I need her.
My phone buzzes with a text from Cole.You readyto win the Stanley Cup?
Me: I'll be there.
I stand up, dislodging Princess, who whimpers in protest. “Sorry, girl. Gotta go win a championship.”
She tilts her head like she understands.
All the guysin the locker room are dealing with the pressure differently. Some pacing, some silent, some cracking jokes to mask their nerves
This is it. Game seven. Stanley Cup on the line. Winner takes all.
We've fought through four rounds of playoffs to get here. Now we're facing Denver, a team that's equally hungry.
The series has been brutal. Four games to four, every win hard-fought, every loss devastating. And now it comes down to tonight.
Home ice. Our building. Our fans.
Cole stands in the middle of the room, and the noise dies down.
“Gentlemen,” he says. “This is what we've worked for all season. This is the moment that defines us.”
He pauses, looking at each of us in turn.
“But here's the thing. It's just hockey. It's just a game. We've played hundreds of games together. Tonight is no different.” Another pause. “Except it is different. Because tonight, we have a chance to be remembered. Not just as a good team, but as champions.”
The energy in the room intensifies.
“So let's go out there and play our game. Fast, physical, disciplined. Trust your training. And trust that you belong here.” Cole's eyes land on me for just a second. “We all belong here. Now let's go win a fucking Stanley Cup!”
The room erupts in cheers.
I close my eyes and try to focus. Try to push thoughts of Avery aside and get my head in the game.
But all I can think is, what's the point of winning if I can't share it with her?
The game is everything a game seven should be. It’s intense, physical, teetering on the edge of chaos. Ethan, our best defenseman, takes a heavy blow to the boards and has to be carried off the ice. Denver scores first, and the arena goes quiet. We manage to tie it up in the second period. They get ahead again. We tie it again.
Back and forth, both teams refusing to break.
Third period, tied 3-3, five minutes left.
I'm on the ice for what feels like the hundredth shift of the night, and my legs are burning and my lungs are screaming, but I refuse to feel any of it.
Jake has possession in the neutral zone. He sees me streaking down the left wing and sends a perfect pass. I'm past Detroit’s defenseman, one-on-one with the goalie.
Time slows down.
I can hear the crowd roaring.
I shoot.
The puck sails past the goalie's glove and hits the back of the net.
Goal.
The crowd explodes.
