Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
Griffin
We had a light game-day practice on Friday, and afterward the locker room hummed with energy—the sharp scents of sweat mixing with soap and deodorant, the steady drum of water from multiple showers, the clatter of gear being gathered by the equipment manager.
I sat at my locker, wearing only a towel, and observed Fournier, Petrov, and Martin move around the space with a different energy than they’d had just two days ago.
Practice had been good. Better than good, actually.
The second line had clicked during drills in a way they hadn’t before, their communication sharper, their timing more synchronized.
Fournier anticipated Petrov’s moves before they happened.
Williams covered defensive gaps without being told.
Small improvements, maybe, but progress nonetheless.
Maybe the video game tournament had worked.
“Nice passing in that last drill, Petrov,” Fournier called out, a towel wrapped around his waist as he headed toward his stall. “Almost made me look good out there.”
“Almost,” Petrov replied, deadpan. “You still have work to do.”
Williams emerged from the showers, water still dripping from his hair, and laughed at something Martin said.
The easy banter felt more natural, with the locker room gradually transforming from a collection of strangers into something resembling a team. Not there yet, but closer.
The locker room door opened, and Wesley stepped inside, his eyes immediately scanning the room until they found me. Then his gaze registered the state of undress around him—players in various stages of towels and bare asses—and his eyes quickly averted, a flush creeping up his neck.
“Sorry, I was looking for—” Wesley started.
“What the fuck are you doing in here?” Turner’s voice cut across the room, sharp and hostile. He stood near his stall, fully dressed but radiating aggression. “Gays don’t belong in men’s locker rooms. Get out.”
The locker room went silent. Every conversation stopped. Every player froze.
Wesley’s expression hardened, and his jaw tightened. “I’m the PR manager. I have legitimate business being here, unlike your bigotry.”
“I don’t want some—”
“Enough.” The word came out like a whip, my voice carrying across the space with enough force that Turner actually took a step back.
“That kind of talk doesn’t belong in my locker room.
You want to be part of this team, you treat staff with respect.
All staff.” My voice was a low growl that I barely recognized.
Turner’s sneer was ugly. “You defending him, Lapierre? That’s interesting.”
Something hot and defensive flared in my gut—protective instinct mixed with panic that Turner might see too much, might understand why his words hit so close to home.
“I’m defending basic human decency,” I said, my voice tight with barely controlled anger. “Which seems to be a concept you struggle with. If you have a problem with any member of our organization based on who they are, take it up with management. But I guarantee you’ll lose that fight.”
The silence stretched uncomfortably. Other players looked between us, reading the tension, uncertain where to land. Laasko caught my eye and gave a small nod of support. Martin’s mouth twisted with disgust as he faced Turner. But a few others—including Williams—remained carefully neutral.
Wesley’s voice was calm when he spoke again, though I could hear the steel underneath. “Griffin, can I see you in my office when you’re dressed?”
“Yeah. Give me five minutes.”
Wesley left without another word, his posture rigid with controlled emotion.
I whipped off my towel, threw it into the laundry bin, and yanked on jeans. My hands shook slightly as I pulled a T-shirt over my head—adrenaline, anger, and something like fear coursed through my system.
Turner’s words echoed in my head. Gays don’t belong in men’s locker rooms. The casual cruelty, the absolute certainty that his prejudice was justified, the way he’d looked at me when I’d defended Wesley—You defending him, Lapierre? That’s interesting.
I needed to see Wesley. Needed to know he was okay, that Turner’s ugliness hadn’t wounded him more deeply than he’d shown.
Wesley’s office was up a flight of stairs, which I took two at a time. I knocked once and opened the door without waiting for a response.
Wesley stood at his window, looking out over the practice rink below, his shoulders tight with tension.
“Are you okay?” I asked, closing the door behind me with a firm click.
“I’m fine,” Wesley said, his voice clipped. “I don’t need you to defend me, Griffin.”
“Turner was out of line—”
“I know he was out of line. But I can handle homophobic assholes without the captain jumping in like I’m some fragile victim who needs protecting.
