“Fuck.” Griffin ran a hand over his face, his breathing uneven. “Wesley, I’m so sorry. This is my fault. I shouldn’t have?—”
“Not now.” My voice came out steadier than I felt, some deep well of professionalism kicking in even as my world tilted sideways. “We need to go. Now.” I headed out.
Natalie stood outside my office door, her brow furrowed in confusion and concern. She’d clearly heard Davidson’s tone if not his words, had seen him storm out of my office and me emerge with Griffin, both looking shell-shocked.
“Wesley? Is everything okay?” Her voice followed us down the hallway to the elevator.
I couldn’t answer. Couldn’t find words to explain what had just happened or what was about to happen. Just kept walking, Griffin beside me, both of us headed toward whatever consequences awaited.
This is Nashville all over again.
The thought hit with sickening clarity. Another relationship discovered. Another professional crisis. Another public humiliation looming. Another situation where I was about to lose everything because the man I loved and I couldn’t keep our hands off each other.
I knew better. I promised myself I’d never do this again. Why didn’t I stop this? Why didn’t I maintain boundaries? Why did I let myself fall for another man who couldn’t be with me openly?
Except Griffin wasn’t Charles. Griffin wasn’t selfish. Griffin had tried to be considerate, had agreed to our timeline and our rules. This wasn’t his fault any more than it was mine.
We’d both gotten careless. Both let the high of last night’s success convince us we were invincible. We had equally forgotten that one moment of weakness could destroy everything we’d been building.
We took the elevator to the executive level, where Davidson’s office dominated the floor. The walk felt interminable—seconds that stretched into eternity, both of us acutely aware that this was it. The moment we’d been terrified of since we’d started this relationship. The discovery that would change everything.
Davidson’s office door was open when we arrived. He sat behind his massive desk, his expression radiating barely suppressed fury. The disappointment in his eyes was almost worse than the anger. Sarah Thomas, the HR director, was already seated in the corner.That was fast.
“Come in. Close the door. Sit,” Davidson ordered.
We obeyed silently, moving like condemned prisoners to the chairs across from his desk. Griffin sat with his shoulders back, his captain’s composure trying to reassert itself even as I could see the fear underneath. I folded my hands in my lap to keep them from shaking.
Davidson stared at us for a long moment, letting the silence build, making us sit with what we’d done. When he finally spoke, his voice was measured but cold.
“Are you gay, Griffin?”
The question landed like a punch. Direct, invasive, a question that had no right being asked in a professional setting but somehow felt inevitable given the circumstances.
Griffin went still beside me, his breathing shallow. I could feel the weight of the moment—this was it, the question he’d been dreading his entire career, asked by his GM after being caught kissing a male staff member. There was no deflecting, no hiding, no maintaining the careful façade he’d built over sixteen years.
Anger flared hot in my chest, cutting through my shock and fear.This is wrong. This is so wrong.Davidson had no right to force Griffin to come out, to demand an answer to a question that was fundamentally personal, to use his positionof power to extract a confession Griffin should have been able to make on his own terms, in his own time.
I wanted to protest, to tell Davidson that this was inappropriate and invasive and exactly the kind of thing that made LGBTQ+ athletes terrified to be honest. But I couldn’t. I was powerless.
So I sat in furious silence while my heart broke for Griffin being forced into this moment. But this was also a test for us, whether Griffin would keep his word or throw me under the bus like Charles had.
“Yes.” Griffin’s voice was quiet but steady. “I’m gay.”
The admission hung in the air—simple, honest, devastating in its implications.
I exhaled in relief and pride and reassurance, but Davidson’s expression was unreadable—not shocked, not disgusted, just calculating.
“This can’t get out,” Davidson said finally. “Do you understand? If word spreads that the team captain is gay, that you’re in a relationship with a male staff member, the media circus alone would be devastating. The distraction, the questions, the scrutiny. It would affect the entire team.”
Griffin’s jaw tightened, muscles working as he processed Davidson’s words. I watched something die in his eyes—hope, maybe, or the possibility that this could end any way except badly.
“I understand,” Griffin said, his voice carefully controlled.
But I heard what he wasn’t saying:I understand I have to stay closeted. I understand being honest would be a “distraction.” I understand my authentic self is a problem to be managed, not a truth to be supported.
Disappointment settled over me like a weight, adding to the fear and anger and guilt already churning in my gut. Davidson had the power here. Had the platform. Couldchoose to lead, to make the Stormhawks an organization that supported their captain regardless of his sexuality, to use this moment as an opportunity for progressive leadership.
Instead, he was choosing silence. Choosing protection of his brand’s image over his player’s truth. Choosing to make Griffin’s sexuality a secret to be kept rather than a reality to be embraced.
