Chapter 30
CHAPTER THIRTY
Marco
I sat in my aisle seat on the flight home Monday morning, étienne beside me in the window seat, and replayed the game in my head. Not because I wanted to—because I couldn’t stop. Every mistake, every missed assignment, every moment where my mind had been somewhere else instead of on the ice.
Boucher had been furious in the locker room after the game.
We’d lost to our former captain, “Griffin fucking Lapierre”—his words.
Boucher had barely looked at me, and I’d felt his anger radiating across the room.
Like somehow it was my fault we’d lost. Like he knew I’d spent Saturday afternoon at Griffin’s apartment instead of focusing on the game.
On Monday, the drive home from the airport was quiet. étienne kept both hands on the wheel, his jaw tight. I stared out the window, watching familiar Denver streets pass by, thinking about the calls we had to make this afternoon.
“We should eat something,” I said as we pulled up to the curb. “Before we make the calls.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Me neither. But we should eat anyway.”
We made sandwiches neither of us wanted, sat at the kitchen bar picking at them. The afternoon sun streamed through the windows, ordinary and bright, like this was just another Monday. Like we weren’t about to blow up our lives.
“Who goes first?” étienne asked quietly.
“I will.” I set down my half-eaten sandwich. “My family. Then yours.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to.” I reached across the bar, took his hand. “Get mine over with. Then I’ll be there for yours.”
He nodded, his fingers tightening around mine. “Okay.”
I pulled out my phone. “It’s just after four in New York. My mom’s probably home from her shift by now.”
I gazed at my mother’s contact photo staring back at me. A picture from two Christmases ago—her smiling, wearing the silk scarf I’d bought her, looking proud and happy.
She wasn’t going to look like that when this call ended.
“I should do this in the bedroom,” I said. “You don’t need to hear this.”
“Are you sure? I can support you.”
“I’m sure. I don’t want you hurt by what they say.” I stood, kissed the top of his head. “I’ll come find you later.”
I climbed the stairs to our bedroom, closed the door, and sat on the edge of the bed. My hands shook. I’d played in front of eighteen thousand people, handled game-winning shots, faced down forwards who towered over me. But calling my mother to tell her I was gay?
Terrified didn’t begin to cover it.
I pulled up her contact, switched to a video call, and hit the button before I could second-guess myself.
It rang three times. Then her face filled the screen—older than the Christmas photo, looking tired and still in her nurse’s scrubs, but smiling when she saw me.
“Marco! This is a surprise. Is everything okay?”
“Hi, Mama. Yeah, everything’s… I’m okay.” I swallowed. “Is Papà there?”
Her smile faded slightly. “Your father’s in the garage. Let me call him. And Gia’s here—she came over for dinner. Marco, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong. I just want to talk to all of you. Together.”
“Okay…” She called for my father, for Gia. The phone shifted and moved, and then I was looking at all three of them crowded around the kitchen table. My mother in the center, my father’s weathered face over her shoulder, Gia on the other side, looking worried.
“What’s going on, son?” my father asked. “You in some kind of trouble?”
“No. No trouble.” I took a breath. This was it. No going back. “I need to tell you something. Something I should have told you a long time ago.”
Gia’s expression shifted—understanding, support, fear. She knew. She’d known for years. But she’d never told them, had kept my secret, had waited for me to be ready.
“I’m gay,” I said. The words came out steadier than I expected. “I’ve known since I was fifteen. I’ve been hiding it my whole adult life. But I can’t hide anymore. I’m in a relationship with someone. Someone I love. And I need you to know.”
The absolute silence that followed felt endless.
My mother’s hand went to her mouth. My father’s expression went carefully blank—the way it did when he was processing something he didn’t want to deal with. Gia’s eyes were wet, but she nodded, encouraging.
“Who?” my mother asked finally, her voice barely above a whisper. “Who are you… with?”
“étienne Savard. My teammate. We’ve been living together since November. We’re together. We’re in love.”
My father stood up abruptly and walked out of frame. I heard a door slam somewhere in the house.
My mother was crying now, quiet tears streaming down her face. “Your teammate? Marco, no. No, this can’t—you’re confused. This is just—”
“I’m not confused, Mama. I’ve known who I am for seventeen years.”
“But the Church—” Her voice broke. “What you’re describing is a sin. You know that. You were raised to know that.”
“I know what the Church teaches.” My throat was tight. “But I also know who I am. And I love him. That’s not something I can change. It’s not something I want to change.”
