Page 65 of Arctic Titans of Northwood U: Volume 3

“Yeah, just…” He gestured at his phone. “This is a lot.”

It was a lot. In the space of one hour, we’d gone from college students to internet personalities. Our faces were being dissected by strangers, our friendship analyzed and celebrated and turned into entertainment.

The privacy we’d taken for granted was gone. Every interaction from here on would be filtered through the lens of public expectation. People had opinions about us now, had favorites, had hopes for storylines that hadn’t even occurred to us.

I looked at Griffin again, at the way the living room lights caught the gold in his light brown hair, at the slight furrow of concentration between his eyebrows as he processed his new reality. In a few hours, thousands more people would know his face, his name, his laugh. They’d fall for the same charm that had been pulling people into his orbit for years. That had pulled me there and kept me for a decade.

The thought should have made me jealous. Instead, I felt protective. This was still Griffin, still the same person who’d waited for me at the gym and spotted my lifts and made everything brighter just by being present. Fame might change how the world saw him, but it wouldn’t change who he was.

At least, I hoped it wouldn’t.

“Come on,” I said, standing. “Let’s get out of here before someone starts planning our next social media strategy.”

He laughed, the sound cutting through my worry. “You say that like Phoenix isn’t already three steps ahead of us.”

We headed toward the stairs, leaving the rest of the team to process their new fame. Tomorrow, there would be more cameras, more interviews, more content to feed the machine that had apparently decided we were worth watching.

But tonight, walking up the stairs beside Griffin while he scrolled through comments from people who thought our friendship was goals, I tried to hold on to the simple truth underneath all the noise: he was still my best friend, and I was still in love with him, and those two facts remained constant, no matter how many people were watching.

The notifications on my phone kept buzzing, each one a reminder that privacy was a luxury we no longer possessed. But as we reached our room and Griffin flopped onto his bed with his phone still glowing, I realized the strangest thing about the whole experience.

The world thought they were seeing our friendship clearly for the first time. They had no idea how much I was hiding, how carefully I’d been guarding the truth of what Griffin meant to me. The cameras might have caught my obvious affection, but they’d missed the deeper current of longing that ran beneath every shared glance.

In a way, performing for the cameras might be easier than I’d thought. I just had to keep doing what I’d been doing for years: loving Griffin quietly, carefully, and, above all, invisibly.

The difference now was that millions of people would be watching me do it, calling it bromance goals and celebrating the friendship they thought they understood.

If only they knew.

Chapter Six

GRIFFIN

Coach Neilsen’s office had been transformed into a makeshift meeting room, with three chairs arranged in a semicircle around his desk. Andrei and I sat side by side, our legs almost touching, while we waited for whatever the latest production surprise would be.

When Jen Harding walked in, she brought that crackling energy that seemed to follow her everywhere. Her smile was bright enough to power the overhead lights, and she carried herself with the air of someone who’d just received excellent news.

“Boys,” she said, settling into the chair across from us with her ever-present tablet. “I hope you’re sitting comfortably, because I have some numbers that are going to blow your minds.”

I leaned forward slightly, curious despite myself. Three days since the episode had aired, and my phone hadn’t stopped buzzing. My Instagram followers had jumped from an initial few thousand on that evening to over thirty thousand, and my mentions were flooded with comments from people who seemed genuinely invested in my happiness. Or at least very open about wanting my babies.

“The ratings came in this morning,” Jen continued, her eyes sparkling. “Episode one exceeded all our expectations, but more importantly, the audience research is fascinating. Want to guess which scenes tested highest with viewers?”

Andrei shifted beside me, and I caught the subtle tension in his shoulders. He’d been quieter than usual since the watch party, spending more time editing photos on his laptop and less time engaging in the casual banter that usually filled our evenings.

“Our hockey scenes?” I guessed.

Jen’s laugh was delighted. “Close, but no. Every single scene featuring you two together scored off the charts. The locker room conversations, the practice footage, the interviews. Viewers can’t get enough of your dynamic.”

She swiped through her tablet, pulling up charts and graphs that meant nothing to me but apparently painted a picture of success.

“The social media response has been incredible,” she went on. “Hashtag Griffdrei is trending across multiple platforms, and the fan edits are getting millions of views. You’ve struck gold with audiences who are hungry for authentic male friendship in sports media.”

Authentic male friendship. The phrase sat strangely in my chest, creating an odd flutter that I couldn’t quite place.

“So naturally,” Jen continued, “we want to lean into this. More joint interviews, more collaborative scenes, more opportunities to showcase the partnership that’s clearly resonating with viewers. Are you boys on board?”

“Sure,” I said without hesitation. More time with Andrei, more opportunities to just be ourselves in front of cameras, sounded easy enough. Better than being forced into awkward flirtation scenarios or manufactured conflicts.