“How does it feel to be the first NHL couple?”
“Are you worried about fan reactions?”
“What do you say to people who think you shouldn’t be in the league?”
Marco handled most of it, his voice steady and calm. “We’re hockey players. We’re in love. We’re done hiding. That’s all there is to say.”
One reporter tried to ask something invasive about our relationship—objectifying us and minimizing us to what we did in bed—and another reporter cut him off. “That’s inappropriate. These are athletes, not your personal entertainment. Next question.”
I could have kissed her.
The team’s PR manager called it after fifteen minutes. “That’s all we have time for. Thank you.”
In the locker room, the atmosphere was typical of game day. Guys getting ready, taping sticks, checking gear, the usual routine. But I felt the awareness in the room, the way eyes tracked us when they thought we weren’t looking.
Kinnunen was already at his stall. He looked up when we entered, nodded in support.
I dropped my bag at Marco’s stall and sat beside him, pulling out my stick tape. The familiar ritual helped settle my nerves. Marco methodically put on his gear in the exact same order he always did.
Routine.
Boucher walked past without looking at us. He’d been like that since Sunday—present but refusing to acknowledge our existence. Coach had clearly had words with him about keeping it professional, but professional didn’t mean friendly.
I didn’t care. We didn’t need Boucher’s approval. We just needed to play.
“You guys did good at the presser. Very professional,” Kinnunen said.
“Thanks.”
“Also, that one reporter who shut down the creep? She’s my new hero.”
I laughed despite my nerves. “Mine too.”
By twelve twenty, we were in full gear, Marco had donned his jersey, and we were ready to take the ice for warm-ups. Coach gave his usual pregame talk—strategy, focus, discipline. Then he paused.
“One more thing. There’s going to be a lot of noise today. Supporters, protesters, media. Ignore all of it. The only thing that matters is what happens on the ice. We play our game. We play together. We win together. Got it?”
“Got it, Coach,” we answered in unison.
“All right. Let’s go.”
We lined up in the tunnel, and I could hear the crowd already—a rumble of voices, bass-heavy music playing over the speakers, the energy building. My heart pounded so hard I could feel it in my throat.
Marco stood ahead of me in line, his shoulders tight with tension. I reached out and touched his lower back. Right there, in front of our teammates. Because I could now.
His shoulders relaxed slightly, and he glanced back at me with a small, grateful nod. We poured onto the ice, and the sound hit me like a physical force.
Cheering. Loud, sustained, overwhelming cheering.
I skated toward our bench, taking in the crowd. Signs everywhere—some with our names, some with rainbow flags, some just saying“Love is Love”and“Love Wins.”
And yes, some boos. Some people sitting with armscrossed, faces cold. But they were drowned out by the support.
The arena was sold out. Eighteen thousand people filling every seat. Whatever concerns the front office might have had about our announcement affecting ticket sales—those were clearly unfounded.
And most of the crowd was on their feet applauding for us.
Tears pricked my eyes, and I blinked them back. Not yet. I had to stay focused. I had to play.
