Chapter 25 #2
“Will reveal what it reveals. But your coming-out statement isn’t about scandal or relationships or violations.
It’s about you claiming your identity publicly.
” I leaned forward, needing him to understand.
“If you frame this as ‘I got caught, so I’m being forced out,’ you lose control of the narrative.
But if you frame it as ‘I’m choosing to be honest about who I am,’ you own it.
You make it powerful instead of shameful. ”
He nodded. “I’m not explaining why now. I’m just saying that this is who I am and I’m done hiding.”
“Exactly. The media will speculate about timing and reasons. Let them. Your message is bigger than the circumstances.” I tapped my pen against the notebook. “I’m sure you’re not the only gay NHL player. You’re just the first to have the courage to say it publicly. That’s the story.”
“Agreed. But what about questions? They’re going to ask about relationships, about whether something forced this.”
“And you’ll deflect gracefully. ‘This is about my personal truth, and I’m not going to discuss specific circumstances beyond that.
’ Or ‘My private life is private, but my identity is something I’m no longer willing to hide.
’” I met his eyes. “You control what you share. They can ask anything. You only answer what serves your message.”
“Which is truth and authenticity.”
“Which is truth and authenticity,” I confirmed. “Griffin Lapierre, team captain, elite player, leader—who is gay. Not Griffin Lapierre, gay player whose sexuality is a distraction or scandal. Do you see the difference?”
“I do.” His mouth hardened into an expression of determination. “I’m not apologizing for who I am. I’m just finally being honest about it.”
“There you go.” I smiled, professional satisfaction mixing with personal pride. “That’s your core message. Everything else flows from that.”
We spent the next two hours crafting Griffin’s statement—drafting, revising, reading it aloud to test the cadence and tone. I watched him wrestle with words, trying to find his own voice rather than the captain’s practiced media responses.
Griffin’s phone buzzed on my dining table, the screen lighting up with Davidson’s name. He glanced at me, his expression shifting to alert tension, then answered.
“Mr. Davidson. Hello.” Griffin stood and paced toward my living room windows as he listened. “Yeah, I’m—yes, I understand.”
I watched him from the table, able to hear only Griffin’s side of the conversation, reading his body language for clues. Tight shoulders, straight posture, the captain receiving instructions.
“After morning skate. Got it.” Griffin’s voice was steady, controlled. “How did he— right. Okay.”
A longer pause. Griffin turned slightly, his profile showing concentration, processing whatever Davidson was telling him.
“I appreciate that, sir. Thank you.” Another pause. “Yeah. I’ll be ready. See you tomorrow.”
He ended the call and stood for a moment, still facing the window, before turning back to me.
“Davidson talked to Coach Roberts,” Griffin said, his voice careful. “They want me to tell the team before the press conference. Roberts is calling a meeting after morning skate on Sunday.”
My stomach dropped slightly—not from fear, but from recognition of what that meant. “So, you’ll come out to your teammates first, then the media a few hours later.”
“Yeah.” Griffin moved back to the table but didn’t sit, restlessly shifting on his feet. “Roberts wants them to hear it directly from me. Give them time to process before the media circus starts.”
“That’s smart.” I saw the logic even as my heart ached for Griffin having to do that twice in one day. “Better they find out from you than from reporters asking for their reactions. How did Roberts take the news?”
Griffin’s expression was difficult to read—relief mixed with something more complicated. “Davidson said Coach will support me as captain. His exact words were, ‘As long as the team keeps winning, Lapierre’s personal life is his business.’”
The conditional support landed with a weight I could see Griffin felt in the pressed line of his mouth. Not unconditional acceptance, not “we support you regardless.” Support tied to performance, to results, to maintaining the winning formula.
“That’s… something,” I said carefully, not wanting to dismiss the support while also acknowledging its limitations.
“It’s more than I expected.” Griffin finally sat back down and ran his hand over his buzz cut. “Roberts is old school. That he’s willing to support me publicly as long as I’m performing… that’s actually significant.”
“But it puts pressure on you.” I couldn’t help pointing out the obvious. “You have to keep winning to keep his support. That’s a lot of weight to carry along with everything else.”
