Something in his tone suggested he meant more than he was saying, but I didn’t push. Just nodded and acknowledged the support.
Several other players approached—handshakes, shoulder pats, quiet words of respect. Not everyone, but enough. Enough to make me think maybe this wouldn’t be the disaster I’d feared.
Then Turner spoke from where he still sat, arms crossed, expression hostile.
“Fucking great.” His voice cut through the tentative positive atmosphere like a blade. “Now we’re going to be thegay team. The media’s going to be all over us. Every game, every interview—it’s not going to be about hockey anymore.”
“Turner—” Holloway started, but Turner wasn’t done.
He stood, and his hands fisted. “And we’ve been showering together. Changing together. You’ve been—” He gestured vaguely, disgust evident. “Jesus Christ, Lapierre. How long have you been lying to us about this?”
Anger flared hot in my chest, cutting through the fear. “I haven’t been lying. I’ve been private. There’s a difference. And if you have a problem with showering near me, Turner, that’s your issue. I’ve been showering with teammates for sixteen years. Nothing has changed except that now, you know.”
“Everything’s changed?—”
“Enough.” Coach Roberts’s voice cut through Turner’s protest, hard and authoritative. “Turner, sit down and shut up. Or leave. Your choice.”
Turner glared at Roberts, then at me, his jaw working. For a moment, I thought he’d leave. “I’ll sit. But this is bullshit. We’re supposed to be focused on hockey, not dealing with…” He gestured at me again, unable or unwilling to articulate what exactly he objected to.
“We are focused on hockey,” Roberts said, his tone brooking no argument. “Lapierre is your captain. Was yesterday, is today, will be tomorrow. His personal life is his business. What matters is how we play as a team, how we support each other as professionals.”
Turner muttered something under his breath but sat back down, radiating resentment.
Roberts turned his attention back to the rest of the team. “Listen up. Lapierre’s press conference is at four this afternoon. The media are going to lose their minds. This is going to be the biggest hockey story of the year, maybe the decade. You don’t have to comment. You don’t have to haveopinions. If reporters ask, you can simply say ‘I support my captain’ and walk away. That’s it.”
He paused, letting that sink in. “This team is about hockey. We play hockey. We win games. We support each other. Lapierre being gay doesn’t change any of that. We’re professionals. We act like professionals. Is that clear?”
Murmurs of agreement, some more enthusiastic than others. Turner stayed silent, his jaw working.
“The press conference is at four,” Roberts continued. “I’d like to see the alternates there. Anyone else who wants to demonstrate solidarity with your captain, you’re welcome to attend. But it’s voluntary. No one’s required.”
Martin raised his hand slightly. “I’ll be there, Coach.”
A few other players nodded—younger guys mostly, the rookies and second-year players who’d grown up in a slightly more progressive era than the veterans.
Roberts nodded approval, then added the warning I’d been expecting. “One more thing. This news does not leave this room before four o’clock. If I hear about leaks, if social media lights up before Griffin makes his announcement, I will know exactly who to blame. And there will be consequences. Are we clear?”
“Yes, Coach,” came the chorus of responses.
Roberts looked around the room one more time, his gaze lingering on Turner, then nodded. “All right. Get cleaned up. Be back here at three thirty if you’re attending the press conference. Otherwise, I’ll see you at practice tomorrow morning. And men—” He paused, making eye contact with several players. “Be proud of your captain. What he’s doing takes more courage than anything we’ll face on the ice.”
The meeting ended with that, players slowly dispersing—some approaching me with quiet words of support, others leaving quickly without making eye contact, a few lingering in uncertain groups.
Turner was first out the door, slamming it hard enough that the sound echoed through the locker room.
As the room cleared, Holloway asked, “You okay?”
“Yeah.” I wasn’t sure that was true, but I needed it to be. “Thanks for speaking up. For supporting me.”
“Always, Griffin. You’re my captain. My friend. This doesn’t change that.” Holloway glanced toward the door Turner had slammed through. “Don’t worry about him. He’s an asshole, but he’s one asshole on a team of twenty-three players. We’ve got your back.”
Laasko joined us, his expression serious. “We stand with you this afternoon. You do not face cameras alone.”
The solidarity from my alternates—the two players I relied on most to help lead this team—made my throat tight with emotion I had to swallow down.
“Thank you. Both of you. I—” I paused, trying to find words adequate for what their support meant. “I couldn’t do this without you.”
“You could,” Laasko said simply. “But you don’t have to. We are team. We stand together.”
