I let the world see.
The media explosion was immediate.
By the time we made it back to the locker room, Twitter was on fire. #LucaComesOut was trending number one worldwide. ESPN had already posted the full press conference video. Commentary poured in from current players, retired legends, fans, celebrities, and politicians.
Most of it was positive.
Michael Okoro:Proud of you, @LucaMoretti29. Welcome to the club. It gets better.
The NHLPA released a statement of support within an hour.
But there was ugliness too. Comments about Luca being a distraction. Accusations of seeking attention. Old-guard analysts questioning whether an openly gay captain could command respect. Radio hosts debating whether it was "appropriate" for teammates to shower together now.
I wanted to throw my phone through a wall.
"Don't read it," Kieran advised, appearing at my side. "Seriously. Nothing good comes from reading the comments."
"They’re saying he’s selfish for coming out before the finals," I said tightly. "Like he should have kept hiding to make everyone comfortable."
"People are idiots." Kieran plucked the phone from my good hand. "You know what matters? The guys in this room. And we’ve got your back. Both of you."
Luca emerged from Coach Reeves’s office. His expression was unreadable. He scanned the room until his eyes landed on me, and some of the tension left his shoulders.
"Dad?" I asked quietly when Luca reached me.
Luca’s jaw worked. "He called. I didn't answer."
"But—"
"He left a voicemail." Luca’s voice was flat. "Told me I was an embarrassment to the family. That I chose a 'lifestyle' over my heritage. That I’m not welcome home until I 'fix this.'"
Rage flooded my chest. "Luca..."
"It’s fine." Luca’s smile didn't reach his eyes. "I expected it. And I meant what I said at the press conference. If I lose people who can't accept me, they weren't worth keeping."
"That doesn't mean it doesn't hurt."
"No," Luca admitted. "It doesn't."
I pulled him close, letting him hide his face against my good shoulder. Around us, the locker room pretended not to notice.
"I’m proud of you," I whispered into Luca’s hair. "So goddamn proud."
Luca’s arms came around me—careful of the sling, always careful—and held on tight.
That night, I went to Luca’s apartment.
We’d been here before. We’d mapped each other’s bodies in this bed, learned what made the other gasp and break and beg. But tonight felt different.
No secrecy. No fear. No wondering if Luca would panic afterward and disappear for days.
Just us.
"How’s your shoulder?" Luca asked, sitting on the edge of the bed.
"Fine if I don't move it." I nudged Luca’s knee with my own. "I can work with that."
"I don't want to hurt you."
