Chapter 21
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Evan
Sunday night, Nico texted after the game.
Nico
Kept looking for you in the stands.
Evan
Congrats on the win. Saw your goal in the third.
Nico
Wish you’d been there.
I stared at that for a long time before responding.
Evan
Me too.
It wasn’t entirely a lie. Part of me did wish I’d been there. The rest of me was relieved I hadn’t been, and I didn’t know which part to trust.
Monday morning, I woke up early and made coffee. Sat with my laptop open to two browser tabs: the Lasers’ official Instagram account and Nico’s profile.
The statement was scheduled for nine o’clock. At 9:02, it appeared. A clean graphic in team colors, Nico’s number seventeen in the corner. I’m proud to be a gay man and a professional hockey player. My personal life is my own, and I ask that the media and public respect that boundary.
Nico’s account posted it eleven seconds later.
I sat there and watched the shares, likes, and comments accumulate in real time. Hundreds in the first minute. Thousands by the time I’d finished reading the first wave of responses.
His name was in the statement. Mine wasn’t.
That was Nico’s call. It made sense strategically—it protected my privacy, or what was left of it.
Kept the focus on him. But it also meant I was still the man in the photographs.
Present but unconfirmed. And the speculation hadn’t stopped.
It had just shifted shape. Instead of, “Who is he?” the question had become “Why won’t they say who he is? ”
I closed the browser tabs.
Opened them again thirty seconds later.
The responses were mostly good. Teammates sharing André’s simple message—Proud of you, 17—and Griffin’s longer post. Morelli and Savard had posted a photo of the three of them, arms around each other at some all-star event, with nothing written underneath.
They didn’t need words. Fan response was mostly positive too.
Some of it was genuinely moving. Young people, longtime fans, paragraphs about what it meant to them.
Some of it was the other kind. Slurs and accusations, the predictable ugliness. And underneath it, quieter and more pointed, “Why isn’t the boyfriend named? What is he hiding?”
I closed the laptop.
Made more coffee I didn’t need.
Opened the laptop again.
I’d counted my tab checks yesterday. Forty-seven.
I’d told myself I was doing it for the same reason I did anything information related: because knowing was better than not knowing.
Because if I tracked the story, I could anticipate where it was going.
Because Ryan had taught me what happened when you stopped paying attention, when you trusted things were fine and didn’t check, and then looked up one day to find people who felt entitled to you had discussed and dissected and rewritten your life.
That was the story I was telling myself. The more honest version was that I couldn’t stop, and I’d started organizing my day around the compulsion rather than around work.
I knew the difference. I just didn’t know what to do with it.
I closed the tabs and opened my client files instead.
By nine thirty, I had twenty-four new emails in my professional inbox.
Three media requests, two from people I’d never heard of, and a politely worded termination from a client I’d been onboarding last month.
A LinkedIn message from someone I didn’t recognize asking if I was open to “brand partnership opportunities related to my current visibility.”
I stared at that one for a long time.
Current visibility. As if the photographs and the speculation were a strategy I’d executed rather than a situation that had happened to me.
I marked everything from unknown senders as spam. Then I pulled out my notebook and started a list.
The search result problem was the one I could actually do something about.
My headshot was already down, but cached versions were circulating and would be for weeks.
What I could control was what came up alongside my name, and right now that was the photos, Ryan’s name, and three-year-old headlines I’d spent years burying.
I wrote it out like a client brief, because that was how my brain worked when it was working properly.
Problem: Search results for “Evan Beckett” currently return paparazzi photos, speculation, Ryan Pierce association.
Goal: Displace with professional content within 60-90 days.
Actions: Update three case studies on firm website with measurable outcomes; pitch one bylined piece to a marketing trade publication, brand resilience under public pressure, keep it abstract; increase LinkedIn activity, one substantive post per week, professional topics only; submit to two industry directories I’ve been putting off.
I read it back. It was a good plan. Specific, achievable, mine.
It would also require me to be deliberately visible in a controlled way at exactly the moment I wanted to disappear entirely. That was the cost. I wrote it down too, because pretending the cost wasn’t there was how plans failed.
I sent the first revised case study to my web designer by ten fifteen.
Then I went back and checked the browser tabs. I was already at twelve checks before noon.
The client email I’d been dreading arrived at eleven, from the mid-sized tech firm I’d been working with for months, the communications director, professional and careful: Evan, hope you’re doing okay. Just want to check in and see where things stand.
An email that could mean anything or nothing.
I drafted a response. Deleted it. Drafted another. Thanks for checking in. Happy to set up a call this week to discuss the March timeline. My work is unaffected.
Read it back. Wondered if unaffected sounded defensive. Decided it sounded like the truth. Sent it before I could change my mind.
Three minutes later, my phone rang. The communications director, not waiting for a callback.
“Evan. Thanks for getting back to me so quickly.” A pause that told me everything.
“I want to be straightforward with you. The account team has some concerns about the timing—not about your work, which has been excellent, but about visibility. We have a product launch in six weeks and we’re trying to keep the narrative clean. ”
I knew what was coming. I kept my voice even. “I understand the concern.”
“We’d like to pause the engagement for now. Given the March timeline, we’re going to bring someone else in to see the launch through. But we’d love to reconnect afterward.”
