Chapter 32
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Marco
Monday morning practice was optional, but I went anyway. I needed to move, needed to do something with the nervous energy that had been building since yesterday’s team meeting.
The locker room felt different.
Not unwelcoming, exactly. Just… aware. Like everyone was hyperconscious of étienne and me in a way they hadn’t been before. Some guys were overly casual—Harris making a point to joke around like nothing had changed. Others were going through their routines without looking at us directly.
And Boucher was ice.
He’d arrived early and was already dressed in his practice gear when I walked in. Our eyes met for a brief second across the room. His expression was flat, cold, completely closed off. Then he looked away like I wasn’t there.
Like I’d ceased to exist.
étienne walked in from the weight room ten minutes later, and I felt the shift in the room. Subtle, but there. A few guys glanced up, went back to their business. Kinnunen nodded at us from his stall. Jensen called out a greeting that sounded aggressively normal.
étienne came straight to my stall and dropped onto the bench beside me, like he always did.
“Hi,” he said quietly.
“Hi.”
I pulled out my stick tape and started wrapping the blade. The familiar motion helped settle my hands, gave me something to focus on besides the weight of everyone’s awareness.
“How are you doing?” étienne asked, his voice low enough that only I could hear.
“Fine.”
“Marco.”
I glanced at him. His eyes searched my face and read me the way they always did.
“I’m nervous about tonight,” I admitted. “About playing with everyone knowing. About—” I jerked my chin toward where Boucher was lacing his skates, pointedly not looking our direction. “About that.”
“Yeah.” étienne’s jaw tightened. “Me too.”
Kinnunen wandered over, settling onto the bench beside us. “Boucher’s going to make it difficult,” he said quietly. “Just warning you. He was pissed after yesterday’s meeting. Harris overheard him and Coach talking in Coach’s office.”
“What did they say?”
“Coach shut him down. Told him to keep his personal feelings out of the locker room and focus on hockey. But…” Kinnunen shrugged. “He’s not happy. And he’s captain. He can make things uncomfortable without saying a word.”
“Great,” étienne muttered.
“Just focus on your game,” Kinnunen said. “Play like you always do. That’s all you can control.”
“Or better than I have,” étienne joked. But it didn’t make the knot in my stomach loosen.
I watched étienne during the drills, tracked his movements across the ice. He was playing right wing as usual, practicing with his line. Boucher centered that line.
And Boucher wouldn’t even look at him.
This was going to be a long game.
By the time we gathered in the locker room that evening for the Winnipeg game, my nerves were stretched tight.
I went through my usual routine—shin pads, shoulder pads, each piece of equipment in the proper order. étienne taped his stick at my stall, the ritual so familiar it should have been comforting.
Instead, it felt charged. Like everyone was watching us, measuring us, waiting to see if we’d changed now that they knew.
Coach Wilson walked in as we were finishing getting dressed. “Listen up.”
The room quieted.
“Tonight’s an important game. Winnipeg’s playing well.
They’re hungry. We need to be sharp, focused, disciplined.
” His eyes swept the room, landing briefly on étienne and me, then moving on.
“I don’t care what’s happening off the ice.
On the ice, we’re a team. We play for each other. We support each other. That clear?”
A chorus of agreement.
“Boucher, anything to add?”
Boucher stood, his captain’s presence commanding the room. “Yeah. Let’s focus on hockey. That’s what we’re here for. That’s what matters.”
His eyes didn’t even flicker toward étienne or me.
The message was clear: you don’t matter. You’re not worth acknowledging.
We took the ice for warm-ups, and I tried to shake off the tension. This was just another game. I’d played hundreds of them in the NHL. Thousands, counting juniors and college.
But as we lined up for the US and Canadian national anthems, I was hyperaware of everything.
Of étienne standing with his line at center ice.
Of Boucher beside him, deliberately leaving space between them.
Of Kinnunen on my right, close enough that our shoulders almost touched—a small gesture of solidarity.
The puck dropped, and the game began.
The first period was rough.
