Chapter 21 Campfire #2
I took a breath, let it out slowly. “That penalty shot. The one everyone remembers. The one that became a fucking meme.” My throat tightened.
“We lost that game. And the next day, the entire city turned on me.
Social media was brutal. The sports talk shows tore me apart.
People were calling for me to be traded, saying I choked, that I'd never be clutch when it mattered.”
Grant's hand found mine, steady and warm.
“And I tried to shake it off. Tried to tell myself it was just one shot, one game, that I'd bounce back. But every time I stepped on the ice after that, I could hear it. The doubt. The criticism. My own voice telling me I was going to fuck it up again.” I swallowed hard.
“That's when it started. The shaking. The panic. The feeling like I couldn't breathe.”
“Did you tell anyone?”
“I saw a therapist. She diagnosed it as performance anxiety. Gave me tools—breathing exercises, grounding techniques, medication if I needed it.” I laughed bitterly.
“But none of that fixes the actual problem, which is that my brain decided to start treating every game like a life-or-death situation.”
“Is that what was happening in the tunnel? Before Boston?”
I nodded, feeling the shame crawl up my spine. “Yeah. I thought I had it under control, but then we were walking out and suddenly my chest was tight and my hands were shaking and I couldn't—” I stopped, hating how weak it sounded. “I didn't know if I could play.”
“But you did.”
“Because you asked if I could.” I looked at him then, saw the firelight reflected in his eyes. “You didn't tell me to suck it up or get over it or pretend it wasn't happening. You just asked if I could do it. And somehow that was enough to pull me out of it.”
Grant was quiet for a moment, thumb brushing across my knuckles in slow, deliberate strokes. “You know it doesn't make you weak, right? The anxiety. The panic. None of it.”
“Feels weak.”
“It's not.” His voice was firm. “You're playing at the highest level of professional hockey while managing a condition that makes your body physically react like you're in danger.
That takes more strength than most people will ever need.
And you're still showing up. Still performing. Still fighting through it.”
“It's getting better,” I said quietly. “The therapy helps. And being with you...” I trailed off, not sure how to explain it. “When I'm with you, my brain shuts up. The noise stops. I can just... be.”
Grant shifted closer, his shoulder pressing against mine. “Good. Because you don't have to perform for me, Jace. Not ever. I see you. All of you. And you're enough exactly as you are.”
“Thank you,” I said, and I meant it for more than just this conversation.
“Always.” He pressed a kiss to my temple. “Now tell me—is there anything else I should know? Anything that helps when it hits?”
I thought about it. “Grounding helps. Physical touch. Something to focus on that's not the spiral.” I paused. “And weirdly, when you give me orders—like 'eyes on me' or 'stay with me'—that cuts through the noise. Gives me something concrete to hold onto.”
“Noted.” There was something in his voice that made me look at him, and I saw the concern there, the care. “If it happens again, I've got you.”
“I know.”
We sat there for a moment, the fire crackling between us, and I felt the fear that had been living in my chest since the playoff miss start to loosen its grip. Not gone. But acknowledged. Seen. Shared.
I stared into the flames, watching them twist and curl, and tried to find the words for what I'd been thinking since the hike.
“I'm scared,” I said. “I’m scared of being seen as breakable. In hockey. By the team. By everyone.” I paused, swallowed hard. “Because if they see me as weak, I lose everything.”
Grant was quiet for a moment, and when he spoke, his voice was careful. “You get to decide how you're seen. Not them.”
“That's not how it works.”
“It is if you make it work.” He turned to face me, firelight catching in his eyes. “You think being honest about who you are makes you weak? It's the opposite. It takes more strength to be yourself in a world that wants you to perform than it does to hide.”
“What if they don't want me anymore?”
“Then they were never worth having.” His hand tightened around mine. “But I don't think that's what'll happen. I think you're going to walk back into that room and half of them won't care and the other half will realize they've been underestimating you this whole time.”
I wanted to believe him. Wanted to trust that coming out wouldn't cost me everything I'd built. But the fear was still there. “What if you're wrong?”
“Then we deal with it.” He squeezed my hand. “You're not doing this alone, Jace. Whatever happens, I'm here.”
I stared into the fire and felt the decision crystallize. Not because I wasn't scared. But because hiding was starting to feel worse than the risk of being seen.
“I want to come out,” I said.
Grant didn't react right away. Just kept holding my hand, kept watching me with those steady eyes that saw too much. Then he asked the only question that mattered. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah.” My voice came out stronger than I expected. “I'm sure. Because hiding—it's starting to feel like another injury I'm playing through. And I'm tired of pretending I'm fine when I'm not.”
Grant nodded slowly, and I saw something shift in his expression. Pride, maybe. Or relief. “Okay.”
“I don't even know where to start.”
“Start with who matters most.” He shifted on the log, angling toward me. “Your parents. What are they like?”
My stomach twisted at the thought. “Complicated. My dad's... he's a hockey dad. Always has been. He wanted me to be a star before I even knew what that meant. And coming out—” I stopped, shook my head. “I don't know how he'll take it.”
“And your mom?”
“She'll be supportive. I think. She's always been the softer one. But she won't stand up to him if he reacts badly.” I felt my throat tighten. “I'm more scared of disappointing them than I am of the media or the fans or anyone else.”
Grant was quiet for a moment, thumb brushing across my knuckles. “You can't control how they react. You can only control what you say and how you say it. And if they can't accept you, that's their failure. Not yours.”
“Easy to say.”
“Not easy to live through. But true.” He paused, then asked, “What do you hope happens?”
I'd been so focused on the fear that I hadn't let myself imagine the best-case scenario.
