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“I’ll say we met at her wedding.”
She tsks me. “This isn’t a joke.”
“People are going to ask,” her mom adds.
“I don’t know...” I rub the back of my neck. “I’ll say... we met through a friend.” I throw up my hands.
Jordan laughs, and her dad coughs, trying to suppress a grin. At least someone thinks I’m funny.
“Camden, the Lakes are doing quite well this season, do you think you’ll be making the playoffs?” Frank Landry asks.Thank Christ, a change of topic.
“We’re at the top of the standings, if we can keep it up, we’ll certainly get there.”
“Camden is an incredible captain. He’s already made improvements to the lineup, and it’s made a real difference. I’m very proud of him.”
I thread my fingers in hers under the table. Her praise fills me with pride. Being the Lakes captain has been one of my greatest accomplishments, and I take the role seriously. That C on my chest has been the catalyst for a lot of my growth over the year.
“I’m going to do my damnedest to get us there. The boys deserve it.”
“We’re also proud of you, son,” my dad adds.
By the end of the dinner, everybody is tight and we have plans to grab dinner at Demi. At theLandry table, unreal. We stand in the foyer, and thankfully, neither of our families are big on the Midwest goodbye. Jordan waves them off and leans against the door with an exaggerated sigh and a relaxed smile. “We did it.”
“And nobody threw a punch.” I reach under her thighs and pick her up, pinning her to the door. “God, I love you. How did I get so lucky?”
“I have low standards,” she whispers. I slap the side of her ass, and she giggles.
“You think you’re real cute, huh?”
“I’m adorable.”
I slide the tip of my tongue up her neck and nip at her ear. “Youarepretty fucking adorable. What do you wanna do now?”
“Honestly?”
“Yeah.” I trail a line of kisses down to her shoulder.
“Watch a movie, get high, and maybe plow through a box of Little Debbie Zebra Cakes.”
I laugh. “Vanilla or chocolate?”
Her lips tip up in the corners. “A respectable hockey girlfriend always buys both.”
“A respectablestonerbuys both.” I chuckle.
“Okay, you get your stash, I’ll get a movie queued up.”
57
JUNE
Stanley Cup Finals.
“Go, go, go!!” I scream from the home bench. My nerves are exploding, and I’m operating on a whole ’nother level today. We all are. Because we’re playing for the one and only Stonkley Clonk, as we’re calling it. The whole team is too superstitious to actually say the name until we’ve earned it.
It’s the oldest trophy in professional sports, going back all the way to 1893, where it’s been passed from team to team since. There are no reproductions, there is only one Stanley Cup. The one we all want our names on so we can live eternally in the Hall of Fame as champions.
We’ve had the most challenging season of all our careers, making it this far. Playoffs have always separated the men from the boys, and we’ve walked through hell to get here. We’ve been playing every other day for two months. Traveling and being away from our families. We’ve been wrestling with crippling fatigue, shot nerves, and injuries. Allfor a chance at greatness. We’ve worked our asses off. We are burned out and starving for it.
