo opportunities. Standard appearance—I’m sure you’ve done a dozen like it.”
