Chapter 34
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
étienne
The protesters were already there when we arrived at the arena.
Maybe twenty of them, clustered near the main entrance with signs.
“Protect Our Children.”
“Sin Has No Place in Sports.”
“Traditional Values Matter.”
They chanted something I couldn’t quite hear from inside Marco’s car, their voices lost beneath the engine noise.
But there were more people with rainbow flags.
So many more.
Families with kids. Teenagers in Pride shirts. Adults holding signs that said, “Love Wins,” and “You’re Our Heroes,” and “Thank You for Your Courage.” They lined the street on both sides, a corridor of support that tightened my throat.
“There’s got to be a hundred people out there,” Marco said quietly, staring through the windshield. “Maybe more.”
“They’re here for us.”
“Yeah.” His hand found mine across the console and squeezed tight. “Ready?”
“No. But let’s do it anyway.”
We grabbed our duffels and headed for the players’ entrance. Security was heavy—four guards instead of the usual one, all of them watching the crowd carefully. But the protesters stayed on their side of the barricade, and the supporters—
They cheered when they saw us.
Actually cheered. Kids waving rainbow flags, parents holding up phones to take pictures, people calling our names.
A weight lifted from my chest.
We’d done this. We’d come out, faced the backlash, and these people had shown up to support us. Strangers who didn’t know us except through hockey and social media posts.
“Thank you,” I said through a tight throat to the girl with the sign. She beamed.
Inside the arena, I noticed the staff first. The equipment guys who normally just did their jobs with quiet efficiency were paying attention now—watching us with something like concern, like they were ready to step in if anyone gave us shit.
One of the trainers patted my shoulder as I passed.
“Proud of you guys,” he said quietly. The arena manager, who I’d spoken to maybe twice all season, made a point of telling us security was tight, that they had our backs.
“Deep breath,” Marco murmured as we headed toward the media room.
“I’m breathing.”
“You’re panicking.”
“That too.”
He squeezed my forearm briefly. “We’ve got this.”
The media room was packed—way more reporters than usual for a regular season presser. Cameras everywhere, phones recording, tablets ready. We sat at the table together, close enough that our arms almost touched, and faced the barrage of questions.
“How does it feel to be the first NHL couple?”
“Are you worried about fan reactions?”
“What do you say to people who think you shouldn’t be in the league?”
Marco handled most of it, his voice steady and calm. “We’re hockey players. We’re in love. We’re done hiding. That’s all there is to say.”
One reporter tried to ask something invasive about our relationship—objectifying us and minimizing us to what we did in bed—and another reporter cut him off. “That’s inappropriate. These are athletes, not your personal entertainment. Next question.”
I could have kissed her.
The team’s PR manager called it after fifteen minutes. “That’s all we have time for. Thank you.”
In the locker room, the atmosphere was typical of game day. Guys getting ready, taping sticks, checking gear, the usual routine. But I felt the awareness in the room, the way eyes tracked us when they thought we weren’t looking.
Kinnunen was already at his stall. He looked up when we entered, nodded in support.
I dropped my bag at Marco’s stall and sat beside him, pulling out my stick tape. The familiar ritual helped settle my nerves. Marco methodically put on his gear in the exact same order he always did.
Routine.
Boucher walked past without looking at us. He’d been like that since Sunday—present but refusing to acknowledge our existence. Coach had clearly had words with him about keeping it professional, but professional didn’t mean friendly.
I didn’t care. We didn’t need Boucher’s approval. We just needed to play.
“You guys did good at the presser. Very professional,” Kinnunen said.
“Thanks.”
“Also, that one reporter who shut down the creep? She’s my new hero.”
I laughed despite my nerves. “Mine too.”
By twelve twenty, we were in full gear, Marco had donned his jersey, and we were ready to take the ice for warm-ups. Coach gave his usual pregame talk—strategy, focus, discipline. Then he paused.
“One more thing. There’s going to be a lot of noise today. Supporters, protesters, media. Ignore all of it. The only thing that matters is what happens on the ice. We play our game. We play together. We win together. Got it?”
“Got it, Coach,” we answered in unison.
“All right. Let’s go.”
We lined up in the tunnel, and I could hear the crowd already—a rumble of voices, bass-heavy music playing over the speakers, the energy building. My heart pounded so hard I could feel it in my throat.
Marco stood ahead of me in line, his shoulders tight with tension. I reached out and touched his lower back. Right there, in front of our teammates. Because I could now.
His shoulders relaxed slightly, and he glanced back at me with a small, grateful nod. We poured onto the ice, and the sound hit me like a physical force.
Cheering. Loud, sustained, overwhelming cheering.
I skated toward our bench, taking in the crowd. Signs everywhere—some with our names, some with rainbow flags, some just saying “Love is Love” and “Love Wins.”
And yes, some boos. Some people sitting with arms crossed, faces cold. But they were drowned out by the support.
The arena was sold out. Eighteen thousand people filling every seat. Whatever concerns the front office might have had about our announcement affecting ticket sales—those were clearly unfounded.
And most of the crowd was on their feet applauding for us.
Tears pricked my eyes, and I blinked them back. Not yet. I had to stay focused. I had to play.
Warm-ups were a blur. Passing drills, shooting practice, stretching. The whole time, I was aware of the crowd, the cameras, the weight of every eye on us.
When we returned to the ice after warm-ups and they announced the starting lineup, my name got a huge cheer. Marco’s got even louder.
We lined up for the national anthem. I stood on the blue line with my linemates, Marco a few yards away. The singer’s voice filled the arena, and I tried to focus on the words, on breathing, on staying calm.
But all I could think about was the crowd. The support. That we were really doing this.
The anthem ended. The crowd roared. The ref skated to center ice with the puck.
Game time.
The first period was intense.
