“That was the hardest thing I’ve ever done,” he said.
“You were incredible.” I sat beside him, pulled him close. “Standing up there, telling them—Marco, you were so brave.”
“I was terrified.”
“But you did it anyway.”
We sat there for a long time, wrapped around each other, letting the adrenaline fade.
“Tomorrow, when we play Winnipeg,” Marco said quietly. “The team will be watching how we interact, how we play together. Every move will feel like a test.”
“Yeah.” I settled back against his chest. “But we’ve played together for three years. Our chemistry’s solid.”
“Our hockey chemistry, yes. But what about the rest?” He was quiet for a moment. “Étienne, can we handle all the scrutiny? There’s bound to be fan blowback.”
For the first time since we’d decided to come out, I wondered if we’d made a terrible mistake.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Marco
Monday morning practice was optional, but I went anyway. I needed to move, needed to do something with the nervous energy that had been building since yesterday’s team meeting.
The locker room felt different.
Not unwelcoming, exactly. Just… aware. Like everyone was hyperconscious of Étienne and me in a way they hadn’t been before. Some guys were overly casual—Harris making a point to joke around like nothing had changed. Others were going through their routines without looking at us directly.
And Boucher was ice.
He’d arrived early and was already dressed in his practice gear when I walked in. Our eyes met for a brief second across the room. His expression was flat, cold, completely closed off. Then he looked away like I wasn’t there.
Like I’d ceased to exist.
Étienne walked in from the weight room ten minutes later, and I felt the shift in the room. Subtle, but there. A few guys glanced up, went back to their business. Kinnunennodded at us from his stall. Jensen called out a greeting that sounded aggressively normal.
Étienne came straight to my stall and dropped onto the bench beside me, like he always did.
“Hi,” he said quietly.
“Hi.”
I pulled out my stick tape and started wrapping the blade. The familiar motion helped settle my hands, gave me something to focus on besides the weight of everyone’s awareness.
“How are you doing?” Étienne asked, his voice low enough that only I could hear.
“Fine.”
“Marco.”
I glanced at him. His eyes searched my face and read me the way they always did.
“I’m nervous about tonight,” I admitted. “About playing with everyone knowing. About—” I jerked my chin toward where Boucher was lacing his skates, pointedly not looking our direction. “About that.”
“Yeah.” Étienne’s jaw tightened. “Me too.”
Kinnunen wandered over, settling onto the bench beside us. “Boucher’s going to make it difficult,” he said quietly. “Just warning you. He was pissed after yesterday’s meeting. Harris overheard him and Coach talking in Coach’s office.”
“What did they say?”