“I hope... I hope my dad surprises me. I hope my mom tells me she already knew and she's been waiting for me to be ready. I hope they tell me they love me no matter what.” My voice cracked slightly. “And I hope they mean it.”
“They might.” Grant's voice was soft. “And if they don't right away, that doesn't mean they won't get there eventually. People need time to adjust sometimes.”
“Yeah.” I stared into the fire, feeling the weight of what I was about to do. “Parents first, then. That's the order.”
“Then what?”
“Then the team. Then...” I trailed off, unsure how far I wanted to take this.
“Then the world, if you want to,” Grant finished. “But only if you want to. You don't owe anyone a public announcement. You get to control that narrative.”
I looked at him, saw the firelight catching in his grey eyes, saw the worry and the pride and the fucking care written all over his face. “You really think I can do this?”
“I know you can.” He reached up, cupped my face with his free hand. “You're one of the toughest people I know, Jace.”
My chest went tight, and I felt tears prick at the corners of my eyes. “Fuck. You keep making me cry.”
“Sorry.” But he was smiling.
“No, you're not.”
“No, I'm not.” He leaned in, kissed me soft and slow. “But I mean it. Whatever you decide, however you want to do this, I'm with you.”
I kissed him back, tasting smoke and want and the promise of something I'd been too afraid to name. When we pulled apart, I rested my forehead against his and just breathed.
“Okay,” I said quietly. “Parents first. Then team. Then we see what happens.”
“Okay.”
“And Grant?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you. For this. For giving a shit. For not making me feel crazy for wanting to do this.”
His hand tightened in mine. “You're not crazy. You're brave. And I'm proud of you.”
I didn't know how to respond to that, so I just held his hand and stared into the fire and let the decision settle into my bones.
I was going to do this. Tell my parents.
Tell the team. Maybe tell the world. Not because I had to.
Not because it was the right PR move or the brave thing everyone expected.
But because hiding was starting to cost more than being seen ever could.
The fire crackled, sending sparks up into the dark sky. Grant's thumb traced patterns on the back of my hand, grounding me, reminding me I wasn't doing this alone.
“You know what's funny?” I said.
“What?”
“A month ago, I would've told you coming out was career suicide. That no one in hockey would accept it. That I'd lose everything.” I looked at him. “And now I'm more scared of losing myself.”
Grant's expression softened. “That's how you know it's the right call.”
“Yeah.” I leaned into him, feeling his solid warmth against my side. “Yeah, I think it is.”
We sat there for a long time, watching the fire burn down to embers, and I let myself imagine what came next. It was terrifying. It was necessary. And maybe—just maybe—it would be okay.
“Did you always know? That you were bi?” The question came out quieter than I intended. “Or was it... gradual?”
Grant was quiet for a moment, thumb still tracing patterns on my hand.
“College,” he said finally. “I was nineteen, maybe twenty.
Had a girlfriend I thought I'd marry someday. Then I met this guy on my team—defenseman, cocky as hell, had this smile that made my brain go stupid.” He paused.
“Took me three months to realize what I was feeling wasn't just friendship.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing. I was too scared to say anything. Buried it. Convinced myself it was a phase or confusion or whatever bullshit excuse I could find.” His voice went rougher. “Dated women. Got married. Spent years pretending I'd figured it out.”
“Your ex-wife. Did she know?”
“Eventually. I told her before we filed for divorce.” He shifted slightly, and I felt the tension in his shoulders. “She'd suspected for a while, I think. Said some things made sense in hindsight. We tried to make it work anyway, but... you can't build a life on half-truths.”
“I'm sorry.”
“Don't be. It wasn't fair to her. Wasn't fair to either of us.” He exhaled slowly. “We didn't have kids, which made it cleaner. She never wanted them anyway—said they'd be too much hassle, too much disruption to her career. I didn't push it.”
“Did you want them? Kids, I mean.”
Grant was quiet for a long moment, and when he spoke, his voice was softer. “Someday. Yeah. With the right person, at the right time. But that's...” He trailed off, like he'd said too much.
“That's what?” I pressed.
“That's not something I let myself think about much.” He turned his head to look at me, firelight catching in his eyes. “This life—coaching, the schedule, the pressure—it doesn't leave room for much else. And after the divorce, I convinced myself I didn't need it.”
“But you still want it.”
“Maybe.” His hand tightened around mine. “But wanting something and being able to have it are different things.”
I understood that more than I wanted to. “Your parents. Do they know?”
“My mom does. Told her a couple years after the divorce. She took it better than I expected—said she'd wondered but wanted me to tell her when I was ready.” His voice softened. “She's good people. Made it clear nothing changed between us.”
“That's... that's really good.”
“Yeah.” He paused. “My dad died when I was in my twenties—heart attack. It was sudden. Never got to have that conversation with him. Don't know if he would've understood or cared or written me off completely.”
“I'm sorry,” I said, because I didn't know what else to say.
“It is what it is.” Grant shifted, pulling me closer. “But my mom—having her support made a difference. Made it feel less like I was carrying it alone.”
I rested my head against his shoulder, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing.
A long silence settled over us, comfortable and warm, and somewhere in it my eyes got heavy. I tried to track something — the fire, the sound of the wind outside — but the thoughts kept sliding away before I could hold them.
“You still with me?” Grant's voice was quiet, a little amused.
“Mm.” It was the most I could manage.
He huffed a soft laugh. “That a yes?”
“Ask me again in five minutes.”
His arm tightened around me slightly, and I felt his lips press briefly against the top of my head.
I closed my eyes. The fire crackled softly, and I felt the exhaustion starting to pull at me.