Chapter 31 #2
I looked at Marco. He looked back at me. We’d agreed he’d start. He wanted to be the one to say it first, after seventeen years of hiding.
“Coach. Mr. Greer.” Marco’s voice was steady. “We wanted to tell you something before we tell the team. Before it becomes public.”
“Okay,” Greer said, leaning back in his chair. “We’re listening.”
Marco took a breath. “étienne and I are in a relationship. And we’re planning to come out publicly on Tuesday.”
Silence.
Coach Wilson’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes flickered.
Greer sat forward. “And you’re sure about this?” Greer’s tone wasn’t hostile, just cautious. “About going public?”
“Yes,” Marco said firmly. “We’ve been hiding long enough. We’re done.”
Coach Wilson ran a hand over his face. “Okay. First things first—thank you for telling us directly. That matters. Shows respect for the organization.”
“Second, your personal lives are your own business,” Greer said. “As long as it stays that way. But if this affects your performance on the ice, if it becomes a distraction that costs us games, then it becomes my business. Understood?”
I took a breath and chose my words carefully.
“Mr. Greer, I understand what you’re saying.
But with respect, some things aren’t in our control.
We can control our preparation, our focus, our effort.
But we can’t control whether reporters camp outside the arena.
We can’t control what our teammates say or do in the locker room.
We can’t control social media or what people post about us. ”
Marco leaned forward slightly. “When other players get married or have kids, there’s media attention. Sometimes it’s a distraction. But those players aren’t judged on the distraction—they’re judged on their play. We’re asking for the same standard.”
Greer studied us both. “Fair point. And I’ll take it into account. But my job is to put the best team on the ice and win games. If this situation hurts the team’s ability to do that, I have to act. That’s not personal. It’s business.”
Greer’s eyes held mine for a beat longer, making sure the message landed.
“Understood, sir,” I said. “If I can be frank, I believe this will improve my performance. I know I’ve been underplaying. I know you’re in talks to trade me. But once this is out there and off my mind, I’ll be better. Please, just give me a little more time to prove myself.”
Greer consider it for a moment before replying, “Okay, but I’ll have my eye on you. Now, we need to prepare. Media strategy, security protocols, PR response. This is going to be a circus, especially at first. The team needs to be ready. You need to be ready.”
“We know,” Marco said. “That’s why we want to tell the team today. After practice. We want them to hear it from us directly, before it becomes public.”
Greer nodded. “That’s the right call. When exactly are you going public?”
“Tuesday afternoon,” I said. “We’ll post on social media—joint statement, same photo on both our accounts.”
“New Year’s Eve game the next day,” Coach said, thinking it through. “First game as an openly out couple. That’s going to be intense.”
“We know,” Marco said again.
“All right.” Greer stood and started pacing.
“Here’s what we’re going to do. I’ll notify the league and the owners.
The league has shown their support of Lapierre, so it shouldn’t be a problem.
The owners… let’s just say I’ll handle them.
And I’ll get our PR team looped in immediately.
They’ll prepare a statement of support from the organization.
We’ll increase security at the arena starting on Wednesday.
Media protocols—we’ll discuss how much access you’re comfortable with. ”
“And the team,” Coach said. “If anyone has an issue, they deal with me.”
“Some of them will have issues,” Marco said quietly.
“Probably,” Coach agreed. “But they’ll keep it professional, or they’ll answer to me. Or to HR, if it comes to that. This is still a team. We support our own.”
Marco and I exchanged a glance and a head tilt.
“Are you worried about anyone specifically?” Greer asked.
“Boucher,” I said. “He’s made some comments. He’s not going to be happy about this.”
Coach’s jaw tightened. “I’ll take care of Boucher. He doesn’t have to be happy. He just has to be professional. Anyone else?”
“We don’t know,” Marco admitted. “We think most guys will be okay. Some will be uncomfortable. But we can’t predict everyone.”
