Page 285 of On His Team

Percy lands somewhere near my shoulder.

Benson is still holding onto somebody.

Blue is shouting.

And for a few seconds, nobody tries to get up.

Four years in that house.

Every practice. Every fight. Every stupid rule on that whiteboard.

All of it.

We fucking did it.

The handshake line takes longer than I expect because nobody rushes it. Michigan is wrecked. Their goalie barely looks up. Their captain holds onto Benson’s hand for several seconds and says something to him, and Benson nods through all of it before pulling him into a quick hug.

By the time one of their defensemen reaches me, I’m putting less weight on my left leg than I mean to.

He looks down at it. “You good?”

“Yeah.”

He gives me a look that says he does not believe me, then laughs once and shakes his head. “Fucking hell. Congratulations.”

“Thanks.”

“Enjoy it.”

Then he moves on.

The ceremony starts before any of this feels real.

Championship hats appear from somewhere. Somebody shoves one onto my head while another person hands me a shirt with NATIONAL CHAMPIONS across the front. Officials roll a stage onto the ice, photographers start clustering around center, and the arena announcer is saying things I can’t process because half our team is still yelling over him.

Then Benson’s name comes over the speakers.

That gets through.

Our end of the building erupts again.

Benson skates toward center ice while the rest of us crowd around behind him. He takes the trophy from the official, looks at it for maybe half a second, then lifts it over his head.

Everything around me gets louder.

Benson Reeve, twenty-two years old, captain of this team, holding a national championship trophy over his head in the jersey he has worn for four years.

I know I’m going to remember this exact moment forever.

He gets approximately four seconds before Stanley reaches over and takes the trophy from him.

Benson lets him.

By the time families are allowed down near the glass, we’ve taken so many pictures that I have lost track of who half of them were for. I’ve skated a lap with the trophy, gotten pulled into three different group shots, and had at least six people clap me directly on the injured leg because apparently nobody in the building can see me limping.

Then I look toward the tunnel.

I find Gianna almost immediately.