Page 19 of Tempting the Teammate
He did all of this because he believed our friendship was simple, uncomplicated, free from the messy dynamics of desire and jealousy and unspoken want. He trusted me to be his safe harbor, the person who wanted nothing from him except his presence.
Telling him the truth would destroy that trust. It would turn every shared moment retroactively complicated, make him question whether my care came with conditions, whether my loyalty was actually just extended courtship. It would steal his safe harbor and leave him nowhere to dock when the storms hit.
“Nothing,” I said, swallowing the confession whole. “Just tired, I guess.”
Griffin’s expression shifted, concern creeping across his features. “You sure? You looked like you were about to say something important.”
“Just that you’re right. About the cameras not being able to capture this.”
He nodded, satisfied with my deflection, and pushed off toward the goal. “Race you to the blue line?”
“You’re on.”
We spent the next hour skating, racing, and practicing moves we hadn’t attempted since high school. Griffin tried to recreate his infamous puck-juggling routine and nearly took us both out when he lost control near the boards. I attempted a backward crossover sequence that had been giving me trouble since last year and finally, finally nailed it on the fourth try.
“There it is!” Griffin shouted, throwing his arms up in celebration. “I knew you still had it in you.”
His pride in my success was immediate and genuine. This was why I couldn’t risk losing him. These moments of pure connection, of shared achievement, of being seen and celebrated by someone who genuinely wanted good things for me.
By the time we left the rink, my legs were burning and my lungs were sharp with cold, but I felt more like myself than I had in weeks. Griffin was quiet as we walked back across campus, the kind of peaceful silence that came after physical exertion and emotional honesty.
Well, emotional honesty on his part.
“Thanks,” I said as we approached the team house.
“For what?”
“For this. For letting me be nostalgic and sentimental without making fun of me for it.”
“I always make fun of you.”
“Yeah, but not really.”
He bumped my shoulder with his, a casual gesture that sent warmth spreading through my chest. Such a small thing, that brief contact, but it carried the weight of a million unspoken words.
“Besides,” Griffin added, grinning as he opened the front door, “someone has to keep you humble. Can’t have you getting too confident about those backward crossovers.”
We climbed the stairs to our room, still trading insults and memories, and I let myself savor the easy rhythm of our language. Tomorrow, there would be cameras again, microphones taped to our chests, producers looking for drama and conflict and whatever else the crowds wanted.
But tonight had been ours. Tonight had been Griffin laughing in emergency lighting, talking about friendship like it was sacred, trusting me with his fears about fame and performance and losing the things that mattered most.
Tonight had been another thousand reasons to keep loving him quietly, carefully, invisibly.
As I watched him get ready for bed, humming some song under his breath while he dug through his dresser for clean clothes, I made the same promise I’d made to myself countless times before: I would rather have Griffin as a friend than risk losing him entirely. I would rather swallow my feelings than watch his expression change from trust to discomfort to polite distance.
Some secrets were worth keeping, even when they felt like they might kill you, like they might cut you up just to get out.
Especially then.
Because Griffin Shaw, laughing in an empty hockey rink at midnight, talking about friendship like it was the most important thing in the world, was worth protecting. Even from myself.
Even from the truth.
EIGHT
Griffin
The locker roomechoed with the distant sound of running water from the showers. Most of the team had already cleared out, eager to get to Friday night plans that didn’t involve sitting under fluorescent lights, picking tape off their shins. I was taking my time, partly because my shoulder pads had gotten tangled in a way that required actual problem-solving skills, and partly because I wasn’t in any hurry to leave.
