Chapter 22 #2
“Because I get it if they are. That shit’s brutal—seeing your name all over social media, hearing speculation about where you’re going, wondering if every bad game is the one that seals it.
” He paused. “But you’ve been different lately.
Always on your phone. Smiling at nothing.
Then looking worried. It’s like you’re two different people depending on the day. ”
My heart started racing. “I’m fine.”
“I didn’t say you weren’t fine. I said something’s up.” He met my eyes. “So, is it just the trade talk? Or is there something else going on?”
Shit. He wasn’t going to let this go.
“It’s complicated,” I said finally.
“Most things worth worrying about are.” He met my eyes. “Look, I’m not asking you to tell me what it is. But I want you to know—whatever it is, you can tell me. If you want to.”
I wanted to. Bon Dieu, I wanted to, so badly.
Wanted to have someone I could talk to about this who I didn’t want to kiss every time it came up. Someone else who knew how terrified and liberated and confused I was.
But telling him felt dangerous. Not because I thought he’d react badly—Kinnunen was a good guy, accepting, the kind of person who wouldn’t care.
But because if I told him, it might put Marco’s secret at risk.
“I appreciate that,” I said carefully. “Really. But I’m okay. Just… working through some stuff.”
“Personal stuff?”
“Yeah.”
“Does it have to do with Morelli?”
The question hit like a punch. “Why would you ask that?”
“Because you’ve been living together for over a month.
You left a game for him. You’re texting constantly, and I’d bet money it’s him you’re texting.
” Kinnunen’s expression was gentle. “And because you get this look on your face when someone mentions him. Like he matters more than you want anyone to know.”
Merde. If Kinnunen had noticed, who else had?
“We’re friends,” I said. “Good friends. That’s all.”
“Okay.” He didn’t sound convinced. “But if there’s something you need to talk about—I’m here. No judgment. Just support.”
The offer sat between us, tempting and terrifying.
“Thank you,” I said. “That means a lot.”
He nodded and changed the subject, talking about the upcoming game against Tampa, about normal hockey things, about his plans for Thanksgiving. “You should come. Morelli too.”
I hummed noncommittally, but after he left, I lay in bed thinking about what he’d said.
“Whatever it is, you can tell me.”
Could I? Should I?
I pulled out my phone and texted Marco.
étienne
I want to tell Kinnunen.
The response took a few minutes.
Marco
Tell him what?
étienne
That I’m bi. Not about us—that’s your decision. Just about me. About who I am.
Marco
Why?
étienne
Because I need someone to know. Someone I can talk to. Someone who isn’t you.
Marco
What if he tells someone?
étienne
He won’t.
Marco
You don’t know that.
étienne
I trust him.
Marco
If he tells the wrong person. If it gets back to Boucher… And what about management?
étienne
I know the risks. But I can’t keep this inside. It’s suffocating.
There was a long pause before his response came.
Marco
I understand. I do. But I’m scared. If this gets out, if people know…
étienne
It won’t be about you. I won’t mention us. Just me.
Marco
People will make assumptions
étienne
Let them. I just need one other person to know the truth.
Another long pause.
Marco
I can’t tell you not to. It’s your decision. Your truth. But please be careful. Please think about what it means if this gets out.
étienne
I will. I promise.
Marco
Okay. I trust you.
But I could feel his fear through the text. Could sense his panic at the idea of our secret spreading, even tangentially.
And I understood. He’d been hiding from his family for seventeen years. The thought of exposure—even indirect exposure—must have been terrifying.
I wasn’t going to tell Kinnunen. Not yet. Not while Marco was that scared.
But putain, I wanted to.
Saturday was a day off after practice. Most of the guys went out, explored Miami, or found bars and restaurants. I stayed in my hotel room and texted Marco.
We talked about his workouts and PT. Taking a lap around the block with his knee scooter. A visit from Belov’s and Kinnunen’s wives, baby in tow. My frustration with hiding. His guilt that kept surging up. My father’s inability to accept me.
étienne
I wish you were here. With me. Playing.
Marco
Me too. But you’ll be home in a few days, and I’ll be back on the ice in weeks.
étienne
Not soon enough.
When I went down to the lobby for a latte, I saw my right winger and rookie phenom, Tyler Jensen, video chatting with someone. His girlfriend, probably.
He was laughing, completely unselfconscious. Said “I love you” loud enough for anyone to hear. Blew a kiss at the screen.
My chest ached.
I went back to my room without getting coffee and stared at my phone. At the texts from Marco. At all the things we could only say through typing, never out loud where someone might hear.
What would it be like to video call him openly? To say “I love you” without fear? To talk about our relationship the way Jensen talked about his girlfriend?
I couldn’t imagine it. The fear was too ingrained, the risk too high.
Later that night, lying in bed, I thought about what my life looked like.
Hiding who I was from everyone except Marco. Checking over my shoulder before every text. Never mentioning him to teammates beyond “my roommate.” Pretending the most important person in my life was just a friend.
How long could I keep doing this?
Not forever. I knew that much. The secrecy was already wearing on me, making me feel fractured and false.
But I also wasn’t ready to stop. Wasn’t brave enough to face the consequences of honesty.
Griffin Lapierre had done it. Had come out publicly, faced the scrutiny, survived.
But Griffin was the captain in Portland now, not Colorado. Didn’t have Cory Boucher as his captain. Had Wesley Hutton by his side, someone who understood.
I had Marco, who was terrified of exposure. Who had seventeen years of hiding backing his fear and couldn’t risk his family finding out.
Coming out would put him at risk too, even if I didn’t mention our relationship. People would speculate, and sometimes perception was all it took.
I couldn’t do that to him.
So, I’d keep hiding, for Marco’s sake. Keep checking over my shoulder. Keep pretending.
Even though it was killing me slowly.
Monday’s game against Tampa was a win for the team. For me, it was almost a decent game—the closest I’d come to playing like myself in weeks. Not enough yet to make anyone forget the trade rumors, but something.
Portland was playing there the next night—a back-to-back scheduling quirk that had us both in the same city. I’d seen some of the Stormhawks players in the hotel lobby, including Griffin Lapierre.
He’d smiled and nodded. Just a casual acknowledgment between former teammates.
But I’d found myself watching him. This person who’d been brave enough to live openly. Who’d chosen honesty over safety.
Could I ever be that brave? Could I risk destroying Marco’s relationship with his family and losing the only person I had left in mine?
Tuesday afternoon, the plane landed in Denver.
I powered on my phone as we taxied to the gate. Watched it search for signal, then light up with notifications.
I ignored everything except the text app.
étienne
Landed. On my way home. Thirty minutes.
Marco
Hurry