Good for Lapierre
Brave move
Respect
But there was an undercurrent of discomfort too.
Good luck to him.
To each his own.
Distraction.
And then I saw Cory Boucher’s name.
My stomach dropped.
Boucher’s message wasn’t in the group chat. Instead, someone had screenshotted a post from his account and shared it. I clicked on the image to expand it.
Interesting PR strategy by @Griff_Lapierre. Wonder if Colorado knew what they were getting rid of.
The words were carefully chosen. Neutral enough on the surface, but anyone who understood subtext could read between the lines. The implication was clear: Griffin’s sexuality was something the Glaciers had wanted to “get rid of.” Something problematic. Something that made him damaged goods. Had the franchise known about Lapierre’s orientation?
Boucher’s message was poison wrapped in civility, and my stomach churned as I read it.
“Jesus,” Étienne said, looking over my shoulder at my phone. “Boucher’s being a dick.”
“Yeah.” My jaw tightened. “That’s pretty on brand for him.”
Cory Boucher. Our captain. The guy who’d taken over when Griffin got traded, who’d made it very clear he had different ideas about team culture and what it meant to be a Glacier. Who made jokes in the locker room that walked the line between ribbing and cruelty, who rolled his eyes when someone brought up Pride night or diversity initiatives.
Who would make my life hell if he ever found out who I was.
I closed the chat and set my phone face down on the coffee table, suddenly needing to not look at it anymore.
“You okay?” Étienne asked, and there was real concern in his voice.
“Fine.” I rubbed my hand over my short beard, a nervous gesture I’d never quite managed to break. “Just… it’s a lot. Lapierre coming out. Boucher being an ass about it. The whole thing.”
“Yeah, I get it.” Étienne’s attention was back on his game, but his tone was thoughtful. “When he wasn’t performing his captain’s duties, he mostly kept to himself.”
I wondered if Griffin had been lonely during his years in Colorado. If he’d felt as isolated as I did, surrounded by teammates but utterly alone with the truth of himself. If that was part of why he’d seemed so reserved, so controlled, so perfectly professional in every interaction.
If that was what keeping this secret did to a person—turned you into a performance of yourself, all the real parts locked away where no one could see them.
“Well, good for him anyway,” Étienne said firmly. “Takes balls to do what he did. I hope it works out for him.”
“Me too,” I said quietly.
And I meant it. God, I meant it so much it hurt.
But even as I said the words, even as I watched Étienne return to his video game like nothing had changed, I thought about what would happen if I ever did what Griffin had done.
My mother would cry. My father would rage. My sisters—except Gia, thank God for Gia—wouldn’t understand. The Morelli name would be dragged through the neighborhood, through the parish, through every Italian American social circle on Staten Island. I’d become the cautionary tale, the black sheep, the son who’d disappointed everyone.
And Cory Boucher would make my life shit.
So, I’d keep doing what I’d always done. I’d smile and deflect when my mother asked about my dating life. I’d go to team events alone. I’d hook up in secret with guys who understood discretion, who had as much to lose as I did. I’d watch other people live authentic lives and tell myself that wanting more was selfish, ungrateful, impossible.
