Page 23 of Tempting the Teammate
It was both of us, but we couldn’t have been more than nine years old. Griffin had his arm slung around my shoulders, both of us in matching tournament jerseys, holding a trophy between us. I was smaller then, skinnier, with hair that stuck up at odd angles despite what was probably my mother’s best efforts with hair product. But what hit me wasn’t how young we looked.
It was how happy we looked together.
This was before I had the faintest idea that Griffin would steal my heart and never give it back.
He was beaming at the camera with that infectious joy that had always been his trademark. I was looking up at him instead of the photographer, my expression soft and adoring in a way that made my chest ache now. Even at nine, even if I didn’t know it, I’d been gone for him.
“Aw, look at the little lovebirds,” someone teased, but the comment felt distant, muffled by the rushing in my ears.
“That’s adorable,” Griffin said now, his voice warm with nostalgia. “I remember that weekend. You were so nervous about everything.”
“I was not nervous,” I lied automatically.
The photos kept cycling through our childhood years, but I barely saw them. My focus had narrowed to the weight of Griffin’s leg, the casual intimacy of the touch that meant nothing to him and everything to me. On-screen, our younger selves smiled and celebrated and grew up together, documenting a friendship that had somehow led us here: sitting in a basement with his leg across mine while I tried not to combust from wanting things I couldn’t have.
Trevor had meant this as a sweet gesture, a way to show the team’s history. But watching those photos, seeing the documentation of how long Griffin and I had been inseparable, felt like evidence of my own pathetic consistency. I’d been looking at him the same way for over a decade, apparently. Always the devoted sidekick, always just grateful to be included in his orbit.
The montage ended with recent team photos, showing how we’d all evolved from clueless kids to college athletes. But I was still stuck on that image of nine-year-old me gazing up at Griffin with transparent adoration, wondering if anyone else in the room had noticed what I’d only just seen.
Griffin’s hand rested on my shoulder, an unconscious gesture that made my heart race. “Thanks, Trevor,” he called out. “That was actually really cool.”
I managed to nod along with the general murmur of appreciation, but inside, I was screaming. Because that photo had shown me the truth I’d been trying to deny: I hadn’t fallen for Griffin gradually over the years. I’d been in love with him since we were children, since before I even knew what love meant.
And apparently, it had always been written all over my face.
I had to wonder if he’d noticed. God, I’d asked myself those questions far too many times. He could read my mind like noone else, yet he’d never asked me. Sometimes, it felt like he was testing me. Like he would ask me why I didn’t go out with some girl who smiled at me, only to see how I’d react. Only to see what a lie sounded like when I uttered it.
He knew all my other lies.
And he called me out when I spoke them. He knew that “fine” meant I was far from fine but didn’t want to talk about it. He knew that “I’ll do it later” meant I probably wouldn’t do it later, unless it was something he’d asked me to do, in which case it was probably already done. Yet when I said, “I don’t know. I guess we just didn’t hit it off,” he accepted it and let it be. He never called bullshit and asked me the truth.
Because how could he not know?
How could he not look at that photo of himself beaming with pride and me melting with unspeakable longing and not know exactly what was going on?
I’d done this equation already far too many times. It was a mathematical impossibility.
Griffin knew I loved him. And he didn’t ask me because he couldn’t offer the same in return. So what was the point in having it out in the open?
He never asked. I never said. And that was just fine. Because I knew what the rest of my life looked like. I’d known it at twelve years old without realizing for a moment that it was called love. I would forever stand by his side, and my heart would forever beat in the rhythm of his name.
I would graduate with him.
I would either get myself drafted by the same team or abandon hockey altogether.
I would live in the city where he lived.
I would be his best man on a day that would hurt me more than any I could foresee.
And I would be an old man visiting him on his porch to talk about our old hockey days. People would call me a loner because I wouldn’t have a family of my own. I would be Griffin’s third wheel, and I would be okay with it.
Because I had always known this to be true: I belonged to him.
TEN
Griffin
I watchedhim run his fingers through his thick, short curls, elbows planted onto his desk, eyes a little red with strain, and the notes from today’s lectures scattered before him.
