Griffin’s expression shifted into something more determined, more focused. The captain’s mask sliding into place, the vulnerability of this morning giving way to professional competence. I could see the transformation happen—Griffin the man becoming Griffin the elite athlete.
“I’ll see you on the other side,” Griffin said quietly.
“See you on the other side.”
He left, and I closed the door behind him, then leaned against it and tried to process everything. In less than thirty hours, Griffin would stand in front of cameras and reporters and acknowledge what he’d been hiding for sixteen years. Would become the first player to come out. Would either be celebrated as a pioneer or destroyed as a distraction.
And I would watch from home, suspended, proud and terrified in equal measure.
My phone buzzed, and I pulled it out of the pocket of my sweats. It was a text from Griffin.
Griffin
Thank you for believing in me. I love you.
I typed back.
Wesley
I love you too. Now focus on hockey. Tomorrow, we change the world.
His response was immediate.
Griffin
Tomorrow, we change the world.
I returned my phone to my pocket and flopped onto the couch. The apartment felt empty without him but also charged with anticipation.
Tomorrow, everything would change. Griffin would come out. Our relationship would eventually be public knowledge. The media would dissect every aspect of our story.
But tonight, Griffin would play hockey. Would lead his team. Would be the captain one more time before adding “and gay” to every description of who he was.
And I would watch, and hope, and believe that the courage Griffin was showing would be enough to carry us both through whatever came next.
This is what healthy love looks like, I thought again. Someone who chooses you. Who fights for you. Who’s brave enough to be honest even when honesty costs everything.
Griffin was different from Charles. This ending would be different too.
It had to be.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Griffin
I woke Sunday morning to sunlight streaming through my bedroom window and the phantom ache of overtime exertion in my legs. For a moment—just a brief, disorienting moment—I forgot what day it was. Forgot what I’d be doing in hours. Forgot everything except the pleasant exhaustion of a hard-fought game.
Then reality crashed back in, and my stomach dropped.
I’m coming out today.
I grabbed my tablet from the nightstand, needing the distraction of game coverage to ground myself before the anxiety could spiral. The NHL app loaded with highlights from last night’s game against Anaheim, and I let myself get lost in the familiar ritual of reviewing our performance.
Stormhawks Edge Anaheim 3–2 in OT, Lapierre Continues Strong Start
The headline made something tighten in my gut. I clicked through to the article and scanned the praise for our team’s resilience, the analysis of key plays, the quotes from Coach Roberts about our growing chemistry.
My assist had tied the game with four minutes left in the third period—a simple play, really. I’d won a board battle, threaded a pass through traffic to Holloway, and he’d buried it glove side. The replay showed the celebration: Williams mobbing me, Holloway and Laasko crashing into us, the bench erupting.
