Chapter 40
Skyler
The walk from the locker room to the media room felt like walking toward a firing squad.
Each step echoed in the hallway, bouncing off concrete walls that seemed to close in with every footfall.
My palms were sweating, and I could feel my heart hammering against my ribs, but it wasn’t nerves about speaking to the press—I’d done this hundreds of times before.
It wasn’t even about sharing my love life with the world.
I couldn’t care less about what they thought of who I dated.
It was what they might ask or how they might report in the papers or on the TV that had me terrified.
What if they attack me?
What if they ask if I’m attracted to my teammates?
What if they make it ugly and invasive and turn this into some kind of circus?
The door to the media room was propped open, and I could hear the low murmur of conversation from inside.
There were maybe twenty reporters, camera operators, and team PR staff.
Kevin caught my eye as I approached and gave me a thumbs-up that was meant to be encouraging but only made my stomach clench tighter than my asshole, which, in that moment, was next to impossible.
I’d seen what happened to other athletes who’d come out.
I’d heard the invasive questions, the speculation about their personal lives, and the way some reporters seemed to think someone’s sexuality was fair game for any kind of questioning.
I’d watched interviews where grown men had been reduced to defending their right to exist, to play, and to be taken seriously.
What if that’s what this turns into?
But then I thought about Jacks. I knew he was watching from Barbacks with Finn and Mark and Benji—and half the gay world crammed in shoulder to shoulder.
I thought about Tyler and Erik, who’d threatened anyone who didn’t support me.
Finally, I thought about my parents, two incredible humans who’d raised me to believe that love was love and that being honest about who you are was never something to be ashamed of.
Whatever they ask, I can handle it. I have to. For everyone I love, I have to.
The room was smaller than it looked on TV, with harsh fluorescent lighting that made everything feel clinical and exposed.
The podium sat at the front like an altar.
A table long enough for two folding chairs sat to one side.
Microphones clustered above the podium like some kind of technological bouquet.
I walked to my seat behind the table, the familiar setup I’d done hundreds of times before, but this time felt different. This time, I wasn’t only here to talk about power plays or defensive zone coverage or what we needed to work on before our next game.
This time, I was here to change everything.
“Good evening, everyone,” Kevin said, stepping up to his spot behind the podium. “Captain Shaw is here for his post-game availability. As always, please identify yourself and your outlet before asking your question. Captain?”
This was the moment.
The point of no return.
I stood up and walked the three steps to the podium, scanning the faces in the room.
These were people I’d known for years—beat reporters who covered the team, local sports anchors, and writers who’d followed my career for as long as I could remember.
Some I liked, some I didn’t, but most had been fair to me.
Will they still be fair? After tonight? When they know the real Skyler Shaw?
The reporters looked up at me, pens poised over notebooks, recorders ready. Someone in the back row was setting up a camera. Everything looked like every other press conference I’d ever done.
“Actually,” I said, my voice sounding steadier than I felt, “before we get to questions, I’d like to make a statement.”
The room went dead silent.
The guy setting up his camera froze and stared over his shoulder.
The woman in the front who’d been scribbling in a notepad stilled her pen.
I could see the confusion ripple across the room like a wave. This wasn’t how post-game press conferences worked. Players answered questions about the game, maybe made a brief comment about an injury or an upcoming road trip. They didn’t make statements.
Unless they were being traded.
Or retiring.
I’d only been in the league for a few years, and I was playing at peak level. The Lightning weren’t about to trade their captain, and there was no way I was retiring.
An injury? That could be a big announcement.
But there hadn’t been one. The world would’ve seen it. The medical team would’ve made statements. Coach would’ve commented in his own presser.
No, they knew this was different, significant in ways they were only about to learn. The anticipation of something new, something far juicier than the normal hockey gibberish, had the assembled reporters salivating before I said my next words.
Kevin looked nervous but nodded.
We’d talked about this. He knew what was coming.
The silence stretched out, heavy and expectant.
I could hear the hum of the fluorescent lights, the distant sound of the arena cleaning crew getting started, and my own fucking heartbeat thundering in my ears as though Thor was hammering away, trying to escape my rib cage from the inside out.
Here we go. Let’s see what kind of people you really are.
I gripped the sides of the podium and looked into the camera that I knew was broadcasting this live to anyone who cared to watch. I imagined myself speaking to the guys and gals at Barbacks.
