I stared at Griffin’s text for the third time, my thumbs hovering over the keyboard.
Griffin
I’m not doing this just for you. I’m doing it for myself. I have to live my true life. I can’t hide anymore. But we need to talk about it. Can I come over?
He was coming out. In two days. Sunday afternoon, after Saturday’s game. The first NHL player in history to publicly acknowledge being gay. And he needed me.
I immediately started strategizing—talking points, anticipated questions, tone, and framing. The part of me that had spent years managing crises and spinning narratives into something positive saw the possibilities, the opportunities, the ways we could control this story before it controlled us.
But underneath that automatic response, something deeper churned: hope and terror and the recognition that Griffin was doing what Charles never could.
He was choosing courage over comfort. Me over safety.
My hands trembled slightly as I typed back.
Wesley
Come over. We have work to do.
I set down my phone and considered how much had changed in just one day. We’d thought we could navigate this impossible situation successfully. I’d let myself believe that maybe this time would be different from Nashville.
It is different.Griffin is coming out. Charles threw me under the bus. That’s the difference.
But the Nashville trauma still whispered to me.What if Griffin regrets this? What if the backlash destroys him? What if he ends up hating you for being the catalyst?
I shoved those thoughts aside and moved into practical mode. If Griffin was doing this, he needed the best PR strategy possible. He needed talking points that would frame his coming out as leadership rather than scandal. He needed to be prepared for the media onslaught that would follow.
And I was suspended. Officially forbidden from working on team business. Helping Griffin prepare his coming-out statement while I was under investigation for the relationship that made his coming out necessary felt ethically complicated at best.
Does it matter?If he’s coming out anyway, if our relationship will be public knowledge soon, what difference does my suspension make?
The rationalization felt thin, but I didn’t care. Griffin needed me. And after being forced to walk out of the facility this afternoon while he faced Owen Davidson alone, after hours of sitting in my apartment processing my suspension and probable unemployment, I needed to do something that mattered.
A knock sounded on my door ten minutes later, threequick raps. I opened it to find Griffin standing on my small front step, the late-afternoon light casting shadows across his face.
His ice-blue eyes showed strain. But it was his expression that hit me hardest—vulnerable in ways I rarely saw, the perfect mask completely absent. Griffin stood there for a moment, meeting my gaze with raw honesty. “Hi,” he said quietly.
“Hi.” I stepped back to let him in. He crossed the threshold into my apartment with a sigh, like he was walking into sanctuary.
I closed the door behind him, and we were alone—no facility staff, no teammates, no Owen Davidson. Just us and the decision Griffin had made and the enormous implications neither of us could fully understand yet.
“Wesley, I’m so sorry.” His voice cracked on my name. “I dragged you into this. They suspended you because of me. Because I couldn’t keep my hands to myself, couldn’t maintain the boundaries you tried to set, couldn’t?—”
“Stop.” I cut through his self-flagellation. “We both made choices. I could have said no when you invited me over. Could have maintained distance. Could have been smarter about where and when we—” I gestured vaguely, encompassing the facility and every moment we’d been careless. “This isn’t just your fault.”
“But I’m the one who pursued you. I’m the one who kept pushing despite knowing the risks.” He moved closer, his expression anguished. “And now you’re suspended and I?—”
“Griffin.” I reached out, my hand landing on his chest, feeling his heart racing beneath my palm. “I made a choice. To be with you. To take the risk. That was my decision, not something you forced on me.”
“I love you.” The words burst out of him, desperate and honest and terrifying all at once. “I’m in love with you,Wesley. I’ve never felt this way about anyone before. Never let anyone close enough. Never wanted someone like I want you. And I know it’s only been weeks—I know that’s crazy, that it’s too fast—but it’s true. I love you.”
The declaration hit me with unexpected force, stealing my breath and making my chest tight with emotion I’d been trying to keep contained. Griffin loved me. Had just said it out loud, raw and vulnerable and real.
“I don’t know if you can forgive me for destroying your career,” he continued, his voice rough. “But I need you to know—you’re worth more to me than hockey. More than my image. More than everything I’ve spent sixteen years building. You’re worth it.”
Tears stung my eyes, unexpected and unwelcome. I’d heard love declarations before. Charles had said the words plenty of times, usually in hotel rooms after sex, whispered like secrets that disappeared in daylight.
But this—Griffin standing in my apartment after choosing to come out, after deciding that his perfect image didn’t preclude being gay, after risking everything to protect me—this felt different. This felt like what love was supposed to be.