” Wesley turned to face me, and frustration flattened his mouth into a thin line.
Then he cocked his head, and curiosity replaced his exasperation. “But you got so damn upset. Why?”
The question hung between us, weighted with implications I wasn’t sure how to address.
My reaction had been too strong, too personal.
A captain defending the staff would have been firm but measured.
What I’d done—the barely controlled anger, the intensity of my response—had been something else entirely.
I could deflect. Could claim professional outrage at Turner’s behavior, point to team values and organizational policies. Could maintain the careful distance I’d been trying to preserve.
But standing there, taking in Wesley’s genuine interest and remembering the ugliness in Turner’s voice, the words Turner had used to describe people like me—
The pressure to say something, to explain, to finally tell someone the truth, became too great. And even though I’d only known him a short time, my gut told me I could trust Wesley.
I wiped sweaty palms on my jeans, and my heart raced. “Because I’m gay,” I whispered, as if someone was listening in on our conversation. Then louder, “And hearing Turner say that shit about where gay people belong—it wasn’t theoretical to me.”
Wesley froze, his expression shifting from curiosity to shock in the space of a heartbeat. “Wait. What?”
“I’m gay,” I repeated, somehow both easier and harder to say the second time. “Michael knows. My mother knows. No one else. Not teammates, not management, not the media. Just them. And now you.”
The silence stretched long enough that I wondered if I’d made a catastrophic mistake. If I’d just handed Wesley information that could destroy everything I’d worked for, if the trust I’d felt building between us was misplaced.
Then Wesley crossed the space between us and did something unexpected—he reached out and squeezed my shoulder, his grip firm and grounding.
“Thank you,” Wesley said quietly. “For trusting me with this.”
The relief was dizzying. “You’re not—”
“Shocked? A little. But mostly I’m… honored, I guess. That you’d tell me.” Wesley’s expression was serious and reflected the weight of what I’d just shared. “This could affect your career if it got out. That you trusted me with it—that means something to me.”
“You’re the only person outside my family I’ve come out to,” I admitted.
“Michael knows because my dad was dying and wanted to make sure someone would look after me. But I’ve never told anyone else.
” Anonymous hookups in hotels during the off-season didn’t count.
Those weren’t conversations. They were… transactions.
No names, no history, nothing that felt real.
Wesley’s hand was still on my shoulder, warm and steady. “Your secret is safe with me. I promise you that. Whatever happens between us—professionally or as friends—I will never betray that confidence.”
The sincerity in his voice made something tight in my throat loosen slightly. “I know. That’s why I told you.”
Wesley moved back to lean against his desk, his expression thoughtful. “I need to tell you something too. Michael called me.”
The words hit like an ice bath. “What?”
“The day after your game. He claimed he wanted to discuss PR strategy, but it became pretty clear he was warning me to maintain professional boundaries with you.” Wesley’s tone was carefully neutral.
“At the time, I didn’t understand why he was so concerned about our working relationship. Now I do.”
Anger flared hot in my gut. “He had no right to call you.”
“He’s trying to protect you.” Wesley shrugged, though his tone suggested he didn’t entirely agree with Michael’s methods. “In his own controlling, overstepping way.” The ghost of a smile twitched his lips.
“He thinks anyone finding out I’m gay will destroy my career.
That I’ll lose all credibility as a captain, that teammates will refuse to play with me, that everything I’ve accomplished will be reduced to being ‘the gay hockey player.’” I sketched air quotes.
The words came out bitter, with years of Michael’s warnings compressed into a single statement.
“That I’ll lose sponsorships and endorsements—all the financial security I’ve built.
He’s terrified I’ll end up broke and rejected, that coming out will cost me everything I’ve worked for. ”
“Do you believe that?”
I thought about Turner’s sneer, the way some players had remained neutral when I’d defended Wesley, the reality of hockey culture that still treated masculinity like a fragile thing that needed constant protection.
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “Maybe. Part of me thinks the league has evolved enough that it wouldn’t matter. But another part—the part that’s been hiding for sixteen years—thinks Michael might be right.”