He closed the door behind him and sat in the chair across from me. “I wanted to talk to you about what happened in the locker room. With Turner.”
My stomach tightened. “It’s fine. Turner’s entitled to his opinions.”
“I want you to know that most of us don’t agree with him.” Holloway’s voice was firm. “What he said was bullshit, and several of us told him so after you and Lapierre left.”
The support caught me off guard, warmth spreading through the tightness in my body. “I appreciate that.”
“My cousin’s gay,” Holloway continued. “He came out in high school and dealt with a lot of crap from people who thought like Turner. Watching what he went through…” He shook his head. “Nobody should have to deal with that kind of prejudice, especially not in their workplace. You belong here as much as anyone.”
“Thank you, Eric. That means a lot.”
“Lapierre was right to shut Turner down. Most of the team agrees with him.” Holloway stood, extending his hand for me to shake. “Just wanted you to know you’ve got support.”
After he left, I sat back in my chair, processing theunexpected solidarity. And Holloway wasn’t the last. Throughout the afternoon, more players stopped by my office. Laasko, brief and matter-of-fact, said simply, “Turner is an asshole. You do a good job.” Petrov brought me coffee, despite Russia’s stance on homosexuality. Even Martin, who I’d barely interacted with, came by to express his disagreement with Turner’s attitude.
Their support was genuine and touching. But it also made me wonder—what would actually happen if Griffin came out?
The conventional wisdom, the fear that kept Griffin closeted, was that it would destroy his career. That teammates would revolt, that he’d lose credibility as a captain, that the locker room would become hostile territory.
But watching these players express support for me, seeing their genuine disgust at Turner’s homophobia—maybe the reality would differ from the fear. Maybe hockey culture had evolved more than Griffin’s sixteen years of hiding had allowed him to see.
Or maybe not. Maybe these players could support a gay PR manager while still feeling differently about a gay captain. Maybe the theoretical acceptance was easier than the reality of showering with a gay teammate.
I didn’t know. And the not knowing was exactly why Griffin’s fear was so understandable.
By five o’clock, I’d packed up my laptop and headed toward the arena for the preseason game against the San Jose Lasers. The press box was already filling with local media by the time I arrived, the energy different from opening night—less anxiety, more curiosity about whether the team would bounce back from their first loss.
I settled into my usual seat with a view of the entire ice, my laptop open to track real-time social media sentiment and media coverage. Below, players warmed up with afocused intensity that suggested they’d taken the first loss personally.
Griffin moved through warm-ups with fluid precision, his skating smooth and controlled. I watched him—couldn’t help watching him, knowing what I knew, seeing past the captain’s performance to the man who carried an impossible weight.
The game started fast and physical. San Jose came out aggressively, clearly having watched tape of Portland’s defensive breakdowns from the first game and looking to exploit them. But the Stormhawks responded with better communication and sharper positioning, the kind of cohesion that suggested Coach Roberts’s tape sessions had actually penetrated.
Midway through the first period, Griffin intercepted a pass at the blue line and broke toward San Jose’s net with Laasko on his wing. The play developed with beautiful precision—Griffin drawing two defenders, Laasko crashing the net, Griffin’s pass arriving exactly when and where it needed to be.
But instead of shooting, Laasko slid the puck back to Griffin, who’d continued driving toward the net. Griffin’s one-timer beat the goalie cleanly, and the red light flashed as the crowd erupted.
1–0 Portland.
I smiled and pride swelled unexpectedly as Griffin celebrated with his line mates. He’d needed that goal—for his confidence, for his team’s morale, for proof that he could still perform at an elite level despite the questions and doubts.
The second period belonged to Portland completely. Petrov scored on a breakaway, then Holloway added another. By the time the third period started, Portland was up 4–1 and the outcome wasn’t in serious doubt.
The final horn sounded on a 5–2 victory, exactly the response the team needed after their opening loss.
Post-game media availability was crowded with reporters eager to write the “bounce-back victory” narrative. I coordinated traffic, managing which media outlets went to which players, making sure our key messages got proper coverage.
Griffin was in demand. Multiple outlets wanted interviews with the captain who’d scored twice and looked like the top player Portland had invested in. He handled question after question with practiced ease—humble about his performance, crediting teammates, emphasizing team improvement over individual success.
He was good at this. Better than good, he was media gold, an articulate, charismatic athlete that reporters loved to quote. I observed him work. A combination of professional admiration and personal attraction that was becoming increasingly difficult to separate warmed my chest.
Later, after the crush of media cleared, I found Griffin in the hallway outside the locker room, running his fingers over his hair with a relief that suggested he was ready to be done performing for the day.
“Great game,” I said. “And excellent media performance. You hit every talking point perfectly.”
“Had a good coach prepare me.” Griffin’s smile was warm, genuine. “Thanks for setting that up smoothly. Made it a lot easier.”
We stood there for a moment, the hallway empty except for the distant sounds of the arena being cleaned and locked down for the night. Close enough that I could smell his fresh body wash mixed with the lingering scents of ice and sweat.