“My name is Skyler Shaw,” I began, my voice slicing through the silent room. “I’ve been the captain of the Tampa Bay Lightning for three years, and I’ve been playing professional hockey for seven. I love this game, I love this team, and I love this city.”
I paused, scanning the room again.
Still no hostile faces, only confusion and intense attention.
So far so good.
“I’m also in a relationship with someone who makes me happier than I’ve ever been,” I continued. “Someone who challenges me to be a better person, who supports my career, and who I’m falling in love with more every day. That person happens to be a man.”
The silence somehow got even deeper.
Reporters’ mouths fell open.
I could feel the shock radiating from the room.
But I didn’t see disgust.
I didn’t see anger.
Only surprise.
“I wanted you to hear this from me, because authenticity matters, because living honestly matters to me, and because representation matters to all of us.” I looked straight into the camera again.
“I know there are young athletes out there, maybe hockey players, maybe players of other sports, who are struggling with questions about their own identity. I want them to know that you can be exactly who you are and still pursue your dreams. You can be gay and play professional hockey. You can be different and still belong.”
Someone in the third row was scribbling notes.
“I’m proud of who I am. I’m proud of my relationship.
I’m proud to be a Bolt. This community, the Tampa Bay area and everyone in it, means the world to me.
This team means the world. My boyfriend means even more.
” I straightened up, feeling some of the tension leave my shoulders.
“Now I’m happy to take any questions you might have. ”
The silence continued for another beat.
Then another.
Then every hand in the room shot up at once.
Here we go. This is where I find out who these people really are.
“Skyler, when did you know—”
“Cap, you mentioned a boyfriend. How long have you been—”
“Skyler, who’s the lucky guy?”
“Whoa, whoa,” I said, holding up my hands. “One at a time. Yes, Maria?”
Maria Gonzalez from the Tampa Bay Times was sitting in the front row, her recorder already running. “Cap, when did you first realize you were gay? Was this something you struggled with?”
The question was direct but not cruel. Maria was a consummate professional.
“I wouldn’t say I struggled with it, exactly,” I said. “All I know is that I fell for someone amazing who happens to be a man, and everything else sort of worked itself out from there.”
A dozen more hands shot up.
A dozen more questions about being gay and dating and whoever the mystery man was.
Still no hostility that I could see.
Just curiosity, which I could handle.
A dozen more questions fired at me so fast I felt like I needed to duck.
They were personal, deeply so, but none held even a hint of animosity or anger or negativity.
My confidence grew with each answer—and with each subsequent question born of little more than curious interest in the hometown captain and his recent revelation.
Then another hand rose, and Kevin called on a guy seated near the back of the pack.
“Danny Rodriguez, Fox Sports. Skyler, that was a hell of a shot in overtime. Can you walk us through that play? What did you see developing that made you decide to take it from that angle?”
The room went still again, but this time it was a different kind of quiet.
And just like that, I became a hockey player again.
“Yeah,” I said, and I could feel my whole body relaxing as I ran a hand through my still-wet hair. “Erik made a great pass off the boards, and I saw the goalie was cheating a little to his left. I’ve been working on that shot angle in practice, so I figured it was worth taking.”
“The assist from Lindqvist was pretty slick, too. How’s the chemistry developing between you two on that top line?”
“Erik’s got incredible vision. Sees like a hawk—no, a falcon.” I could practically hear the guys laughing from the other room at that, giving Erik shit about his falconry skills. “He sees plays developing before anyone else on the ice. Playing with him makes my job easier.”
Another hand went up in the back. “What do you think was the key to coming back from being down one in the third? The team showed a lot of resilience tonight.”
Thank God, we were talking about hockey again.
And only hockey.
As God and Lord Stanley intended.
They remember I’m a hockey player first. Thank God.
“All right, I think that’s enough for tonight,” Kevin said. “Thanks, everyone.”
I stood up, and for the first time since I’d decided to do this, I felt optimistic about what came next. They’d been fair. They’d been professional. Maybe the world was more ready for this than I’d thought.
As I walked toward the exit, Danny Rodriguez caught my attention.
“Hey, Shaw,” he said quietly. “Good for you, man. That took guts.”
“Thanks, D-Man.”
“And nice shot tonight. Hell of a way to win it.”
I smiled, feeling something settle in my chest that I hadn’t even realized had been wound tight.
“Just doing my job.”
As I walked back down the hallway toward the locker room, I pulled out my phone and found three missed calls from Jacks and one text.
Jacks: I’m so fucking proud of you.