I could see it happening from my position on the blue line—could see Boucher icing étienne out. In theory, they should have been working together, creating plays, supporting each other.
Instead, Boucher played like étienne wasn’t there.
Five minutes in, étienne broke free down the right side, wide open for a pass. Boucher had the puck in the neutral zone, could have fed it to him for an easy entry into the offensive zone. Instead, he forced a pass to the left wing that got intercepted.
Turnover. Winnipeg rushed back the other way.
I stepped up to challenge their forward at the blue line, forced him wide, and Kinnunen swept in to clear the puck.
“Nice,” Kinnunen said as we skated back.
But I watched étienne and saw the frustration in the set of his shoulders as he headed to the bench for a line change.
It happened again six minutes later. étienne positioned perfectly in the slot, stick ready. Boucher had the puck behind the net and could have sent it to him for a one-timer. Instead, he tried to force it through two defenders to Jensen.
Blocked. Cleared. Another wasted opportunity.
On the bench, I ended up sitting between Kinnunen and Harris. They’d made room for me, a deliberate choice. On étienne’s shifts, Jensen sat beside him. Small gestures, but they mattered.
“Boucher’s playing like shit,” Harris muttered during a TV timeout.
“He’s playing angry,” Kinnunen said quietly. “Not smart.”
I didn’t say anything. Just watched as Boucher skated past the bench without looking at any of us.
Despite the tension, we managed to stay competitive. Belov made some brilliant saves. I broke up a two-on-one with a well-timed poke check. We went into the first intermission tied 1–1.
In the locker room, Coach addressed the team. “We’re playing disconnected out there. Passing lanes are getting clogged because we’re not reading each other. Boucher, you need to use your wingers. Both of them. That’s what they’re there for.”
Boucher’s jaw tightened, but he nodded.
It didn’t help.
The second period was more of the same.
étienne played well—skated hard, positioned himself correctly, and created opportunities. But Boucher wouldn’t feed him the puck. Wouldn’t even look at him.
It was sabotage. Subtle enough that maybe the average fan wouldn’t notice, but everyone on the bench could see it. Everyone on the ice could feel it.
Winnipeg scored first, taking a 2–1 lead. Then we answered back when Jensen managed to get the puck to étienne in the slot, and étienne buried it in the five-hole.
His first goal in months.
He’d needed that. God, he’d needed that so badly.
Maybe this would quiet the trade rumors. Maybe Greer would see that étienne was turning it around, that he was worth keeping.
I watched from the blue line as étienne celebrated with Jensen, the two of them crashing together in front of the net. Natural. Easy. The way it should be.
Boucher skated past them without a word.
The period ended tied: 2–2
Back in the locker room, the tension was thick. “We win as a team, or we lose as a team.” Coach’s angry gaze found the captain. “Boucher! No one player is bigger than the group. I need everyone playing for each other out there.”
Boucher’s nostrils flared and his jaw flexed as he ground his molars.
Third period. One more period to get through.
Winnipeg came out hard, pressing us. I blocked two shots in the first three minutes, felt the sting through my pads. Kinnunen was everywhere, breaking up plays.
And then, eight minutes into the period, we got a break.
Kinnunen intercepted a pass at our blue line, sent it up to étienne. He carried it into the neutral zone, saw Jensen breaking down the left side with speed.
He fed him the puck perfectly.
Jensen took it in stride, cut toward the net, and roofed it over the goalie’s shoulder. The lamp lit and the goal horn sounded.
3–2.
étienne had a goal and an assist. Two points.
My chest tightened with pride and relief—he was really doing it.
His game was turning around. The arena erupted, the goal music blasted from enormous speakers, and the energy surged through me.
Jensen reached étienne first, then Kinnunen, then I skated in—I crashed into the group, into him, just another teammate celebrating a crucial goal.
The contact lasted seconds, our helmets knocking together, his arm briefly across my shoulders before we broke apart.
No one would read anything into it. But I felt the warmth of him even through all the padding.
Boucher skated to center ice for the faceoff without celebrating.
