The championship game was held in a stadium with smaller ice and way more seating than the one back home. There were also more lights and pyrotechnics, plus music blasting through the speakers at every possible lull. That combined with the swollen crowd and camera operators and drones up above made for a claustrophobic atmosphere to say the least. Also, the boards were extra bouncy here for some reason. Every time we tried to play off of them, or even just dump the puck, it ended up springing back at us unexpectedly and creating turnovers.

None of this seemed to be a problem for the seasoned Boston Badgers. They were fast. Every single one of them. I’d only been on the ice for maybe eight minutes so far and my legs were already tired from the effort of keeping up with them. Our defense was rock solid and our coverage in front of the net was pretty good too, but Monster was feeling the heat and earning his keep with all those saves.

There were no goals going into the second period, but the Badgers were killing us in the faceoff circle as well as leading us in shots twenty-two to thirteen. It was clear to everyone watching that we were chasing the game and only hanging on by a thread. And that thread finally snapped about eight minutes into the second when Chris, who was usually quiet, ended up tripping someone to stop a shot on goal. We were having a hard enough time keeping up with our opponents five on five. Shorthanded, it was nearly impossible. I managed one good clear before the Badgers’ point man snuck past Fish and got one in on a screened Monster.

The rest of the second was pretty quiet. We were desperate to get off of the ice and regroup. Honestly, I wasn’t even worrying about goals at that point, but luckily Shawser was. He got in a nice wraparound while the Badgers’ goaltender was distracted and looking for the puck. About three fifths of the crowd went wild and the goal horn sounded. Just like that we were all tied up.

During second intermission Coach pulled out his trump card: he had Ranger come hobbling from the friends and family suite and into our changing room.

“You guys are doing awesome,” he lied.

I don’t think that was quite what Coach was intending for him to say, but just seeing him was powerful enough. We weren’t just playing for ourselves. We were playing for him and our loved ones, and for the folks back home who had never seen their school win a championship title in any sport over the last thirty years. We were playing for all of the people who had ever made fun of us or told us that hockey didn’t belong in the desert. We were playing to prove to ourselves and to the world that we had everything it took to win. And that was exactly what we were going to do.

The third period of that hockey game was a full out brawl. Or, at least it would have been if we had the men to spare. The Badgers were doing absolutely everything they could to rough us up without actually dropping their gloves and fighting, and all we could do was take it. Of the nearly seven roughing minors I saw or felt, only two of them were called and each time the Badgers were able to easily kill it off. We refused to relent even one bit though, and the game went all the way down to the five second mark with both teams still tied at one.

Then something miraculous happened. The Badgers got a little bit lazy and I caught them on the tail end of a change. The puck that the opposing forward was trying to send backward into his own zone ended up on the end of my stick and I immediately ripped it across to Sal who went speeding toward the goal on a beautiful breakaway. When he was about a foot away from the goal, he wound up and got ready to make his shot, but before he could, he was yanked from behind and harshly upended by a Badgers’ defenseman.

The linesman blew the whistle and we all rushed to see if Sal was okay. Matty and Spence helped him up while I checked him for blood. Shawser looked on with folded arms and worried eyes. Sal groaned a bit and gave him a thumbs up. One of the refs came over to confirm as much and then held up one finger, signaling for us to stay put. Then he went out to center ice to deliver his verdict. Sal was going to be awarded a penalty shot.

The captain looked back at me with wide eyes. It was one of the only times I had ever seen him look nervous. Part of me wished I could take the burden off of him, but I also knew in my heart that he would not miss. I told him as much. He nodded and then bumped fists with me as I returned to the bench with everyone else on the ice. Both teams sat there and watched with bated breath as Sal stood at center and waited for the whistle. He looked so much tinier standing out there by himself, but I wasn’t worried. He knew how to skate like the best of them and he was a master at using his size to his advantage.

The whistle blew and Sal started moving. He opted to go in a loose slaloming motion that allowed him to both pick up speed and confuse the goaltender’s eyes. He didn’t stop or slow down to shoot. He just ripped it to the right as he was coming up on the goaltender’s left. That goaltender stuck out his hand and stretched his leg as fast as he could, but it wasn’t fast enough. The puck crossed the line clear as day. Even I could see it from here. The crowd exploded, as did our bench. With only five seconds left on the clock, this game was practically ours.

I went back out on the ice with my linemates to deafening applause and stood front and center for what would most likely be the final face off of the game. The player I was squaring off against was practically snarling at me, but I didn’t give him anything in response, not even a smile. I was too busy trying to keep my heart from beating out of my chest. The final seconds of the game seemed to move in slow motion. I got control of the puck and kept it, skating as far up the ice as I could until the time ran out. When it did, I dropped my stick and ran back to my teammates who tackled me into a group hug that only got bigger as everyone else spilled onto the ice.

Somewhere overhead was the sound of a man announcing our win, but he could barely be heard over the mixed boos and cheers coming from the crowd. Red and yellow balloons were raining down on top of us, and I couldn’t help the manic burst of laughter that bubbled up inside of me. We had actually won.

A few minutes later our loved ones came running, or in Ranger’s case hobbling, out onto the ice. I caught the tail end of Sal kissing a teary-eyed Tiffany as well as Shannon and Steve full on making out. Vinny and Stole were both hanging onto a grinning Coach Hawthorne and McAvoy was gleefully helping Ranger support himself as he clapped everyone on the back.

There were parents and siblings and significant others everywhere, and finally I found mine. My mom ran over and nearly knocked me off my feet. She gave me a kiss on the forehead and whispered something about how amazing I was. Then every other coherent thought fled from my brain as Mark came into view. He was wearing one of my practice jerseys over tight skinny jeans and his eyes were wild and so very proud. He smiled his devastatingly bright smile at me and all I wanted to do was take him into my arms and kiss him, but there were cameras flashing everywhere. If I did that, I would never move past it. It would define me. I would be the gay player for the rest of my life.

Then, as if magically sensing my dilemma, my teammates started gathering around me once more. From the outside it would just seem like we were getting in one last team huddle, but what they were really doing was granting me and Mark one tiny moment of privacy despite being surrounded by nearly 30,000 people. I was so overwhelmed by the gesture that I nearly started to cry.

I turned to Mark and placed my palms on his chin. I gave him one soft, tender kiss and wrapped him up in my embrace.

“I love you,” I whispered. And I really, really did. I loved Mark. I loved this team. I loved my life.

I was stupidly, deliriously happy.