He could be the bigger man here and lead the league in inclusivity. He could show that the Stormhawks are different.
But he wasn’t going to. I could see it in his expression, in the shrewd way he was processing this information. Griffin being gay was a complication to be managed, not a fact to be celebrated or even neutrally accepted.
Davidson leaned back in his chair, his expression still cold. “How long has this been going on between you two?”
I glanced at Griffin, trying to communicate silently—let me handle this. I’m the PR professional. I can manage this.
But Griffin spoke first, his voice steady despite the circumstances. “Sir, I need you to understand—this is my fault. I pursued Wesley despite knowing the non-fraternization policy. Despite understanding the risks. He tried to maintain boundaries, but I?—”
“Don’t.” Davidson cut him off, his tone sharp. “Don’t insult my intelligence by pretending this was one-sided. I saw what I saw. That wasn’t you forcing yourself on an unwilling subordinate. That was mutual. How. Long?” he repeated.
I found my voice, the PR training kicking in even as my personal life crumbled. “A couple of weeks. Since late September.”
“A couple of weeks.” Davidson’s expression hardened further. “So, through the road trip to Seattle and Vancouver. Through the home opener. Through dozens of media appearances and team meetings and professional interactions where you both knew you were violating team policy.”
It wasn’t a question, but the accusation was clear. We’d been lying by omission every day, maintaining the façade of professional distance while conducting a secret relationship.
“We tried to be careful,” Griffin said, his voice tight. “We never let it affect our work or?—”
“It affects everything.” Davidson leaned forward, his hands flat on his desk. “You’re the team captain, Griffin. The face of this franchise. And Wesley, you’re supposed to manage Griffin’s public image, help him navigate media and community relationships. The power dynamic alone creates a massive liability for this organization.”
“There’s no power dynamic,” I said quickly, needing him to understand. “We belong to two different organizations. The team and staff. Griffin has no superiority over me. This was completely voluntary on both sides.”
“Captain and staff member.” Davidson’s tone was grim. “That’s an inherent power imbalance regardless of hierarchy. And the non-fraternization policy exists precisely to prevent these situations.”
The non-fraternization policy. The document we’d both signed when we joined the franchise, acknowledging that romantic relationships between players and staff were prohibited and could result in termination.
“Mr. Davidson, please.” Griffin’s composure was cracking, desperation bleeding through. “Don’t punish Wesley for this. If there are consequences, they should be mine. I’m the one who?—”
“Stop.” Davidson held up a hand. “You both made choices. You both violated policy. You both knew better.”
Silence fell again, heavier this time. I felt the walls closing in, felt the familiar sensation of my career imploding. Nashville’s ghost rose to mock me for thinking this time would be different.
Davidson’s expression shifted slightly—still angry, stilldisappointed, but something else underneath. Consideration, maybe. Calculation.
“Wesley.” His attention focused on me, and I forced myself to meet his gaze. “You’re suspended effective immediately. Pending investigation into the extent and nature of this relationship and whether any other policies were violated.”
The words landed like physical blows. Suspended. Investigation. The professional death knell I’d been dreading since Nashville, since the prayer vigil and Charles’s betrayal and the scramble to salvage my reputation.
“Sir—” Griffin started to protest, but Davidson cut him off.
“You’ll turn in your badge and leave your laptop with Natalie. You’re not to return to this facility or contact any team personnel until the investigation concludes. Is that clear?”
“Yes.” My voice came out steady, composed, the mask I’d perfected through years of crisis management. Inside, I was screaming.
“Griffin, we’ll discuss your consequences separately. But understand this—you’re team captain. You’re supposed to set an example. This is the opposite of leadership.”
Griffin flinched at that, the words hitting where they’d hurt most. His need for validation, for being seen as valuable and successful, was being directly challenged. He would feel he’d failed. He would feel he’d proven himself unworthy of the captain’s C.
“Griffin, stay here.” Davidson’s tone was firm. “Wesley, you have fifteen minutes to gather your things and turn in your credentials at security. I suggest you move quickly before word spreads.”
The dismissal was absolute. I stood on shaking legs, my mind already spinning through implications—careerdestroyed, reputation ruined, another scandal to explain to future employers, another relationship ending in professional disaster.
Why didn’t I learn? Why did I think this time would be different?
I made it to the door before Griffin’s voice stopped me.
“Wesley, I’m so sorry. This is my fault. I’ll fix this. I promise I’ll?—”
