Chapter 30
Chapter Thirty
[Image Description: A website, titled with the hashtag #PaintYourPride.
Beneath that, the first picture is of Nick Tiernan, shirtless, wearing a pair of dark blue jeans low on his hips, nothing else adorning him but rainbows.
They’re painted all over his skin, smears of vivid color angled around his tattoos like they’ve always been there.
Like they were always meant to be there.
But the most striking thing about the picture is his smile. It’s not a smile the media are familiar with; not a smirk, or a cocky grin, or a suave little invitation. Not even the sunny, happy-go-lucky smile of the NHL’s golden boy.
It’s the smile of a man at peace. His green eyes shine as he looks at something just past the camera, a stray golden curl falling onto his forehead.
Below that picture is another: Connor LaPorte, in lighter wash jeans, painted in pink and purple and blue.
The colors run together in lines, a flag many are familiar with, covering his otherwise unmarked skin.
His smile is shy, but his brown eyes stare fiercely at the camera, daring anyone to question him.
More pictures follow—six of them, in fact. Six different men, all very familiar faces in the NHL, painted in bright colors and sporting equally bright faces. Only once each player has had a spotlight picture does text begin.]
We have always been here. We will always be here. Hockey is a sport for everyone, and for too long now, those in power have been allowed to force players to hide who they are in order to succeed, have spurned bright talents away because of who they are and who they love.
No more.
We will not be made to feel ashamed of ourselves for our existence.
We will not be made to lie, and pretend, and deny ourselves a life because a small number of narrow-minded individuals are afraid of people who are different.
We are hockey players, and we are queer men, and one does not outweigh the other.
While every individual deserves a level of privacy that the age of social media no longer affords, there is a difference between choosing to keep your personal life private and being forced to conceal parts of it for your own career and safety. That is not a choice.
So here we are. Sharing with you this part of ourselves that you have wanted us to deny for our entire careers. We will not stay silent, because we are proof that bigotry will not win. Our sport—indeed, all sports—can only be improved by allowing everyone to play without prejudice.
If our existence within this sport outrages you, we can only apologize, and suggest you look elsewhere for your entertainment. There are more of us than you will ever know, and we hope that this step forward will allow others living in fear to reach out and join us, when they’re ready.
Until then, we’ll be on the ice, playing damn good hockey, with pride.
—#PaintYourPride Website, June 13th, 2023
Nick already knows what the site is going to say, but he still cries reading it. Maybe that’s got more to do with the Stanley Cup he just won, but, whatever. He’s feeling a whole lot right now.
The website isn’t just live; he’s got Bianca logged in to his socials to share it there, and all the guys will be doing the same on their own. Kat has already retweeted it to the team account. Anyone who follows any kind of ice hockey will have seen it by now. It’s out there. No going back.
He can see the way the article spreads around the arena. Feels the burn of thousands of eyes on him, scrutinizing him in a way he’s always dreaded.
But Nick doesn’t hide. He squares his shoulders and holds his head high, hugging his teammates as they gather around the bench.
“What’s going on?” Duke asks, bewildered—they can all tell the attention is not on them the way it should be.
Sunny skids into Nick’s side, smile shaky. “It’s up?”
“It’s up,” Nick confirms, kissing his teammate on the temple. “We’re out, baby.”
“Holy shit. Okay.” Sunny goes wide-eyed. “Shit. I need to find Mars!”
In unison, Nick and Sunny look towards the family section but the lights are so bright it’s hard to see.
Somewhere over there, Matt is getting the shock of his fucking life.
“Y’all might wanna look at this,” Marco says to their teammates, holding out the iPad that’s usually used for on-bench tape viewing. It’s open to the website. “Cap and Sunny have a little news for ya.”
The team gathers around the tablet like they’re reviewing a play.
At Nick’s side, a hand curls around his wrist. Sunny glances anxiously his way.
Nick offers a grin, even as his own stomach roils.
They’re in this together, but it was Nick’s idea.
If anyone’s got something to say, they can say it to him.
“Damn,” Hugsy murmurs. “Steel balls, the pair of you.”
“Fucking incredible,” Patts cackles. “Anyone who’d rather report on this than this team winning its third cup in six years is really gonna show their ass, huh?”
