Voicemails.
Social media alerts.
Missed calls.
Hundreds became thousands.
I lowered myself into a chair and stared at the screen.
Some messages came from teammates. Some came from former teammates. Others came from coaches, sponsors, reporters, and people whose names I vaguely recognized but couldn't immediately place.
Many were supportive. Some were emotional. A few made me laugh despite everything. Not all of them were kind. I had expected that.
The internet had never been known for its restraint, and hockey wasn't magically immune to the uglier corners of the world. Buried among the encouragement were messages filled with disappointment, anger, and opinions from people who seemed personally offended by a truth that had absolutely nothing to do with them.
Those bothered me less than I would have expected. Maybe because I'd spent years imagining worst-case scenarios.
Reality rarely lived up to the monsters we created in our own heads.
My thumb hovered briefly over another notification before a different thought surfaced. Mom and Dad. Until that moment, I hadn't realized how tightly I'd been holding that particular worry.
My parents lived in an assisted-living community just outside Seattle. They were still sharp, still independent in most ways, but age had a way of changing practical realities. They'd had me later in life, and these days I spent as much time worrying about them as they once spent worrying about me.
They knew.
Unlike the rest of the world, they’d known for years. Even so, I found myself reaching for my phone because I wanted to hear their voices.
Before I could press call, another notification appeared near the top of the screen. Then another. And another. The flood of messages showed no sign of slowing. I rubbed a hand across the back of my neck and leaned back in my chair.
The secret was gone. The truth was out. And somehow it felt as though the hard part was only beginning.
EIGHT
KIERAN
I lasted exactly twenty-three minutes after I got back to my apartment before googling him.
I tossed my jacket over the back of a chair, walked into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and stared at its contents without actually seeing any of them. Then I wandered into the living room, sat down, stood back up again, and told myself that what Thane Hale did with his life was none of my business.
That lasted all of thirty seconds.
By the time I opened my laptop, I was already losing the argument.
The search results appeared almost instantly.
Not dozens.
Not hundreds.
Thousands.
News articles. Interviews. Team profiles. Feature stories. Video clips. Magazine covers. Social media accounts. Pages and pages of information stretching farther than I cared to scroll.
I stared at the screen. Then I stared some more.
"Well," I muttered to the empty apartment. "That's probably not normal."
The first result led to his player profile with the Seattle Orcas. That was how I learned he wasn't simply a hockey player. He was one of their stars. Assistant captain. Left winger. Multiple-time All-Star. One of the league's top scorers.
