Chapter 26
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Griffin
I woke Sunday morning to sunlight streaming through my bedroom window and the phantom ache of overtime exertion in my legs.
For a moment—just a brief, disorienting moment—I forgot what day it was.
Forgot what I’d be doing in hours. Forgot everything except the pleasant exhaustion of a hard-fought game.
Then reality crashed back in, and my stomach dropped.
I’m coming out today.
I grabbed my tablet from the nightstand, needing the distraction of game coverage to ground myself before the anxiety could spiral. The NHL app loaded with highlights from last night’s game against Anaheim, and I let myself get lost in the familiar ritual of reviewing our performance.
Stormhawks Edge Anaheim 3–2 in OT, Lapierre Continues Strong Start
The headline made something tighten in my gut. I clicked through to the article and scanned the praise for our team’s resilience, the analysis of key plays, the quotes from Coach Roberts about our growing chemistry.
My assist had tied the game with four minutes left in the third period—a simple play, really.
I’d won a board battle, threaded a pass through traffic to Holloway, and he’d buried it glove side.
The replay showed the celebration: Williams mobbing me, Holloway and Laasko crashing into us, the bench erupting.
This is what I’m risking. This success. This validation. This proof that I’m still elite.
I scrolled through more coverage. Local sports blogs gushed about the Stormhawks’ 2-0-0 start. National analysts noted that the expansion team looked more cohesive than expected. Social media was full of fans celebrating, sharing highlights, praising the team’s effort.
My phone showed dozens of text messages from last night that I’d been too exhausted to read. Messages from friends and former teammates who thought they knew me. Who had no idea that in a few hours, everything they believed about me would shift fundamentally.
I opened social media. Cory Boucher’s account sat at the top of my feed—conspicuously silent after our win. No sarcastic comments. No backhanded compliments. Nothing.
He’s got nothing to say when we win. Can’t diminish success when it’s undeniable.
But Wesley’s texts more than made up for Boucher’s silence:
10:47 p.m.
Wesley
That assist was gorgeous. Perfect read, perfect execution.
10:52 p.m.
Wesley
You played with so much confidence tonight. Knowing what’s coming tomorrow and still performing like that—that’s strength.
11:32 p.m.
Wesley
I’m so proud of you. Sleep well. Tomorrow we change everything.
I’d responded with simple thanks last night, too wrung out emotionally and physically to say more. But his words had given me something to hold on to—the reminder that I wasn’t doing this alone, that someone believed in me even when I struggled to believe in myself.
I watched the overtime winner on repeat—Holloway’s shot from the point, the way our entire bench erupted when the red light flashed. Two games, two wins. The kind of start that validated everything we’d been building since training camp.
I’m making this choice from a position of strength. Not running from failure. Not using coming out as an excuse for struggling. I was choosing truth while succeeding.
The distinction mattered. No one could question my value and competence. I needed to remember that when making my announcement in a few hours. Coming out wouldn’t affect my sense of self-worth.
I’d played well last night despite knowing what was coming today. Had maintained focus, executed plays, led my teammates—all while carrying the weight of my impending coming out. That meant something. Proved something.
If I can perform under that kind of pressure, I can handle whatever comes next.
I set down my tablet and moved through my morning routine on autopilot—shower, coffee, protein shake I forced myself to drink despite my stomach’s protest. The clock on my microwave read seven forty-five. Morning skate at nine. Team meeting after. Press conference at four.
Mere hours until I became the first player to come out as gay.
You can do this. You’ve prepared. Wesley helped you find your voice. Davidson supports you. You’re ready.
But my hands still shook as I packed my gear bag.
The facility’s parking lot was filling up when I arrived at eight thirty, players trickling in for morning skate with the easy energy that came from winning. I grabbed my bag from the trunk, headed inside, and nodded to Jerry, who greeted me with his usual, “Morning, Captain.”
Last time he’ll see me as just “Captain.” Next time, I’ll be “that gay captain” in his head, whether or not he says it.