They wouldn’t reconnect. I knew that too. But I said, “Of course. I’ll send over everything you need for a smooth handoff.”
I hung up and sat still for a moment.
That was four clients now. Four people who’d hired me for my expertise and had decided that my personal life made me a liability. Four instances of collateral damage from photographs I hadn’t known were being taken.
I opened the browser tabs.
Seventeen checks before noon. I stopped counting.
Danny texted at eleven thirty.
Danny
How are you doing? Don’t say fine.
Evan
I’m managing.
Danny
That’s just “fine” with more syllables. I’m coming over for dinner.
Evan
I have work.
Danny
I’ll bring food. You can work after.
I didn’t argue.
He arrived at six thirty with burritos and took one look at my laptop screen—browser tabs open, case study document open beside them, three empty coffee cups on the desk—and pulled me out of my office without commenting on any of it.
We ate at the kitchen bar. He asked about the statement, and I told him what I knew: the timeline, the response, and the teammate support.
I said mostly positive twice, and both times the word mostly did more work than I’d intended.
“But?” Danny said.
“But nothing. It went well.”
“Evan.”
“It went well. Better than expected. Nico’s teammates have been solid—”
“I’m not asking about Nico’s day,” Danny said. “I’m asking about yours.”
I dropped my gaze to my burrito.
“Four clients now,” I said. “The last one called me directly. Said my work was excellent but given the March launch, they needed to bring someone else in. ‘We’d love to reconnect afterward,’ she said.” I paused. “We won’t reconnect.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I sent the first revised case study to my web designer this morning. I’m working on a bylined piece—brand resilience, keep it abstract. I’ve got a plan.” I heard myself say it and recognized the flatness in my own voice. “I have a very good plan.”
Danny was quiet for a moment. “Have you told Nico any of this?”
“He’s dealing with his own fallout.”
“He’s also your partner.”
“I know that.”
“Do you?” He said it without heat. “Because what I’m hearing is that you’re managing this alone and showing Nico the plan instead of showing him how it actually feels.”
“I don’t want to be a problem he has to solve.” I pushed a tortilla chip around my plate. “He goes into fix-it mode. If I tell him how bad it is, he’ll try to manage it the same way he manages everything else, and that’s… it’s not what I need.”
“What do you need?”
I didn’t have a clean answer.
“He’s coming over later,” I said.
“Good.” Danny picked up his burrito. “Tell him something honest when he gets here. Not the plan. Something honest.”
Danny left at eight. The apartment felt too quiet without him.
Nico showed up twenty minutes later. Knocked twice. When I opened the door, he walked in, put one hand on the back of my neck, and kissed me—slow and certain. “Hey,” he said against my mouth. He pulled back and looked at my face. “How are you doing?”
“Better than yesterday. Mostly.” Neither thing was entirely true—not the better, not the mostly. I said them anyway, and he let it go.
We sat on the couch, and he angled toward me. “The league response has been solid. Neil’s fielding calls from two brands already, a diversity partnership angle. He says the timing is good.”
I studied him. “Diversity partnership.”
“Yeah.” He heard something in my voice. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong.” I paused. “It’s just… three days ago I was a person. Now I’m a diversity partnership opportunity.” I said it without accusation. It wasn’t his fault. “I know that’s how Neil talks. I just—”
“That’s not what you are.” Firm, like that settled it. “Rachel says the coverage should start cycling down by Wednesday. New stories will push it back. That’s how these things work.”
He did what he always did—heard me and then moved toward something he could fix. It wasn’t that he didn’t care. I could see the restlessness in him when he couldn’t help, even when he was trying to hide it. And right now, most of what was wrong with me wasn’t something he could help with.
I thought about what Danny had said. Tell him something honest. Not the plan.
“I lost two more clients today,” I said.
“Second one called instead of emailing. Said my work was excellent and then let me go anyway.” I looked at him.
“I have a good plan for rebuilding the search results and repositioning the firm. I’ve already started executing it.
” I took a deep breath. “But I’ve been checking those browser tabs every twenty minutes since nine this morning.
I can’t stop, and the plan isn’t touching that part at all. ”
Nico was quiet for a moment. Something in his face settled. Not into an answer, just into listening. Like he’d decided not to reach for a solution this time. “I don’t know how to help with that part,” he said.
“I know.” I looked at my hands. “I’m not sure there’s a way to help with it. I just… Danny said to tell you something honest, so…”
“So,” he echoed.
We sat with it for a moment. It was uncomfortable, and neither of us pretended otherwise.
It was the most honest the evening had been.
Then Nico said, “Wednesday’s game. Will you come?”
I’d been waiting for this question since Sunday.
“I don’t know yet,” I said.
“That’s not a no.” He studied me for a moment. “Okay.” He didn’t push. Didn’t offer logistics, reassurances, or a plan for making it easier. Just accepted it, which was somehow harder to sit with than if he’d argued.
“I’m not saying no,” I said.
“I know.”
But when he left at ten-thirty because of an early skate the next morning, I didn’t ask him to stay, and he didn’t offer. I sat alone in my apartment and opened the browser tabs one more time.
The plan was good. The conversation had been real. Neither one had touched the part of me that was still here at eleven o’clock, tabs open, checking.