Page 97 of Gave Proof Through the Night

Then the ref drops the puck, and the rest of the world goes away except skates on the ice, blue sweaters, and the black disk.

East ties it early, a tip that finds iron then mesh. I register it and move on. There’s a scrum in front of our net not long after, all of us shoving, nobody actually swinging. Looks worse from the stands than it feels from inside it, probably. No whistle. We skate away from it laughing.

East finds a gear we haven’t in the second. Three unanswered, and for a few minutes the building sounds like one long groan from our side of it. I don’t spiral. There’s no room for it, not with the next three seconds always sitting right there in front of me. Somewhere in that stretch Dash buries the biscuit. We’re tied.

I fist-bump Dash, glove to glove, and keep moving.

East gets ahead again, twice more and they’re up six to four early in the third. But we’re not sitting on our hands, and Ted brings us up another point.

Then, about six minutes in, Stagmeier gets me with a cross-check, drawing a penalty for the Stripes, and a power play for us.

I find Stone in the right circle and set him up for a wrist shot. It’s in before the goalie’s weight finishes shifting. Six-six, we’re tied again.

With seconds left in the game, Houlihan moves in for the kill, and time stills for one split second. He’s going in for the winning shot. If he makes it, East takes home the cup. My heart skips a beat. The whole arena seems to hold one collective breath.

But Josh makes a savage blind glove save like he’s swatting a fly from the air. The final buzzer sounds.

The whole crowd stands up at once.

I can hardly believe it. We’re forced into sudden-death overtime.

Before getting off the ice to regroup in the locker room, I spare a glance at Erica. Her friend is chatting it up with a guy sitting next to them. But Erica has her nose to the glass, both palms pressed against it, and her jaw unhinged down to her chest.

Back in the locker room, it’s weirdly quiet. It feels like we’re holding vigil on the eve of war. I wonder, briefly, how it would have turned out if only the Revolutionary War was won by hockey instead of bombs bursting in air. It’s just a silly thought, and before I know it, we’re back on the ice.

East takes possession from the start, and less than a minute in, Kingston gets sent to the sin bin for hooking. During a power play, the Stripes almost score when Reeves takes a dangerous top-shelf shot, but Josh blocks it into the crease.

The crowd goes wild, and I take one split second to glance toward Erica. She’s on the edge of her seat, death-gripping the armrests until her knuckles go white.

And then, a miracle. The puck deflects off somebody’s stick and skitters loose. Tyson’s on it before it even settles, one motion, and clears it with a long pass to Dash, who’s wide open. Dash skates behind the net and wraps the puck around the pipe. The building comes apart. We win with a seven-to-six victory.

Erica’s on her feet, hat crooked, screaming along with eleven thousand strangers.

The dogpile on Dash lasts about forty-five seconds before somebody’s helmet goes flying. Then it's everybody's helmet, gloves, and sticks scattered across center ice like the world’s worst yard sale. We peel off him one at a time. Then the whole team is on Josh, tapping his pads, his helmet, whatever we can reach. He made the save that got us here.

The next forty minutes to an hour is a blur.

East and West shuffle into one long row for the handshake. Marchand saying something in French I don’t catch. Congratulations from some of my Olympic buddies who played for the Stripes.

They roll out a carpet across center ice. Tyson goes first, because that’s what captains do. Shakes the presenter’s hand. Lifts the cup over his head. The crowd roars. It makes it to me eventually, and I feel like I’m in a trance as I lift it. Similar to winning gold at the Olympics, this is one of the most surreal experiences of my career.

The locker room is a three-ring circus. Music’s up loud enough that conversation happens mostly by lip-reading. Stone’s found a bench to dance on, badly, on purpose. Somebody dumps a cooler of orange Gatorade over Coach’s head before he’s finished his first sentence to the reporters crowding the door.

I sit through the scrum still in gear, answer the same four questions eleven different ways. By the time I’m showered, the clock says almost two hours since the final buzzer.

Erica’s waiting by the family room doors in the GILL POWER hat. Standing next to her is Zoe, and by the looks of it, she’s posting game highlights on her phone.

“Zesty!” Erica pulls me down by the front of my hoodie for a kiss that gets a whistle from somewhere behind me I choose to ignore.

When we break apart, she introduces me to her friend.

Zoe extends a hand, deadpan. “We’ve met. Sort of.”

“Yes, you slammed the door in my face for not having Girl Scout cookies.”

“And I’d do it again.”

She’s already looking past me at whoever’s coming through the tunnel next, unbothered that half of them are on the opposing team. East. West. None of it seems to register.