Page 46 of The Puck Contract

"When did you decide to come out publicly?" His voice is careful, measured, like he's conducting an interview rather than having a middle-of-the-night conversation.

"After my second year in the league. I'd already told my family and close friends during my rookie season, but going public was different." I pause, remembering. "I'd established myself enough that I hoped they couldn't just brush me aside, but not so much that I couldn't rebuild if it all went south."

"Were you scared?"

"Terrified," I admit. "Professional sports isn't exactly known for being progressive, especially hockey. I knew I'd be the first active NHL player to come out. There was no roadmap."

"But you did it anyway."

"Yeah." I shift to get more comfortable. "I got tired of hiding, of calculating every word, every action. It was exhausting."

The sheets rustle as Mateo turns toward me. "How did people react?"

"Mixed bag. My teammates were mostly great—awkward at first, but supportive. Management was concerned about 'distractions' but eventually came around. Fans were split—got some hate mail, but also a lot of support, especially from LGBTQ+ hockey fans who finally saw someone like them in the game."

"And your family?"

"My sister was just annoyed I waited so long to tell her. Dad needed time to adjust his vision of my future, but he came around. Mom cried, then immediately started sending me articles about gay marriage laws and adoption options."

Mateo laughs softly. "That's sweet."

"It's mortifying," I correct, but I'm smiling in the dark. "But yeah, I got lucky with my family."

Silence falls again, comfortable this time. I can almost hear Mateo thinking.

"Can I ask why you're asking?" I venture. "Is this for anthropological research, or...?"

"No," he says quickly. "I just... I've been thinking a lot. About labels and stuff."

My heart kicks against my ribs. "Because of what happened? Between us?"

"Partly." His voice is barely audible now. "I never questioned this part of myself before. It's... destabilizing."

I want to reach across the space between our beds, offer some physical comfort, but I'm not sure it would be welcome. "Identity stuff is complicated," I say instead. "You don't have to figure it all out at once."

"That's what Carlos said too."

"Smart guy, your roommate."

"Don't tell him that. His ego is big enough already."

We both laugh softly, and something in the air between us eases. The tense awkwardness that's been following us sinceThe Incidentdissipates, replaced by something gentler, more understanding.

"Groover?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks. For talking about this. For not making it weird."

"Anytime," I say, meaning it. "And Mateo? Whatever you figure out about yourself—it's all good. Really."

He exhales, a long, slow breath like he's releasing something heavy. "Goodnight, Groover."

"Goodnight, Mateo."

As I drift toward sleep, I realize something has shifted between us. Not back to what we were before—we can't un-kiss, can't un-feel what happened on my couch—but forward into something new. Something that feels a lot like trust.

And for tonight, that's enough.

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