“Have you tried?” She leaned toward the camera. “Have you prayed? Talked to Father Michael? There are programs, support groups for people struggling with—”
“I’m not struggling with anything except hiding.” The words came out harsher than I intended. “I’m done hiding, Mama. I’m done pretending to be someone I’m not.”
Gia finally spoke. “Mama, listen to him. Please. He’s still Marco. This doesn’t change who he is.”
“Did you know about this?” My mother turned to look at her.
“For years,” Gia said quietly. “And I’ve watched him suffer. I’m glad he’s finally being honest.”
“Glad?” My mother’s voice rose. “You’re glad your brother is choosing to live in sin? To throw away everything we taught him?”
“I’m glad he’s choosing to be happy!” Gia’s voice matched hers. “I’m glad he found someone who loves him. That matters more than—”
“Don’t.” My mother held up a hand. “Don’t tell me what matters. I know what matters. Salvation matters. His soul matters.”
“My happiness matters too,” I said quietly.
She looked back at the camera, and the devastation on her face nearly broke me. “I raised you better than this, Marco. I raised you to know right from wrong. To follow God’s word. And now you’re telling me you’re choosing this… this lifestyle over your faith?”
“I’m choosing honesty over pretending. I’m choosing love over fear. And I’m choosing to tell you now because I’m going public with this next week. Management will know. The team will know. The media will know. Everyone will know. And I wanted you to hear it from me first.”
“After Christmas?” She went pale. “Marco, you can’t. The family, the parish, everyone will—”
“Everyone will know I’m gay. Yes. That’s the point.”
“Your father—” She glanced toward wherever he’d gone. “He was counting on a grandson to carry on the Morelli name. This is going to kill him.”
“Then I guess he’ll have to decide if he loves his son more than he hates who I am.”
The words came out colder than I meant them, but I was too raw to take them back.
Gia reached over, squeezed my mother’s shoulder. “Mama. Please. Just… take some time. Think about it. But don’t lose him over it. Please.”
My mother was crying harder now, her hands shaking. “I need to think. I need to pray. I can’t… Marco, I can’t do this right now.”
“Okay.” My voice was barely steady. “Take your time. But Mama—I love you. That hasn’t changed. And I hope eventually you can accept this. Accept me.”
“I need to go.” She reached for the phone.
“Mama, wait—”
The call ended.
I sat there staring at the blank screen, my hands trembling, my gut churning. That was it. I’d told them. And it had gone as badly as I’d feared.
My phone buzzed. A text from Gia.
Gia
I’m so proud of you. Give her time. I’ll work on them. I love you.
I typed back with shaking fingers.
Marco
Thank you. For everything. Love you too.
I set the phone down, dropped my head into my hands, and let myself break for a moment. Just one moment. Then I had to pull myself together because étienne still had to make his call, and it was going to be worse.
So much worse.
I found étienne in the living room, sitting on the couch with his phone in his hands. He looked up when I came down the stairs, his eyes searching my face.
“How bad?” he asked quietly.
“Bad.” I sat beside him. “My mom cried. She said I’m choosing sin over faith. Asked if I’d tried praying it away. My father walked out.”
“Jesus.” He reached for my hand. “I’m sorry.”
“Gia was great, though. She’s going to work on them.” I pulled him closer. “Are you ready?”
“No.” He laughed, but it was hollow. “But I’m doing it anyway.”
“Do you want me to stay? Or give you privacy?”
“Privacy. At first.” He stood, squared his shoulders. “I’ll call from the kitchen. But if it gets… if I need you, I’ll…”
“I’ll be right here.”
He nodded, kissed me quickly, then walked to the kitchen. I heard him take a deep breath. Then the sound of a call connecting.
“Papa?” étienne’s voice carried from the kitchen, speaking English. “Do you have a minute? I need to talk to you about something.”
I couldn’t hear his father’s response, but I heard the tone—gruff, impatient.
étienne continued in French, his voice steady at first. I caught my own name and a few words I recognized. “Bisexual,” in English. “Ensemble.” Together. “Amoureux.” In love.
Then Philippe’s voice exploded from the phone, loud enough that I could hear every word, even from the living room. Angry, harsh syllables that needed no translation.
étienne’s voice rose to match. “Papa, s’il te pla?t—”
More shouting from his father. I heard “dégo?tant.” Disgusting. “Honte.” Shame.
I stood without thinking, moving toward the kitchen. étienne was leaning against the counter, the phone pressed to his ear, his face pale and his eyes bright with unshed tears.
“Ce n’est pas une phase,” étienne said, his voice shaking. “C’est qui je suis. I’m bisexual. And I love him.”
Philippe’s response was colder now. In English. I caught fragments—
“Not my son…”