The room was silent again, but it felt different this time. Not the heavy, waiting silence from before. This one felt lighter. Clearer.
"So," Hayes said, breaking the tension with his usual bluntness. "Are you two, like, together-together now? Or is this still in the figuring-it-out phase?"
Theo looked at me. Waiting. Giving me the choice.
"If he’ll have me," I said, holding Theo’s gaze, "I want to be together. For real this time. No more hiding. No more secrets."
"Even if it means telling your father?" Theo asked quietly. "Telling the media?"
My stomach dropped at the thought. My father’s voice in my head screamed warnings, painted catastrophic scenarios, and listed all the ways this could destroy everything.
But Theo was standing in front of me with hope in his eyes. Suddenly my father’s voice didn't matter anymore.
"Even then," I said. "Whatever it takes."
Theo crossed the room in four strides and kissed me.
It was soft and careful because of the sling, but also fierce and claiming and absolutely public. In front of the entire team. With twenty pairs of eyes watching.
When we broke apart, someone let out a low whistle.
"Okay," Kieran said, clapping his hands once. "Now that we’ve got that settled, can we please focus on kicking Dallas’s ass tonight? Because if Moretti just came out to the entire team before a playoff game and we lose, I’m going to be pissed."
Laughter rippled through the room, breaking the last of the tension.
"You heard the man," I said, slipping automatically back into captain mode even as my hand found Theo’s good one and held on. "Let's win this thing."
We won 5-1.
I had two assists and played the best hockey of my life. I was loose and fast and unafraid in a way I hadn't been in years. Maybe ever. Every shift felt lighter. Every pass connected. The puck followed me like it knew I’d finally gotten my shit together.
In the third period, up 4-1 with five minutes left, I skated past the bench and caught Theo’s eye in the stands where he sat with the injured reserves. Theo grinned at me—that wide, unguarded smile that made my chest ache—and held up his good hand in a thumbs up.
I smiled back. On the ice. In front of eighteen thousand people and a dozen cameras.
I didn't care anymore.
When the final buzzer sounded, the team mobbed each other at center ice—hugging and shouting and riding the high of advancing to the conference finals. Kieran grabbed my helmet and knocked our foreheads together.
"Told you," he yelled over the roar of the crowd. "Best game of the playoffs!"
"Couldn't have done it without you guys," I shouted back.
"Yeah, you could have." Kieran’s grin was fierce. "But you didn't have to. That’s the whole fucking point."
The locker room afterward was chaos—music blasting, champagne spraying, everyone riding the adrenaline high of a series-clinching win. I sat in my stall and let the noise wash over me, exhausted and exhilarated and lighter than I’d felt in a decade.
My phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number.
Unknown:Congratulations on the win. And on your courage. —Michael Okoro
I stared at the message. Michael Okoro had come out two years ago—first active NBA player to do it. I’d watched his press conference from my couch, alone, and felt a longing so sharp it had made me nauseous.
I typed back:Thank you. That means a lot.
Another buzz. This time, my father.
Dad:We need to talk. Call me.
