“You’re sure?” I had to ask, even though I could see the answer in his eyes. “Because once we start, we can’t take it back.”
“I don’t want to take it back.” His voice was steady now, certain. “I’m terrified, Étienne. I’m more scared than I’ve ever been in my life. But I’m more scared of losing you because we couldn’t figure out how to live honestly. I’m more scared of looking back in five years and realizing we wasted all that time hiding.”
Tears burned in my eyes. “I love you.”
“I love you too.” He pulled me closer, pressed his forehead to mine. “So, let’s do this.”
For a moment, we just sat there, holding each other, letting the weight of the decision settle over us.
“Griffin? Wesley?” I called out.
They appeared in the doorway almost immediately—they’d probably been listening or at least waiting for our decision.
“We’re doing it,” Marco said. “We want to come out. We need your help.”
Wesley’s face lit up. “Okay. Let’s make a plan.”
Wesley grabbed a tablet and started outlining the timeline. The next hour flew by in a blur of practical details.
“Then, Wednesday, you play a game on New Year’s Eve,” Wesley finished. “First game as an openly out couple. Symbolic as hell. New year, new beginning.”
My head spun. “This is really happening.”
“This is really happening,” Wesley confirmed. “And you’re going to need support. We’re here. Anytime you need to talk, anytime it gets too hard, call us. Text us. We’ve been through this. We can help.”
“You’re going to need each other most of all,” Griffinsaid, his voice serious. “This is going to test you. The media, the scrutiny, the reactions—it’s going to be hard. But if you stay together, if you remember why you’re doing this, you’ll get through it.”
Marco’s hand squeezed mine again. “We will.”
Wesley handed us his business card. “My cell is on there. Call me after you’ve told Kinnunen. We’ll start working on the statement. And if you need anything before then—anything at all—reach out.”
“You’re going to be okay,” Griffin said.
We stayed another twenty minutes, going over details, asking questions, absorbing advice. When we finally stood to leave, both Griffin and Wesley hugged us—real hugs, the kind that saidwe’ve got you.
At the door, Wesley squeezed my shoulder. “You’re braver than you think. Both of you.”
“We’ll see,” I said.
“No. You are. That you’re doing this—that takes courage.” He smiled. “Call me Tuesday.”
“We will.”
The Uber back to the hotel was quiet. Marco and I sat in the back seat, his hand in mine between us, where the driver couldn’t see.
“We just agreed to come out,” Marco said finally, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Tabarnak!”
CHAPTER THIRTY
Marco
We lost to Portland 3–1.
I sat in my aisle seat on the flight home Monday morning, Étienne beside me in the window seat, and replayed the game in my head. Not because I wanted to—because I couldn’t stop. Every mistake, every missed assignment, every moment where my mind had been somewhere else instead of on the ice.
Boucher had been furious in the locker room after the game. We’d lost to our former captain, “Griffin fucking Lapierre”—his words. Boucher had barely looked at me, and I’d felt his anger radiating across the room. Like somehow it was my fault we’d lost. Like he knew I’d spent Saturday afternoon at Griffin’s apartment instead of focusing on the game.