Without even acknowledging the goal.
We held on. Barely. Winnipeg pulled their goalie with two minutes left, and the final minutes were chaos—bodies everywhere, desperation plays, blocked shots.
Without thinking, without hesitating, I threw myself in front of a one-timer that would have tied it.
The puck slammed into my shin pad hard enough to make my eyes water.
But it stayed out.
The final horn sounded: 3–2. We’d won.
Relief flooded through me as we lined up to congratulate Belov. We’d done it. We’d played with the team knowing, with Boucher actively working against us, and we’d still won.
The energy was celebratory in the locker room but muted. Guys were happy about the win, but the elephant in the room—Boucher’s behavior—hung heavy over everything.
Coach called Boucher into his office before anyone had finished undressing. The door closed, but we could hear raised voices. Not the words, just the tone.
Boucher was getting torn apart.
“About time,” Harris muttered, unlacing his skates at his stall.
Kinnunen glanced around the locker room—guys pretending not to listen. “Wonder how much longer he’s going to be captain.”
The question landed like a stone in water, ripples spreading through the room.
Harris paused in unlacing his skates and looked up. “Good question.”
No one disagreed.
On Tuesday, Coach pulled us aside after practice. “You guys still planning to go public this afternoon?”
“Yes,” I said.
He nodded. “PR team is ready. Security’s been briefed for tomorrow’s game. We’ve got your backs.”
“Thank you, Coach.”
“Don’t thank me. Just keep playing the way you played last night. That’s all I ask.”
Kinnunen caught us in the parking lot as we were leaving. “Today’s the day?”
“This afternoon,” étienne confirmed.
“Alyssa and I will be waiting. We’ll post support as soon as we see it.” He gripped both our shoulders. “You’ve got this.”
“I hope so,” I said.
“You do. Trust me.”
The drive home was quiet. étienne’s hand found mine across the console, held tight.
At home, we tried to distract ourselves. Made lunch. Played a video game. Pretended we weren’t counting down the hours.
At two, my phone rang. Wesley.
“Hey,” I answered, putting it on speaker so étienne could hear.
“Hey. Just wanted to check in. You guys still going through with this?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Have you finalized the photo and post?”
“Yeah.” étienne pulled out his phone and texted the photo to Wesley. A pic we’d taken last week in front of the Christmas tree—cheek-to-cheek, smiling into the camera. Happy. Real. Us.
“Perfect. And the statement?”
“It’s just a caption, really.” I read it aloud. “We’re in love. Grateful for the support of our team, our organization, and everyone standing with us.”
“Mine is the same,” étienne said.
“That’s good. Simple but effective.” Wesley’s voice was warm. “You’re going to post at three, to coincide with the news cycle?”
“That’s the plan.”
“Okay. Griffin and I will be ready to post our support immediately. But one more thing—and this is important. Don’t read the comments after you post.”
I blinked. “What?”
“Don’t read them,” he repeated. “Some will be supportive. A lot will be, actually. But some will be cruel. Vicious. People will say things designed to hurt you, to make you question your decision.” He paused.
“You don’t need to see that. Not right after coming out. Not when you’re already vulnerable.”
“Thanks, Wesley.”
At 2:45, étienne’s phone buzzed with a text from Griffin.
Griffin
Ready when you are. We’re with you.
At 2:50, my phone chimed. Gia.
Gia
I love you. So proud of you. Post when you’re ready. I’ll be here.
At 2:55, we sat on the couch, phones in hand. The drafts were ready.
All we had to do was hit post.
“Ready?” étienne asked.
“Two minutes. We post at the same time.”
“Okay.”
I opened social media and pulled up the draft. The photo stared back at me—us, happy, in love, real. The caption sat beside it, simple and honest.
This was it.
This was the moment where everything changed.
My thumb hovered over the button.
One tap and everyone would know. Family, friends, fans, strangers. Everyone.
Beside me, étienne’s finger was poised over his own screen.
I looked at the clock on my phone: 2:59. Then 3:00.
We tapped simultaneously.