Buffalo came out aggressive, testing us early with a hard forecheck and physical play. I took a hit in the corner that rattled my teeth, got back up, kept skating.
On the bench, Kinnunen sat beside me during line changes. “You good?”
“Yeah. That was clean.”
“Mostly.”
Seven minutes in, a Buffalo forward got the puck behind our net and tried to muscle past Marco. Marco held his ground, tied him up, and Kuzmin swooped in to clear it.
I watched from the bench, tracked the play, and waited for my next shift.
When I got back on the ice, my nerves settled. This was still hockey. Still the game I’d played my whole life. The crowd noise faded into the background as I focused on the puck, on positioning, on doing my job.
Midway through the period, Buffalo’s defenseman pinched at the wrong moment, and their forward coughed up the puck. I intercepted it at our blue line and suddenly there was nothing ahead of me but open ice.
Breakaway.
Adrenaline flooded my system as I accelerated, the crowd noise building with every stride. My stick felt light, the puck perfectly weighted, everything narrowing to this—me, the goalie, and sixty feet of open ice between us.
He came out to cut the angle. I could see him calculating, trying to read me. I dragged the puck to my forehand at the last second and went high shelf, catching the top corner just under the bar.
The red light blazed behind the net.
Goal.
Relief hit me so hard I almost couldn’t breathe.
My second goal in two games, after months of zero-point games and watching my career circle the drain.
The arena erupted—eighteen thousand people on their feet, the roar so loud I felt it in my bones.
I threw my arms up and Jensen crashed into me from the side, nearly knocking me over.
“Yes! That’s what I’m talking about!” Kinnunen piled on.
I couldn’t stop grinning. The noise was overwhelming, beautiful, perfect.
Please let this be enough to keep me here.
Marco skated toward us from the blue line. When he reached the celebration, the guys parted just enough to let him in. His glove found my shoulder and squeezed once, firm and sure. Our eyes met through our face shields, and everything else fell away for just a second.
Pride. Joy. Relief. Everything we’d been carrying, reflected back at me in his dark eyes.
The crowd kept roaring. All of it for us.
We went into the intermission 1–0.
In the locker room, Coach kept it simple. “Good period. Stay disciplined. Keep the pressure on.”
The second period opened fast. Buffalo scored first—a deflection that Reid had no chance on. 1–1.
But we answered back three minutes later. Boucher won a faceoff in the offensive zone, got it back to Jensen. Jensen wound up for a shot, but instead of taking it, he sent a pass across to Marco. He one-timed it toward the net.
I was in the slot, stick ready. The puck deflected off a defender’s skate and came right to me.
I didn’t think. Just reacted.
Roof. Top corner. Past the goalie’s glove.
Score.
Three goals and an assist in two games.
Buffalo came back hard, pressing for another goal. But our defense held strong. Marco and Jensen were everywhere—blocking shots, breaking up rushes, clearing the zone.
Marco took a hit in front of the net and went down hard. My heart stopped.
I was skating toward him before I thought about it. A month ago, I would’ve worried about how it looked. Now I didn’t care. “You hurt?”
He was pushing himself up, and I could see him testing his right foot—the one that had been broken.
“Your foot—is it—”
“It’s fine.” He met my eyes for just a second, and I saw the reassurance there. “I’m good.”
Relief flooded through me. I squeezed his arm once—quick but deliberate—then forced myself to skate back to position.
We made it to the second intermission up a goal, 2–1.
The third period was where everything came together.
Five minutes in, Jensen scored on a breakaway. 3–1.
Buffalo pulled their goalie with two minutes left, desperate for goals. Six attackers pressed into our zone, and it was chaos—bodies everywhere, the puck bouncing, Reid making save after impossible save.
Forty seconds left.
I got the puck in the neutral zone, saw the empty net, and fired.
It slid across the ice, tracking true, and hit the back of the net with thirty seconds to go.
4–1.
My third goal of the game. A hat trick.
The crowd went insane. Hats rained down on the ice.
This time, Kinnunen got to me first, then Jensen crashed in from behind. Marco was there too, and for just a second, our eyes met through the chaos.
The final seconds ticked down, and the horn sounded.
We’d won. 4–1. First game as publicly out players, and we’d won.
The team gathered at center ice, gloves raised, celebrating. The crowd was on their feet, the noise deafening. I looked around, taking it all in—the fans, the signs, the rainbow flags, the support that had carried us through this game.
And then I turned and saw Marco skating toward me.
He wasn’t smiling. His face was intense, focused, determined. Like he’d made a decision and nothing was going to stop him.
He reached me, and before I could say anything, his hands were already moving—yanking off his helmet, then reaching for mine, urgent and determined.
And then he kissed me.
Right there. On the ice. In front of eighteen thousand people.
His lips pressed against mine, awkward and imperfect and absolutely perfect. My brain short-circuited, and time slowed down to nothing.
He pulled back, his dark eyes searching mine. “Okay?” he asked quietly.
I couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe. Just nodded.
The arena had hushed.
For one endless heartbeat, there was only a collective gasp. Eighteen thousand people holding their breath.
And then the noise came.
Cheering. Applause. A roar of sound that rolled over us like a wave. People on their feet, hands clapping, voices raised. A standing ovation that filled every corner of the arena.
Around us, our teammates reacted. Kinnunen tapped his stick against the ice. The sound carried, sharp and clear. Then Jensen did the same. Then Reid from the crease, his goalie stick thumping against the ice.
One by one, most of the team joined in. Stick taps echoing across the ice, a show of support that was unmistakable, undeniable.
Even some of the Buffalo players tapped their sticks. Professional respect, solidarity, acknowledgment.
It was all proof that support outweighed hate, that love was stronger than fear.
My eyes burned with tears I didn’t try to hide.
I turned to Marco and said, “We did it.”