“Would it be okay if we got a selfie with you, Captain Lapierre?” Sebastian already had his phone out, hopeful and eager. “We promise we won’t take much of your time.”
“Of course.” I moved around the table for the photo.
“Let me take it.” Wesley stood and held his hand out for the phone. “You’ll get a better shot that way.”
The couple’s faces lit up, and they flanked me. I put my arms around their shoulders, smiled genuinely, and Wesley snapped several photos.
“Perfect.” Wesley handed back the phone. “Got a few good ones.”
Sebastian scrolled through the images, his smile bright. “These are amazing. Thank you so much. We’ll post this with the hashtag ‘Hockey is for everyone.’ We’ve got a pretty big following. This should get a lot oflikes.”
Something twisted in my chest—part envy, part longing, part desperate wish. The men held hands in public, posted photos proudly on social media, lived their truth without fear or hiding. They existed openly in a way I couldn’t imagine and watching them made me ache with wanting something that felt impossibly out of reach.
What would it be like to just exist? To hold Wesley’s hand in a coffee shop, to post photos together, to not calculate every interaction and measure every risk?
“That’s fantastic.” My voice came out steady despite theturmoil underneath. “Thanks for being fans. For supporting the team.”
“We can’t wait to see what you do this season.” Sebastian’s gaze was open and sincere.
They left with waves and smiles, returning to their table across the coffee shop. They immediately huddled over the phone, reviewing photos and presumably writing their social media post.
I sat, my coffee suddenly tasteless, my carefully constructed composure feeling more fragile than usual.
“That was good.” Wesley had returned to his seat, his expression thoughtful. “Good media relations, good optics. The Stormhawks are trying to build an inclusive fan base—having that couple post photos with you tagged with ‘Hockey is for everyone’ is organic marketing that money can’t buy.”
“Yeah.” I stared at my coffee, not meeting Wesley’s eyes. “Great.”
“Griffin.” Wesley’s voice was gentle, understanding. “What’s wrong?”
“They can just be themselves.” The words came out raw. “Can hold hands in public, post photos, live their lives openly. And I…” I cut myself off, aware that even in this relatively private corner of the coffee shop, I had to be wary.
“I know.” Wesley grimaced, empathetic. “I know it’s hard.”
“Do you?” The question wasn’t accusatory, just genuinely curious. “You’re out. You post about your life on social media. You don’t have to hide.”
“Not anymore.” Wesley’s tone was guarded. “But I remember what it was like in high school and college. Hiding, pretending, watching other couples be openly together while I couldn’t acknowledge my sexuality. It destroys you slowly, that kind of secrecy.”
The reminder of Wesley’s past anchored me. Wesley understood this particular torture because he’d lived it. Yet he had entered this relationship despite knowing exactly how painful hiding could be.
“Sorry. I’m just…” I ran a hand over my buzz cut, frustrated with myself for letting my mask slip. “Thursday’s got me on edge. And seeing them just reminded me of everything I can’t have.”
“You can have it.” Wesley was quiet, but certain. “Just not yet. Four to six years, then retirement, then coming out. Then all of this…” He gestured vaguely toward where the couple sat. “Can be yours too.”
Four to six years felt like an eternity right now. Four to six years of hiding, performing, maintaining perfect control. Four to six years of watching other people live openly while I calculated every interaction and measured every risk.
But that was the plan. The timeline. The promise I’d made to myself and to Wesley.
“You know,” Wesley said thoughtfully. “The Stormhawks want to do an inclusivity initiative this season. A ‘hockey is for everyone’ type program. Davidson mentioned wanting an ambassador. You’d be perfect for it.”
The irony was hilarious. Me, the closeted captain, serving as the face of LGBTQ+ inclusion. The ultimate performance—advocating for authenticity while hiding my own truth.
“I don’t know about that.” I kept my voice neutral. “Wouldn’t that be hypocritical?”
“Think about it.” Wesley’s eyes held mine with an intensity that suggested he saw possibilities I couldn’t. “Being an ally publicly, supporting inclusivity even while you’re not ready to come out yourself—that’s valuable. That’s leadership.”
“Maybe.” I wasn’t convinced, and the hesitation made mesound ashamed. I wasn’t—I just wasn’t sure I was the right person to lead it.
Wesley’s phone chimed with a text, and he glanced at the screen. “Sorry, that’s Natalie. My PR specialist. I should check in with her about Thursday’s media logistics.”
