“We know,” Marco said again.
“All right.” Greer stood and started pacing. “Here’s what we’re going to do. I’ll notify the league and the owners. The league has shown their support of Lapierre, so it shouldn’t be a problem. The owners… let’s just say I’ll handle them. And I’ll get our PR team looped in immediately. They’ll prepare a statement of support from the organization. We’ll increase security at the arena starting on Wednesday. Media protocols—we’ll discuss how much access you’re comfortable with.”
“And the team,” Coach said. “If anyone has an issue, they deal with me.”
“Some of them will have issues,” Marco said quietly.
“Probably,” Coach agreed. “But they’ll keep itprofessional, or they’ll answer to me. Or to HR, if it comes to that. This is still a team. We support our own.”
Marco and I exchanged a glance and a head tilt.
“Are you worried about anyone specifically?” Greer asked.
“Boucher,” I said. “He’s made some comments. He’s not going to be happy about this.”
Coach’s jaw tightened. “I’ll take care of Boucher. He doesn’t have to be happy. He just has to be professional. Anyone else?”
“We don’t know,” Marco admitted. “We think most guys will be okay. Some will be uncomfortable. But we can’t predict everyone.”
“That’s fair.” Greer returned to his seat. “Look, I’m not going to lie to you. The media attention, the scrutiny, the public reaction—it’s going to test us all. But from an organizational standpoint, we support you.”
“We’ll protect you as much as we can,” Coach added. “But you need to be prepared for this to get ugly. Threats. Trolls. Protesters at the arena.”
“We know,” I said, though hearing it stated so bluntly made my stomach drop. “We’ve talked to Griffin and Wesley Hutton. They’ve been helping us prepare.”
“Good.” Coach nodded. “They know what this is like. Lean on them. And lean on us. My door is always open. To both of you.”
We talked logistics for another twenty minutes. By the time we stood to leave, it was 8:45. Players would start arriving soon for the 9:30 practice.
At the door, Coach stopped us.
“For what it’s worth,” he said, “I think you’re doing the right thing. It takes guts to live honestly. I respected Lapierre when he came out. I respect you.”
“Thank you, Coach,” Marco said quietly.
We stepped into the hallway, and I felt like I could breathe again for the first time in an hour.
“Well, at least I didn’t get traded right away,” I said as we entered the locker room.
Practice was torture.
I couldn’t focus. During every drill, every sequence, my mind was on what came after. On standing in front of the whole team and telling them. On seeing their reactions. On facing Boucher.
Marco was the same—I could see it in the way he moved, slightly off, distracted. We ran a defensive drill together and our timing was wrong, our communication off.
“Let’s go again,” Coach called. “You two know this better than anyone. Focus.”
We focused. Or tried to. But it was impossible to think about gap control and stick positioning when in thirty minutes I’d be standing in front of twenty men telling them I was in love with Marco.
Practice ended at eleven. Coach blew his whistle.
“Team meeting in ten minutes. Locker room. Everyone. Including coaching staff.”
A few groans—Sunday team meetings were unusual, typically meant for serious talks about performance or issues. Players started skating toward the tunnel, speculating about what Coach wanted.
Marco and I skated off last. Kinnunen fell into long strides beside us.
“You guys okay?” he asked quietly.
