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 hisshoulders 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 ashimself, 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.
“You’re making history in more than one way today, I might add,” she says, her expression not faltering even when Nick’s does. She adjusts her collar, flipping over her press lanyard. Nick’seyes dart down reflexively, and he pauses.
There’s a small enamel pin, fastened right above where her press pass sits, of a little rainbow flag.Oh.
He looks back up, and she grins even wider. “You have just become part of the group of the first ever out LGBTQ+ players active in the NHL. There’s a lot of kids out there who are going to be looking at this moment as a beacon of hope for their athletic futures. What do you have to say to them?”
Nick takes a second to gather himself then stares straight down the camera. “Get out there and pick up a hockey stick. A baseball bat. A football. Whatever sport you love, go out there and do it, because I promise you, you will find your people there, as long as you give it a chance. The best way to make a space more welcoming is to occupy it as unapologetically as possible and reach out to those who want to do the same.” Then he smirks, letting a little of his usual cocky persona seep in. “And if anyone tries to tell you you can’t, tell ’em to come talk to me and my three Stanley Cup rings.”
It’s clear the reporter is struggling not to laugh. Nick winks at her, and she bites her lip. “Thank you,” she says, blinking furiously. “On behalf of all of those kids—and plenty of adults who used to be those kids—thank you.”
He swallows the lump in his throat, nodding jerkily. Any doubt he might have had about coming out like he has fades into nothingness—how could he, in the face of reminders like that?
It feels like an age before the tunnel fills with people once more. Nick lets himself be nudged from pillar to post—none of the further interviews are as polite or as cheerful as the ESPN one, and he quickly loses patience in a way so obvious even Tony sees it, so he rescues Nick by dragging him over to begin the team picture. That in itself is an ordeal, everyone falling over each other to get in frame, making sure Howie doesn’t fall on his bad knee. Nick’s front and center with Marco, the cup cradled between them, just like it was the last two times.
But then, finally, they see the group of people led by four women in black and gold denim jackets. Lindsay is one of those four, and the second she hits the ice she sprints towards her husband.
