They left me to shower and change, and I processed what had just happened. The team knew. Some supported me immediately, some were uncertain, and Turner was openly hostile. But it was done. The secret I’d kept for sixteen years was out among my teammates, and I was still standing.
Now I just have to get through the press conference.
My phone buzzed with a text from Wesley.
Wesley
How did it go with the team?
I typed back.
Griffin
Mixed reactions. Holloway and Laasko were great. Turner was Turner. But I’m relieved.
Wesley
Proud of you. I’ll be watching at four. You’ve got this.
I checked the time: 11:47 a.m. Four hours and thirteen minutes until I sat in front of cameras and reporters and acknowledged publicly what I’d just told my teammates privately.
Four hours until everything changed.
Four hours until I became the first player to come out.
I left the locker room and headed for the parking lot, needing to go home and center myself before returning for the press conference. The facility felt different somehow—or maybe I felt different, walking through it as someone who’d just told his team the truth.
In my car, I sat for a moment before starting the engine. Pulled out my phone and read Wesley’s message again, drawing strength from his certainty.
You’ve got this.
I wanted to believe him. Wanted to believe that the statement we’d crafted together would be enough, that my honesty would be received with more support than hostility, that I’d chosen the right words.
But mostly, I just wanted to get through the next four hours without falling apart.
I started the car and headed home, already mentally rehearsing the statement I’d deliver this afternoon. The words Wesley had helped me find. The truth I was finally ready to speak.
The fear was still there, that being openly gay wouldmake me worthless, that honesty would cost me everything, that I’d prove the Glaciers were right to let me go.
But underneath the fear was something stronger: resolve. Certainty. The knowledge that I was doing the right thing, even if it was the hardest thing.
Four hours.
I could survive for four hours.
And then—whatever came next, I’d face it as myself. Fully, honestly, truly myself.
For the first time ever.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Griffin
I sat at the press conference table in a suit that felt too tight despite being perfectly tailored, sweat dampening the back of my dress shirt while camera flashes created strobing lights across my vision. The press room was packed—standing room only, reporters crammed shoulder to shoulder, camcorders mounted on tripods in the back, the low hum of anticipation making the air feel charged.
Owen Davidson sat to my right, solid and professional in his dark suit. Coach Roberts was on my left, arms crossed, but expression supportive. Behind us, Holloway and Laasko stood with Martin and two other players who’d volunteered to show solidarity—a visual statement that I wasn’t alone even though it felt like I was drowning in front of a hundred witnesses.
My prepared statement sat on the table in front of me, the words Wesley and I had crafted together blurring as my vision tunneled. My heart hammered against my ribs, each beat loud enough that I was certain the microphones would pick it up.
