“There you go.” I smiled, professional satisfaction mixing with personal pride. “That’s your core message. Everything else flows from that.”
We spent the next two hours crafting Griffin’s statement—drafting, revising, reading it aloud to test the cadence and tone. I watched him wrestle with words, trying to find his own voice rather than the captain’s practiced media responses.
Griffin’s phone buzzed on my dining table, the screen lighting up with Davidson’s name. He glanced at me, his expression shifting to alert tension, then answered.
“Mr. Davidson. Hello.” Griffin stood and paced toward my living room windows as he listened. “Yeah, I’m—yes, I understand.”
I watched him from the table, able to hear only Griffin’s side of the conversation, reading his body language for clues. Tight shoulders, straight posture, the captain receiving instructions.
“After morning skate. Got it.” Griffin’s voice was steady, controlled. “How did he— right. Okay.”
A longer pause. Griffin turned slightly, his profile showing concentration, processing whatever Davidson was telling him.
“I appreciate that, sir. Thank you.” Another pause. “Yeah. I’ll be ready. See you tomorrow.”
He ended the call and stood for a moment, still facing the window, before turning back to me.
“Davidson talked to Coach Roberts,” Griffin said, his voice careful. “They want me to tell the team before the pressconference. Roberts is calling a meeting after morning skate on Sunday.”
My stomach dropped slightly—not from fear, but from recognition of what that meant. “So, you’ll come out to your teammates first, then the media a few hours later.”
“Yeah.” Griffin moved back to the table but didn’t sit, restlessly shifting on his feet. “Roberts wants them to hear it directly from me. Give them time to process before the media circus starts.”
“That’s smart.” I saw the logic even as my heart ached for Griffin having to do that twice in one day. “Better they find out from you than from reporters asking for their reactions. How did Roberts take the news?”
Griffin’s expression was difficult to read—relief mixed with something more complicated. “Davidson said Coach will support me as captain. His exact words were, ‘As long as the team keeps winning, Lapierre’s personal life is his business.’”
The conditional support landed with a weight I could see Griffin felt in the pressed line of his mouth. Not unconditional acceptance, not “we support you regardless.” Support tied to performance, to results, to maintaining the winning formula.
“That’s… something,” I said carefully, not wanting to dismiss the support while also acknowledging its limitations.
“It’s more than I expected.” Griffin finally sat back down and ran his hand over his buzz cut. “Roberts is old school. That he’s willing to support me publicly as long as I’m performing… that’s actually significant.”
“But it puts pressure on you.” I couldn’t help pointing out the obvious. “You have to keep winning to keep his support. That’s a lot of weight to carry along with everything else.”
“I’ve been carrying that weight my entire career.” Griffin’ssmile was tired but genuine. “My value has always been tied to my performance. At least I know where I stand.”
The acceptance in his voice tightened my chest. Griffin had spent sixteen years believing his worth was measured through achievement. This just reinforced that belief—though now the stakes included his identity along with his statistics.
“You’re more than your performance,” I said, needing him to hear it even if he couldn’t fully believe it yet. “Your value isn’t conditional on wins and losses.”
“Maybe not to you.” Griffin reached across the table and clasped my hand. “But to most people—to the team, to Roberts, to the league—it is. And I’ve made peace with that. As long as I can play at an elite level, I have leverage. I can be openly gay and successful. That matters.”
He was right, practically speaking. But it still felt like a compromise with systems that should have been better, should have offered support without conditions.
“You’ll keep winning,” I said with more confidence than I felt. “The team is solid. The chemistry is building. Tomorrow’s game will go well.”
“Tomorrow’s game against Anaheim…” Griffin’s expression shifted, processing the timeline. “Sunday morning skate, team meeting, come out to my teammates. Then the presser that afternoon.”
“That’s a lot.” Understatement of the year.
“Yeah.” Griffin squeezed my hand. “But having a game before telling the team and the press conference might actually help. Gives me another chance to prove myself, to be a leader.”
I could see his thinking. But I also saw the exhaustion in Griffin’s eyes, the weight of what he was about to face.
“Let’s take a break,” I suggested, needing to pull him back from the edge. “We’ve been working for hours. Youneed to eat something that’s not protein shakes and anxiety.”
After we took a break for a dinner of Chinese takeout, Griffin read our fourth draft aloud. “It feels too formal,” he said. “Like I’m delivering a prepared statement instead of just talking.”
