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“Well.” Momma B squeezes my forearms which are pinned at my sides. “It’s good to have you here.” She looks around me and spots the rest of my teammates. “You all stay away from the garage. There’s no need to risk accidentally touching the Stanley Cup.”

“Actually,” Ander says, “I think that’s exactly what we need them to do.” He claps me on the shoulder and his hand lingers, warm on my skin, for longer than necessary. I bristle. This constant touching thing is clearly a family trait. Except for Brandon. He’s generally only clingy when it comes to Ryan.

“No, it’s not,” Brandon says, coming to join us. He’s changed into his street clothes. A pair of threadbare gray sweatpants and white tank top. I don’t know what he was so embarrassed about in that bikini. His current outfit isn’t offering him that much more coverage.

He points his finger at his brother. “No cheating,” he scolds. “If I catch you trying to push any of my teammates into that damn cursed cup, I will murder you.”

Ander removes his hand from my shoulder and places Brandon in a head lock. “I’d like to see you try, little brother.”

He easily overpowers him. Brandon tries to slip away, but Ander deftly wrestles him to the ground. I shake my head, wondering how I ended up here. This is the house of the man who I just lost to.

“Alright. Knock it off,” Momma B says, pulling Ander off Brandon by his shirt collar.

“Have they always been like this?” Danton asks.

“Yes,” Ryan and Momma B say together as Ryan extends his hand down for Brandon. He pulls him back up to his feet.

It’s almost strange how quickly seeing Ryan and Brandon do things like that for each other has become completely normal. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. Ever since Brandon joined the team, even before they started dating, the two have been completely inseparable. Touching, talking, sharing rooms when we travel. I never see one without the other.

“Ryan, sweetie,” Momma B says to him with soft affection. She grabs his cheeks first then pulls him into a hug. “It’s good to see you.”

A slight ache runs through me. Okay, maybe I do like her hugs more than I’m willing to let on. But that doesn’t make the frequency and intensity of them any less weird.

Everything is so different here. Where I’m from, this type of easy affection doesn’t exist. Where I’m from there are no warm billet moms eager to let you into their home and into their arms. There are no cozy houses filled with hockey memorabilia. There are no boisterous neighborhood parties like the one I hear going on in the backyard, where a town comes out to celebrate one of their own winning one of the hardest trophies in sports, not just once, but twice now.

Growing up in Russia, my life was nothing but pressure and a drive for perfection. If any of my teams ever won, there was no celebration, just a ride home getting picked apart for the single goal I still let in. Or any time I had to scramble, narrowly stopping the puck from getting in. And if I lost, being picked apart would have been a blessing.

Perfection all the time. That’s what was expected of me. Even after being here in North America for the last decade, it’s what I still expect for myself. And why I spent the long car ride up in the back seat of Danton’s Audi, silently wondering what the hell I was doing.

Needing to get away, I excuse myself and make my way out the back door toward the music I’m hearing. I’ll hand it to Ander. He at least got himself a decent DJ. I’ve gotten used to hearing the country music most other hockey players tend to blare, so the steady and heavy house beats I feel rattling my bones are an unexpected treat.

Right outside the door, there’s a cooler full of beer on ice. I grab one and twist the cap off. I’d prefer vodka. It would suit my mood better, but I don’t particularly feel like asking for some. Where would I even start? Ander. Yeah, I’ll pass. He’s a nice guy and all, but I’ve already had enough of his puppy-like energy. It’s always been my impression that he never stops.

Bringing the beer to my lips, I do the one thing I know my teammates wish desperately that I wouldn’t. I go to look at the cup. I won’t touch it. I’m not that reckless. But I at least want to look at it.

At the moment, there’s only a few people standing around it. In the corner of the garage, I can see Joe and his team keeping a close eye on it, guarding it like it’s some important dignitary. In a way, it kind of is. This cup has traveled the world more times than one can count. It’s been to over twenty-five countries. It even made it to Siberia a handful of times. Once, to my hometown of Krasnoyarsk. I was five at the time, and even then, my father made sure I didn’t come close enough to touch it.

“You can only touch it if you win it,” he said. “And you must be perfect if you are ever going to win.”

Well, by his logic, it’s unlikely I ever will get the chance.

But as I walk around it, I study it. Leaning in close, I read some of the engraved entries of winning teams around its rings. I look for Russian names. Fellow countrymen of mine who have hoisted it. I look for signs of the Mules even though I know I’ll never find them. We are one of only a handful of franchises yet to lift the cup. We’ve come close. No closer than we did just six weeks ago when we almost had it. One goal. That’s all it took. Just one goal that I couldn’t stop and now here I am standing close enough to touch it, to lift it, to feel the cold metal under my palms, and yet I have to stay away.

“Only winners get to touch the Stanley Cup,” my father’s voice says in my mind.

And I am no winner.

Ander

I don’t know what to think as I watch Ivanov circle the Stanley Cup, his eyes staring intensely like he’s memorizing every detail. He looks so focused right now. Poised. As if he’s going to be tested on it when he steps away. As if Joe is going to ask him to recite by memory every name that is engraved on it. Which includes mine. Twice.

Blindly, I dig my hand deep into the cooler. I wasn’t going to open this until later, but right now, a sip from this freezing cold bottle of vodka sounds like a refreshing idea. An idea that I wonder if Ivanov might be into as well. He looks like he could use it as he brings his bottle of beer to his lips. He grimaces after he takes a sip.

“Ivanov!” I call out to him, breaking him from his intense concentration on the cup.

He stands up tall, stoic as he looks across the backyard to me. A few of our guests have turned to look at him as well. It’s as if they finally now realized that there was another NHL goalie in their midst. I’m not surprised no one recognized him. Since we spend so much time behind our masks, we’re not that easy to spot without our names and numbers embroidered across our backs.

A few of the party goers, mostly neighbors, old coaches, and teammates from my days before going pro and their kids, bump me on the shoulder or stop me to give me a quick congratulations once again as I walk across the yard. I, of course, acknowledge them all, but at this moment, all I really want to do is make my way to Ivanov to offer him a drink. A proper drink. A drink that might wash that serious demeanor of his away.