“I’ve been carrying that weight my entire career.” Griffin’s smile was tired but genuine. “My value has always been tied to my performance. At least I know where I stand.”
The acceptance in his voice tightened my chest. Griffin had spent sixteen years believing his worth was measured through achievement. This just reinforced that belief—though now the stakes included his identity along with his statistics.
“You’re more than your performance,” I said, needing him to hear it even if he couldn’t fully believe it yet. “Your value isn’t conditional on wins and losses.”
“Maybe not to you.” Griffin reached across the table and clasped my hand. “But to most people—to the team, to Roberts, to the league—it is. And I’ve made peace with that. As long as I can play at an elite level, I have leverage. I can be openly gay and successful. That matters.”
He was right, practically speaking. But it still felt like a compromise with systems that should have been better, should have offered support without conditions.
“You’ll keep winning,” I said with more confidence than I felt. “The team is solid. The chemistry is building. Tomorrow’s game will go well.”
“Tomorrow’s game against Anaheim…” Griffin’s expression shifted, processing the timeline. “Sunday morning skate, team meeting, come out to my teammates. Then the presser that afternoon.”
“That’s a lot.” Understatement of the year.
“Yeah.” Griffin squeezed my hand. “But having a game before telling the team and the press conference might actually help. Gives me another chance to prove myself, to be a leader.”
I could see his thinking. But I also saw the exhaustion in Griffin’s eyes, the weight of what he was about to face.
“Let’s take a break,” I suggested, needing to pull him back from the edge. “We’ve been working for hours. You need to eat something that’s not protein shakes and anxiety.”
After we took a break for a dinner of Chinese takeout, Griffin read our fourth draft aloud. “It feels too formal,” he said. “Like I’m delivering a prepared statement instead of just talking.”
“Because you are delivering a prepared statement.” I grabbed the laptop and scanned what we’d written. “But I see what you mean. It needs to sound more like your voice. Less polished, more raw.”
“How do I do that?”
“Tell me again why you’re coming out. But this time, don’t think about the media or the cameras or what people will think. Just tell me the truth.”
Griffin leaned back in his chair, his gaze distant. When he spoke, his voice was quieter, more honest than the practiced statement.
“I’ve spent sixteen years hiding who I am because I was afraid that being honest would cost me everything.
My career, my father’s legacy, my value to teams. I thought being gay was something I had to keep secret to succeed.
But hiding who I am has cost me more than coming out ever could.
It’s cost me genuine connection and the ability to just exist as myself.
I’m tired of being afraid. Tired of measuring every word and action.
Tired of living half a life because I’m too scared to live all of it. ”
I typed furiously, capturing his words. “That. That’s what you need to say. Not the polished version. This.”
Griffin read what I’d typed, and his brows drew together. “It’s vulnerable.”
“It’s real. That’s what matters.”
We kept working, fine-tuning the content of the statement. By eight o’clock, we had something I thought would work. Something that framed his coming out as an act of leadership and authenticity rather than scandal.
“Read it one more time,” I said. “Out loud. See how it feels.”
Griffin picked up the printed draft and cleared his throat.
“I’m Griffin Lapierre, captain of the Portland Stormhawks.
I’ve spent sixteen years in professional hockey, building a career I’m proud of.
But throughout that time, I’ve hidden something fundamental about who I am.
I’m gay. I was afraid that being honest would cost me my career, my opportunities, my value to teams. I thought I had to choose between being successful and being myself.
But that choice was costing me more than I realized.
It was costing me the ability to form genuine connections, to be fully present in my life.
I’m tired of hiding. Tired of being afraid.
Tired of living half a life because I’m too scared to live all of it.
So today, I’m choosing honesty. I’m choosing to be fully myself—gay, proud, and still completely committed to leading this team.
I don’t know what the response will be. I don’t know how this will affect my career or my relationships, or my legacy.
But I know that living with integrity matters more than living with fear. Thank you for coming today.”
Silence fell as Griffin finished reading. I stared at him, my throat tight with emotion I hadn’t expected. The statement was perfect—vulnerable without being weak, courageous without being preachy, honest in ways that would resonate with anyone who’d ever hidden parts of themselves.
“It’s good,” I croaked. “Really good, Griffin.”
“You think it’ll work?”