The locker room buzzed with the usual pre-practice chatter—chirping about last night’s game, Sunday plans, the upcoming game against Carolina. I changed into my practice gear without thinking, my mind already jumping ahead to the meeting Coach Roberts would call after we skated.
“Sleep well, Cap?” Holloway dropped onto the bench beside me, half dressed.
“Well enough.” The lie came easily, practiced. “You?”
“Like a baby. Nothing like winning to make you sleep soundly.” Holloway grinned, then his expression turned more serious. “You good? You seem off.”
“Just thinking about today.” Not a lie, though Holloway didn’t know what today actually meant. “Big week ahead.”
“We’ve got this. Team’s clicking. Chemistry’s there.” Holloway stood, stretched. “Two, and oh, Lapierre. Keep this up and we might actually surprise some people this season.”
People would be surprised, all right.
Morning skate was light—recovery work after last night’s overtime, skating drills, power play adjustments. Coach Roberts kept it short, let us work up a light sweat without grinding us down. The energy was good, positive, exactly what a winning team should feel like.
I tried to be present, to focus on the drills and the skating and the familiar rhythm of practice. But my mind kept drifting ahead to the locker room meeting, to the words I’d have to say, to the reactions I’d face.
Some will support you. Some won’t. But you’re doing this, regardless.
“All right, bring it in!” Coach Roberts called as we finished the final drill. “Quick meeting in the locker room before you head out. Five minutes.”
The team skated off the ice in small groups, the usual post-practice chatter filling the air. I followed behind, my heart rate climbing despite the light workout.
In the locker room, players settled onto benches, some still in full gear, others already peeling off equipment. The mood was relaxed, casual—guys expecting a quick pep talk before heading home to rest before tomorrow’s practice.
Coach Roberts stood in the center of the room, his expression serious but not grim. He let the noise settle naturally, then cleared his throat.
“Before you all scatter—Lapierre needs to say something. Team meeting. Everyone stays.”
The room quieted immediately, attention shifting to me. I stood from the bench in front of my stall, my legs steadier than I’d expected despite the adrenaline flooding my system.
Over twenty faces turned toward me. My teammates. The men I’d been leading for the past month, the players who trusted me to guide them through an expansion season’s challenges, the guys who celebrated with me after wins and looked to me for direction after losses.
They thought they knew me. In a few minutes, they’d realize they didn’t. Not completely.
“I need to tell you something before you hear it anywhere else.” My voice came out stronger than I felt, the captain’s authority I’d perfected over sixteen years holding steady.
“There’s a press conference this afternoon at four.
I’m going to be making an announcement that’s going to generate a lot of media attention. ”
Confused looks exchanged across the room. Holloway’s brow furrowed. Laasko tilted his head, waiting.
I took a breath—deep, steadying, the kind that comes before a faceoff in overtime—and said the words that would change everything.
“I’m gay.”
The silence that followed felt like falling through ice into freezing water—shocking, disorienting, absolute. Over twenty pairs of eyes stared at me, processing, trying to reconcile what I’d just said with everything they thought they knew about their captain.
I forced myself to continue, to push through the vulnerability and keep going. “I’ve hidden it my entire career because I was afraid of what it would mean for my future, for my value to teams, for my ability to lead.”
Still silence. Still staring. Some faces showed shock, some confusion, some careful neutrality.
“I know this might be unexpected.” My hands clenched at my sides, the only outward sign of my nerves.
“I know some of you might have questions or concerns. But I need you to understand—this doesn’t change who I am as your captain.
Doesn’t change my commitment to this team or my ability to lead.
I’m the same player I was yesterday. I’m just being honest about something I’ve hidden. ”
Martin, one of our young forwards, nodded slightly. Small gesture, but I caught it.
“I’m terrified,” I admitted, letting the vulnerability show.
“I don’t know how you’ll react, how fans will respond, what this means for my career.
But I know I can’t keep hiding who I am.
I’m coming out this afternoon at a press conference, and I wanted you to hear it from me first. You’re my team.
You deserve the truth before the media gets it. ”
The silence stretched for another beat. Then Holloway stood, his expression serious but not hostile.