“First day of the rest of our lives,” I corrected.
He smiled, soft and genuine. “Yeah. That.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Étienne
The protesters were already there when we arrived at the arena.
Maybe twenty of them, clustered near the main entrance with signs.
“Protect Our Children.”
“Sin Has No Place in Sports.”
“Traditional Values Matter.”
They chanted something I couldn’t quite hear from inside Marco’s car, their voices lost beneath the engine noise.
But there were more people with rainbow flags.
So many more.
Families with kids. Teenagers in Pride shirts. Adults holding signs that said,“Love Wins,”and“You’re Our Heroes,”and“Thank You for Your Courage.”They lined the street on both sides, a corridor of support that tightened my throat.
“There’s got to be a hundred people out there,” Marco said quietly, staring through the windshield. “Maybe more.”
“They’re here for us.”
“Yeah.” His hand found mine across the console and squeezed tight. “Ready?”
“No. But let’s do it anyway.”
We grabbed our duffels and headed for the players’ entrance. Security was heavy—four guards instead of the usual one, all of them watching the crowd carefully. But the protesters stayed on their side of the barricade, and the supporters?—
They cheered when they saw us.
Actually cheered. Kids waving rainbow flags, parents holding up phones to take pictures, people calling our names.
A weight lifted from my chest.
We’d done this. We’d come out, faced the backlash, and these people had shown up to support us. Strangers who didn’t know us except through hockey and social media posts.
“Thank you,” I said through a tight throat to the girl with the sign. She beamed.
Inside the arena, I noticed the staff first. The equipment guys who normally just did their jobs with quiet efficiency were paying attention now—watching us with something like concern, like they were ready to step in if anyone gave us shit. One of the trainers patted my shoulder as I passed. “Proud of you guys,” he said quietly. The arena manager, who I’d spoken to maybe twice all season, made a point of telling us security was tight, that they had our backs.
“Deep breath,” Marco murmured as we headed toward the media room.
“I’m breathing.”
“You’re panicking.”
“That too.”
He squeezed my forearm briefly. “We’ve got this.”
The media room was packed—way more reporters thanusual for a regular season presser. Cameras everywhere, phones recording, tablets ready. We sat at the table together, close enough that our arms almost touched, and faced the barrage of questions.
