Page 14 of Tempting the Teammate
“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 truthunderneath 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.
SIX
Griffin
Coach Neilsen’soffice 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 seemedgenuinely 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.
Andrei nodded his agreement, though his expression remained carefully neutral.
Jen handed us revised schedules for additional scenes they wanted to film for episode two. My eyes scanned the list: joint workout session, study hall collaboration, evening social activity at local establishment. The last item was circled in red ink.
“Tonight, if you’re available,” Jen said, following my gaze, “we want to capture you in a more relaxed social environment. Think of it as documenting your natural Friday night routine.”
Which was fine, except our natural Friday night routine usually involved Netflix and leftover pizza in our room, not performing for cameras in public venues.
“Phoenix will join you,” Jen added. “We’re trying to build his storyline around being comfortable with his identity in social settings. It’ll be good content for both your arcs.”
A few hours later, I found myself walking into Murphy’s Pub with a knot of anticipation in my stomach that had nothing to do with the cameras. The bar was classic college town: exposed brick walls, dim lighting that made everyone look better than they probably did, and a jukebox playing songs that were exactly old enough to feel nostalgic without being ancient.
