“Like a baby. Nothing like winning to make you sleep soundly.” Holloway grinned, then his expression turned more serious. “You good? You seem off.”
“Just thinking about today.” Not a lie, though Holloway didn’t know what today actually meant. “Big week ahead.”
“We’ve got this. Team’s clicking. Chemistry’s there.” Holloway stood, stretched. “Two, and oh, Lapierre. Keep this up and we might actually surprise some people this season.”
People would be surprised, all right.
Morning skate was light—recovery work after last night’sovertime, skating drills, power play adjustments. Coach Roberts kept it short, let us work up a light sweat without grinding us down. The energy was good, positive, exactly what a winning team should feel like.
I tried to be present, to focus on the drills and the skating and the familiar rhythm of practice. But my mind kept drifting ahead to the locker room meeting, to the words I’d have to say, to the reactions I’d face.
Some will support you. Some won’t. But you’re doing this, regardless.
“All right, bring it in!” Coach Roberts called as we finished the final drill. “Quick meeting in the locker room before you head out. Five minutes.”
The team skated off the ice in small groups, the usual post-practice chatter filling the air. I followed behind, my heart rate climbing despite the light workout.
In the locker room, players settled onto benches, some still in full gear, others already peeling off equipment. The mood was relaxed, casual—guys expecting a quick pep talk before heading home to rest before tomorrow’s practice.
Coach Roberts stood in the center of the room, his expression serious but not grim. He let the noise settle naturally, then cleared his throat.
“Before you all scatter—Lapierre needs to say something. Team meeting. Everyone stays.”
The room quieted immediately, attention shifting to me. I stood from the bench in front of my stall, my legs steadier than I’d expected despite the adrenaline flooding my system.
Over twenty faces turned toward me. My teammates. The men I’d been leading for the past month, the players who trusted me to guide them through an expansion season’s challenges, the guys who celebrated with me after wins and looked to me for direction after losses.
They thought they knew me. In a few minutes, they’d realize they didn’t. Not completely.
“I need to tell you something before you hear it anywhere else.” My voice came out stronger than I felt, the captain’s authority I’d perfected over sixteen years holding steady. “There’s a press conference this afternoon at four. I’m going to be making an announcement that’s going to generate a lot of media attention.”
Confused looks exchanged across the room. Holloway’s brow furrowed. Laasko tilted his head, waiting.
I took a breath—deep, steadying, the kind that comes before a faceoff in overtime—and said the words that would change everything.
“I’m gay.”
The silence that followed felt like falling through ice into freezing water—shocking, disorienting, absolute. Over twenty pairs of eyes stared at me, processing, trying to reconcile what I’d just said with everything they thought they knew about their captain.
I forced myself to continue, to push through the vulnerability and keep going. “I’ve hidden it my entire career because I was afraid of what it would mean for my future, for my value to teams, for my ability to lead.”
Still silence. Still staring. Some faces showed shock, some confusion, some careful neutrality.
“I know this might be unexpected.” My hands clenched at my sides, the only outward sign of my nerves. “I know some of you might have questions or concerns. But I need you to understand—this doesn’t change who I am as your captain. Doesn’t change my commitment to this team or my ability to lead. I’m the same player I was yesterday. I’m just being honest about something I’ve hidden.”
Martin, one of our young forwards, nodded slightly. Small gesture, but I caught it.
“I’m terrified,” I admitted, letting the vulnerability show. “I don’t know how you’ll react, how fans will respond, what this means for my career. But I know I can’t keep hiding who I am. I’m coming out this afternoon at a press conference, and I wanted you to hear it from me first. You’re my team. You deserve the truth before the media gets it.”
The silence stretched for another beat. Then Holloway stood, his expression serious but not hostile.
“Griffin.” He turned toward me. “That took balls. Real leadership.” He extended his hand, and I shook it, relief flooding through me at the first sign of support. He pulled me into a brief, backslapping hug, then stepped back. “I’m proud to have you as captain,” he said, loud enough for the whole room to hear. “That doesn’t change. And anyone who has a problem with this can talk to me.”
Laasko stood next, his Finnish accent pronounced. “In my country, we say, ‘courage makes good leader.’ You show courage today, Griffin. You are good captain. Good player. Good man. This changes nothing for me.”
He offered his hand, and I shook it, grateful beyond words for my alternates’ immediate support.
Martin stood third. “Thanks for going first, Captain. Makes it less scary for others.”
