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“Poor bastard just outed himself on national television.” Henri's heart panged in sympathy. He didn’t know what he’d do in Nilsson’s position. Nilsson at least had superstar status to protect him. Unless… “Do you think this is why he left Portland?”

Dylan’s face scrunched up. “I thought Portland of all places wouldn't care.”

“This is hockey. You step into any rink in any city, and it’s all the same. If anyone in management is a bigot, you’re fucked.” He’d seen it in locker rooms before. A manager or coach or the star player, they set the tone. Nilsson got out of Portland in a hurry when he seemed set to play his whole career there.

“Well, fuck.” They watched the footage repeat a few more times before a panel of commentators took over. Dylan muted it again in disgust after only a few seconds of speculation on what this meant for Nilsson’s career. “He’s one of the best players in the league. This should have zero effect on his career.”

His tone made it clear he understood that wasn’t true, no matter how much it should be. The silence that filled the room made it clear Henri agreed with the sentiment and the helplessness the situation instilled.

“Maybe I should…reach out?” Dylan asked. “I…I can’t join him.” He looked at Henri with wide-eyed terror and apology. “Would it be weird if I said anything publicly? Would people think…?”

Would I be putting us in danger?

“Do you have his number?” Henri asked. Most captains had each other’s contact info for whatever it was that captains did. Nilsson wasn’t a captain anymore, but he had been for the Prowlers for years.

“Uhh probably. Never really talked to him because he’s kind of annoying,” Dylan said as he turned his phone back on and started scrolling through his contacts. There was one labeled Little Nilsson , which he quickly renamed Lars Nilsson .

“What am I called in your phone?” Henri asked dubiously.

“Hen. Used to be Baptiste.” He stared at the screen, a year’s old text exchange about a long-gone All-Star game staring back. “What do I say? What could anyone say in a situation like this?”

“Just offer support and acknowledge that it’s a tough position. He’s probably swamped with messages right now. He won’t remember what you say, just that you said something. One of the people who was kind when he needed it.”

Dylan ran a hand over his beard and considered. Henri got up to give him the space to do so without an audience. He grabbed bowls and plates before digging through the pantry. It seemed like a comfort food kind of night, and Henri wasn’t enough of a cook to make any of Dylan’s favorite dishes besides cereal and toast. His hands trembled as he put the bread into the toaster. Poor Nilsson.

But…it could be the start of something, right? Nilsson accidentally took the first steps, that scary first leap, but he might be paving the way for the rest of them. There were a couple of other out players, but they were small fries in comparison to Lars fucking Nilsson. An AHL player and a fourth-liner.

Henri didn’t think it would change much in the near future—he wouldn’t be outing himself, not intentionally, for as long as he could help it—but it took a lot of blows to chisel away at something this entrenched in a culture. The NHL, for all its Pride Nights and assurances that it was inclusive, wasn’t set up for openly queer players. Even the ‘good’ teams that hired and promoted queer staff, they kept it to the background. Before this season, Henri had never thought it was just him staying quietly in the closet. It was statistically impossible for him. But it was a matter of self-preservation to keep your head down and your mouth shut.

It honestly would take a Lars Nilsson or a Dylan Everett coming out to matter. The rest of them would get completely buried if they tried.

He really hoped Nilsson didn’t get buried. They were all doomed if he did.

Dylan came over eventually, lighting up at the sight of his favorite cereals on the counter. Even so, he still looked exhausted.

“Breakfast for dinner?”

“It’s about my skill level. Did Nilsson reply?”

Dylan shook his head. He hesitated, hand outstretched like he couldn’t decide which cereal he wanted. He ended up with Fruit Loops. “I don’t think he saw it. His phone is probably blowing up right now. I’ve gotta be low on the list of people to respond to.”

“If he asks you to make a statement?”

“Then I will. If I’m asked, I’ll say I’m on his side. I think it’s safe to say this should have nothing to do with his position in the league or on his team. He has a right to play. This shouldn’t even be news, for fuck’s sake, with what some of the guys in the league do.”

There’d been scandals throughout the years. Players who gambled, who did drugs, who cheated on their wives, who got into drunken bar fights…so much more and worse than simply being gay. Except there was one main difference: while the league and management might find all of those things distasteful, a player’s sexuality was the only thing on the list that they couldn’t quit. For as many people shunned for their behavior, there was always the promise that they could be reformed. All those memorized speeches about how ‘I learned my lesson, it was a mistake, it’ll never happen again’ didn’t apply here.

The best Nilsson could’ve ever offered was ‘I’m sorry I got caught, I’ll make sure it won’t happen again.’ Which, given his temper and tendency to mouth off, might not be true.

“I agree,” Henri said. “It shouldn’t be news. And hopefully, in a decade, it won’t be for other players. But this is Lars Nilsson. They can’t ignore him. They can’t erase him. If the Prowlers found out and weren’t happy, the best they could hope for was moving him and him shutting up.”

“One for two ain’t bad,” Dylan grumbled. He buried his face in his hands and groaned loudly.

“The league won’t be able to sweep it under the rug,” Henri said. “They like to pretend this isn’t a thing, but it would require a lot of denial to make this go away.”

As bad as he felt for Nilsson—this was undeniably a shitty situation for him—there was certainly the chance this would be not entirely horrible for the rest of them. Like there’d been a solid steel wall between players like them and the kind of life they wanted for themselves, one that seemed impossible to chip away at or crack or climb over…but now, with Lars Nilsson screaming on a nationally broadcast game that he was gay, it wasn’t a solid wall anymore. It wasn’t as thick or as impenetrable as they’d believed. There might even be a little crack in it now, the outline of a door that they might be able to pry open.

Dylan peeked through his fingers at him. “What are you saying?”