“Because you are delivering a prepared statement.” I grabbed the laptop and scanned what we’d written. “But I see what you mean. It needs to sound more like your voice. Less polished, more raw.”
“How do I do that?”
“Tell me again why you’re coming out. But this time, don’t think about the media or the cameras or what people will think. Just tell me the truth.”
Griffin leaned back in his chair, his gaze distant. When he spoke, his voice was quieter, more honest than the practiced statement.
“I’ve spent sixteen years hiding who I am because I was afraid that being honest would cost me everything. My career, my father’s legacy, my value to teams. I thought being gay was something I had to keep secret to succeed. But hiding who I am has cost me more than coming out ever could. It’s cost me genuine connection and the ability to just exist as myself. I’m tired of being afraid. Tired of measuring every word and action. Tired of living half a life because I’m too scared to live all of it.”
I typed furiously, capturing his words. “That. That’s what you need to say. Not the polished version. This.”
Griffin read what I’d typed, and his brows drew together. “It’s vulnerable.”
“It’s real. That’s what matters.”
We kept working, fine-tuning the content of the statement. By eight o’clock, we had something I thoughtwould work. Something that framed his coming out as an act of leadership and authenticity rather than scandal.
“Read it one more time,” I said. “Out loud. See how it feels.”
Griffin picked up the printed draft and cleared his throat.
“I’m Griffin Lapierre, captain of the Portland Stormhawks. I’ve spent sixteen years in professional hockey, building a career I’m proud of. But throughout that time, I’ve hidden something fundamental about who I am. I’m gay. I was afraid that being honest would cost me my career, my opportunities, my value to teams. I thought I had to choose between being successful and being myself. But that choice was costing me more than I realized. It was costing me the ability to form genuine connections, to be fully present in my life. I’m tired of hiding. Tired of being afraid. Tired of living half a life because I’m too scared to live all of it. So today, I’m choosing honesty. I’m choosing to be fully myself—gay, proud, and still completely committed to leading this team. I don’t know what the response will be. I don’t know how this will affect my career or my relationships, or my legacy. But I know that living with integrity matters more than living with fear. Thank you for coming today.”
Silence fell as Griffin finished reading. I stared at him, my throat tight with emotion I hadn’t expected. The statement was perfect—vulnerable without being weak, courageous without being preachy, honest in ways that would resonate with anyone who’d ever hidden parts of themselves.
“It’s good,” I croaked. “Really good, Griffin.”
“You think it’ll work?”
“I think it’s genuine. That’s what matters most.” I closed my laptop, suddenly exhausted from the intensity of the past few hours. “The media will respond however they respond. But this message—this is something you can be proud of regardless of reaction. Will Natalie handle the PR?”
“Yes. We’re meeting tomorrow after practice.”
“Good. Give her the statement. I’m sure she’ll get approval from Davidson, legal, HR, and the owner.”
Griffin set down the printed statement and rubbed his eyes. “Owen wanted to wait until after tomorrow night’s game to do the presser. Give the team time to focus on hockey before the media circus.”
“Smart.” Though the idea of Griffin playing a game while knowing what was coming the next day felt brutal. “How are you feeling about that?”
“Terrified. Focused. I don’t know.” Griffin’s laugh was hollow. “Part of me wants to get the presser over with. But another part is grateful for one more game where I’m just the captain, not ‘the gay captain.’ A chance to prove myself. Does that make sense?”
“Perfect sense.” I stood and moved around the table to where Griffin sat. “You’re allowed to be scared. This is enormous. Historic. Life-changing. Fear is the appropriate response.”
“But you think I can do it?”
“I know you can do it.” I laid my hand on his shoulder and felt the tension coiled beneath. “You’re one of the strongest people I know. Not just physically—emotionally. You wouldn’t be doing this if you weren’t ready.”
Griffin reached up and covered my hand with his, holding it against his shoulder. “Thank you. For helping me. For not giving up on me after Davidson caught us. For believing I’m different from Charles.”
“You are different from Charles.” The certainty in my voice surprised me. “He ran. You’re standing and fighting. That’s the difference.”
Griffin stood and turned to face me. Suddenly we were inches apart—close enough that I could see the exhaustion in his eyes, the fear he was trying to hide, the love that madehim vulnerable in ways his perfect captain persona never allowed.
“I meant what I said earlier,” he said quietly. “I love you. And I know two weeks is insane?—”
“It is insane.” I managed a smile despite the emotion threatening to overwhelm me. “But I meant what I said too. I love you. And this—what you’re doing—proves you’re worth whatever happens to me.”
He kissed me then, tender and desperate all at once. His hands gripped my waist with gentle certainty, and I kissed him back, pouring everything I couldn’t articulate into the contact—gratitude and fear and hope and love all tangled together.
