Right there. On the ice. In front of eighteen thousand people.
His lips pressed against mine, awkward and imperfect and absolutely perfect. My brain short-circuited, and time slowed down to nothing.
He pulled back, his dark eyes searching mine. “Okay?” he asked quietly.
I couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe. Just nodded.
The arena had hushed.
For one endless heartbeat, there was only a collective gasp. Eighteen thousand people holding their breath.
And then the noise came.
Cheering. Applause. A roar of sound that rolled over us like a wave. People on their feet, hands clapping, voices raised. A standing ovation that filled every corner of the arena.
Around us, our teammates reacted. Kinnunen tapped his stick against the ice. The sound carried, sharp and clear. Then Jensen did the same. Then Reid from the crease, his goalie stick thumping against the ice.
One by one, most of the team joined in. Stick taps echoing across the ice, a show of support that was unmistakable, undeniable.
Even some of the Buffalo players tapped their sticks. Professional respect, solidarity, acknowledgment.
It was all proof that support outweighed hate, that love was stronger than fear.
My eyes burned with tears I didn’t try to hide.
I turned to Marco and said, “We did it.”
EPILOGUE
ONE YEAR LATER…
Marco
I could still feel the lingering adrenaline from the win: 3–1 against Buffalo. A solid way to mark the anniversary.
One year ago, we’d played Buffalo after coming out publicly. A year ago, Étienne had been struggling, terrified of being traded, barely holding on.
Now he’d just finished the game with a goal and an assist—his usual production these days.
It still amazed me sometimes, the transformation. After we came out, Étienne had played the rest of last season at an elite level. The trade rumors had disappeared within weeks, replaced by speculation about contract extensions.
I’d watched it happen, watched him rediscover the confidence and instinct that had made him dangerous in the first place. And I knew—we both knew—what had made the difference.
Supporting each other. Me calling before games, running through plays and opponent tendencies like we used to. And then coming out, finally ending the exhausting work of hiding, of constantly watching our words and our distance.
And the end of his father’s abusive phone calls.
It had freed something in Étienne.
The results spoke for themselves. He’d finished last season strong, and this year he was even better. Still with the Glaciers, now locked in with a new contract—one that included a no-trade clause, thanks to his sharp agent who’d leveraged his improved performance into real security.
“Lasagna or pasta?” Étienne dropped his bag by the door and headed straight for the kitchen.
“I’m making lasagna. We’re feeding six people, and Jensen eats like he’s been starving for a week.”
“Lasagna it is.” He grabbed the cutting board while I pulled out ingredients. “I’m on garlic bread and salad duty.”
“Deal.”