“That’s the plan.” Nick’s relieved that he gets it, that it doesn’t seem like he’s trying to make the team’s victory all about himself.
Whatever anyone else has to say, Nick no longer cares because he can see movement down the tunnel.
The carpets are rolled out, the platforms are getting set up.
Lord Stanley’s throne is almost ready. The music changes, cutting over everyone’s shocked murmurs as they share the news that eight whole NHL players are not heterosexual.
Nick takes his cue and starts gathering up his teammates.
“Friends and visitors, please direct your attention to the ice,” the announcer begins.
Of course, before Lord Stanley himself can be brought out, there’s the small matter of the Conn Smythe trophy to be awarded for playoffs MVP.
Nick feels several people pat his shoulders and back like it’s a given, but he shakes his head—not this year.
The guy in the suit next to the trophy starts to speak, and Nick’s grin gets wider and wider the more obviously it’s not him.
“Congratulations to this year’s Conn Smythe winner, Nevada Dragons forward, Sunny Davis.” The voice rings out over the ice, and Sunny gapes.
“Go on,” Nick urges, nudging him forward. “Go get it.”
The whole team cheers as Sunny skates to receive his trophy, obviously stunned. The crowd roars, but Nick thinks he can hear an ear-splitting whistle above it all coming from the family section. Mars, cheering for their man.
As Sunny returns the trophy to its podium and skates back to the team, the whole huddle of them practically wiggles with excitement. Now it’s time for the big guns.
“Please welcome to the ice, the Stanley Cup!”
Any speech given is a blur of noise to Nick’s ears, his gaze fixed firmly on that absolute beauty. He swears that thing gets bigger every year. His hands start to tingle as the rush washes over him; he clenches them at his sides.
At last, it’s time. “I have the privilege to invite Nevada Dragons captain Nicholas Tiernan to come over and accept the Stanley Cup, for the third time in his career.”
Marco plasters himself to Nick’s back one last time, then shoves him forward so hard he almost trips. Nick’s laughing, getting déjà-vu as he approaches the trophy like an old friend, posing for the cameras while pyrotechnics blaze behind him.
Something’s different about this time. This time, Nick is hoisting this trophy as himself, wholly and truly, the opinions of the world be damned.
As he raises it above his head and skates towards the crowd, it weighs heavy on his sore shoulders—but not as heavy as all the fears and doubts he’s been carrying for all these years.
It feels damn good.
There’s no question of who he’s going to hand it off to. He turns back to his team and makes a beeline for Marco. Nick kisses the trophy one last time, then hands it off and stands back to watch his best friend skate his victory lap.
Hugsy’s next, as he should be. But then, by unspoken agreement, when Hugsy returns to the team he doesn’t hand it over immediately—he and Nick and Marco skate together over to the small carpeted section of the ice, where Jazz sits in her wheelchair.
Next to her, dressed in full gear but resting precariously on his crutches, is Howie.
As Nick and Marco swoop in either side to brace their spluttering friend upright, Jazz grabs his crutches for him, and Hugsy assists the goaltender in hauling the trophy upwards. There are tears in all of their eyes as they skate the shakiest little loop, their team cheering them on.
Only then do they skate the trophy back to Duke and thus starts the chain reaction of every man on their roster taking their time with the cup, holding it aloft as their fans raise the roof for them. Nick’s heart feels like it’s going to burst right out of his chest.
The crowd on the ice gets bigger—the reporters have arrived.
Nick groans at the way they all stare at him eagle-eyed.
Beside him, Marco laughs. “Brought this upon yourself, man,” he jokes, tweaking the brim of his championship cap.
“Go on. You got this. You’re a goddamn three-time Stanley Cup champion. ”
This is easily Nick’s least favorite part of being team captain. But it’s all part of the job, so he slaps a smile on his face and turns to the first person to beckon him over, a brunette lady in a suit from ESPN.
“Congratulations,” is the first thing she says, and Nick cautiously lets his guard down. “How does it feel to be doing this for the third time in only six years?”
“Just as wild as the first time,” Nick replies, making her laugh.
He rambles out some spiel about being proud of his team and wanting to do it for the guys who haven’t had the chance yet, how none of it would have happened without them.
He waits for her to ask about the website, about his sexuality, but it never comes.
Until the end.