“That’s fair.” Greer returned to his seat. “Look, I’m not going to lie to you. The media attention, the scrutiny, the public reaction—it’s going to test us all. But from an organizational standpoint, we support you.”
“We’ll protect you as much as we can,” Coach added. “But you need to be prepared for this to get ugly. Threats. Trolls. Protesters at the arena.”
“We know,” I said, though hearing it stated so bluntly made my stomach drop. “We’ve talked to Griffin and Wesley Hutton. They’ve been helping us prepare.”
“Good.” Coach nodded. “They know what this is like. Lean on them. And lean on us. My door is always open. To both of you.”
We talked logistics for another twenty minutes. By the time we stood to leave, it was 8:45. Players would start arriving soon for the 9:30 practice.
At the door, Coach stopped us.
“For what it’s worth,” he said, “I think you’re doing the right thing. It takes guts to live honestly. I respected Lapierre when he came out. I respect you.”
“Thank you, Coach,” Marco said quietly.
We stepped into the hallway, and I felt like I could breathe again for the first time in an hour.
“Well, at least I didn’t get traded right away,” I said as we entered the locker room.
Practice was torture.
I couldn’t focus. During every drill, every sequence, my mind was on what came after. On standing in front of the whole team and telling them. On seeing their reactions. On facing Boucher.
Marco was the same—I could see it in the way he moved, slightly off, distracted. We ran a defensive drill together and our timing was wrong, our communication off.
“Let’s go again,” Coach called. “You two know this better than anyone. Focus.”
We focused. Or tried to. But it was impossible to think about gap control and stick positioning when in thirty minutes I’d be standing in front of twenty men telling them I was in love with Marco.
Practice ended at eleven. Coach blew his whistle.
“Team meeting in ten minutes. Locker room. Everyone. Including coaching staff.”
A few groans—Sunday team meetings were unusual, typically meant for serious talks about performance or issues. Players started skating toward the tunnel, speculating about what Coach wanted.
Marco and I skated off last. Kinnunen fell into long strides beside us.
“You guys okay?” he asked quietly.
“Ask me in an hour,” I said.
“You’ll do great. I’ll be right there.”
In the locker room, guys were stripping off gear, guzzling water, settling onto benches. The energy was curious but not tense—just another team meeting.
I sat at Marco’s stall, like I always did. He sat beside me, unlacing his skates with mechanical precision.
“You ready?” I asked quietly.
“No. You?”
“No.”
Kinnunen took his usual spot a few stalls down, but his eyes were on us. Supportive. Steady.
Coach Wilson walked in, and the room quieted.
“Listen up,” he said. “Morelli and Savard have something they want to tell you. Something important. I want everyone to listen respectfully, and we’ll talk after.”
Every eye in the room turned to us.
My heart was pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears.
Marco stood. I stood beside him.
We’d talked about this last night—about what we’d say, how we’d say it. Keep it simple. Direct. Honest.
Marco cleared his throat. “Thanks for listening. This isn’t easy to say, but you deserve to hear it directly from us.”
The room was completely silent.
“Most of you know étienne has been living with me since the fire at his apartment and helping me recover from my foot injury. During that time, our friendship became something more. We fell in love. We’re going public with this on Tuesday, and we wanted you to know first. From us. Not from social media or the news.”
I watched the reactions ripple through the room.
Jensen’s eyebrows shot up—surprise, but his expression wasn’t hostile. Harris looked startled. Reid blinked, processing. A few guys shifted uncomfortably.
Boucher’s eyes were cold. Calculating. I’d been right—he’d suspected. And now he knew.
“We know this might be uncomfortable for some of you,” I added, finding my voice. “But we’re still the same players we’ve always been. We’re still professionals.”
“And we’re asking for your professionalism, if not your support,” Marco said, “as we navigate this.”
More silence. Then Jensen raised his hand slightly, like he was in class.
“Yeah, Jensen?” Coach Wilson said.
