Thousands had already accumulated in the hours since the press conference ended. Many offered support. Others thanked him for speaking openly. A surprising number simply wished him well.
Not all of them were kind.
A few comments were dismissive. Others were openly hostile. After reading several that made my stomach tighten, I closed the comment section altogether.
The internet had always been an excellent reminder that not everyone deserved access to a keyboard.
My thumb hovered over the screen.
For a long moment, I simply stared at his profile picture and told myself to put the phone down.
Instead, I tapped Message. The empty conversation window opened immediately. I wasn't entirely sure why I was doing it.
Part of me kept thinking about the press conference and the nerves I'd heard beneath his carefully controlled answers. Another part remembered the man from the night before—the one who had argued with me about birthday cake and made sure I ate before ordering another drink.
Mostly, though, I just wanted him to know that somebody was in his corner.
The cursor blinked in the empty message box.
My first attempt sounded awkward. The second felt strangely formal. After deleting both, I gave up on trying to be clever and typed the truth.
Me: Hey. It's Kieran.
Me: I just saw the press conference.
Me: I don't really know what today has been like for you, but I wanted to say I hope you're doing okay.
I read the message twice.
It wasn't flirtatious. It wasn't dramatic. It didn't ask for anything in return. It was simply the sort of message I would have wanted to receive if I were having the kind of day Thane had just endured.
Before I could change my mind, I pressed send. The message slipped into the conversation thread.
And then there was nothing left to do but wait.
For the first minute, I told myself I wasn't waiting for a response. By the second minute, I was very obviously waiting for a response.
The message sat there exactly as I'd sent it, looking strangely small against the backdrop of a social media account followed by millions of people. It occurred to me that my words had just landed in the same inbox that was probably being flooded with messages from reporters, fans, teammates, former teammates, sponsors, and people who suddenly felt compelled to share their opinions.
Mine was likely one drop in an ocean. That realization should have made me feel better. Instead, it made me refresh the conversation.
Nothing changed.
I set my phone down on the coffee table and picked up my book. I managed half a page before I checked the screen again. The message remained exactly where it had been before.
Unread.
No typing indicator.
No response.
I laughed softly at myself and dropped my head back against the couch.
"What exactly did you expect?" I asked the empty apartment.
The question was fair. Thane wasn't sitting around waiting for messages from people he'd met in a bar and then had sex with.
He had just come out in front of an entire league, an entire city, and probably half the sports media in North America. Compared to everything happening in his life, my message barely registered as a ripple.