“I just want to say—” Jensen glanced back and forth between us. “That’s dope. Thanks for trusting us with this.”
My muscles loosened a bit. I could breathe.
“Anyone else?” Coach asked.
Kinnunen spoke up. “They already told Alyssa and me earlier this week. We support them completely. And I think we should all remember—they’re our teammates. That’s what matters.”
A few nods around the room.
Then Boucher stood. My stomach dropped.
“I have a question,” he said, his voice cold and level.
“Go ahead,” Coach Wilson said, though his tone carried a warning.
Boucher looked directly at Marco “How are we supposed to know this isn’t some PR stunt? Or worse—how are we supposed to trust them in the locker room now? Knowing they’re—”
“That’s enough.” Coach snapped. “Morelli and Savard’s relationship is not up for debate and is none of your business They’re your teammates.
They’ve been your teammates. That doesn’t change.
And if you have a problem with that, you can come talk to me privately.
But right now, in this room, we treat each other with respect, Captain. Clear?”
Boucher’s jaw tightened, but he sat down. “Clear, Coach.”
The tension in the room was thick enough to cut.
“Anyone else?” Coach looked around. “Questions? Comments? Concerns?”
Silence. Then Reid spoke up. “I mean, I don’t really care who you guys date. As long as you play well, we’re good.”
A few chuckles broke the tension.
“Thanks, Reid.” I managed a small smile.
“All right.” Coach Wilson looked around the room.
“Here’s the deal. Morelli and Savard are going public on Tuesday.
That means for Wednesday’s game, there’s going to be media.
Probably protesters. Definitely scrutiny.
We need to be ready for that. We need to have their backs.
Because that’s what teams do. We protect our own. Got it?”
A chorus of agreement rose from most of the team. Not everyone—Boucher was silent, and a few others looked uncomfortable—but enough.
“Good. Morelli, Savard—anything else you want to say?”
Marco shook his head. “Just… thank you. For your support.”
“Okay. Get out of here. Light practice in the morning. Game tomorrow night.”
The meeting broke up, players showering, dressing, and dispersing. Some clapped Marco on the shoulder as they left—quick, supportive gestures. Jensen stopped to say something encouraging. Kinnunen stayed close.
But Boucher stalked to Coach’s office without a word, his expression dark.
Harris lingered near Marco’s stall. “Hey, man. For what it’s worth, I don’t care. You guys are good players. That’s all that matters to me.”
“Thanks, Harris,” Marco said.
“Yeah. See you tomorrow.”
Eventually, it was just Marco, Kinnunen, and me in the locker room.
“Well,” Kinnunen said. “That could have gone worse.”
“Boucher,” I said.
“Coach will handle Boucher.” Kinnunen squeezed my shoulder. “You guys did great. Really.”
“Most of them seemed okay,” Marco said, though he sounded uncertain.
“Most of them are,” Kinnunen agreed. “The rest will get there. Or they won’t. Like you said, they just need to be professionals.”
We finished changing in the quiet locker room, the weight of what we’d just done settling over us.
Management knew. The team knew.
In two days, the world would know.
We drove home in silence, processing. Inside, Marco collapsed on the couch, his head in his hands.
“That was the hardest thing I’ve ever done,” he said.
“You were incredible.” I sat beside him, pulled him close. “Standing up there, telling them—Marco, you were so brave.”
“I was terrified.”
“But you did it anyway.”
We sat there for a long time, wrapped around each other, letting the adrenaline fade.
“Tomorrow, when we play Winnipeg,” Marco said quietly. “The team will be watching how we interact, how we play together. Every move will feel like a test.”
“Yeah.” I settled back against his chest. “But we’ve played together for three years. Our chemistry’s solid.”
“Our hockey chemistry, yes. But what about the rest?” He was quiet for a moment. “étienne, can we handle all the scrutiny? There’s bound to be fan blowback.”
For the first time since we’d decided to come out, I wondered if we’d made a terrible mistake.