Chapter 39
Shea
Boston, MA. Game 5.
We led Chicago three games to one. If we won tonight, we'd hoist the Cup at home, and I'd finally accomplish a life's dream.
“Boomer!” one of my teammates shouted as I stepped into the dressing room for what I hoped would be my last NHL game.
“Evening, boys.” I looked around the room and saw some nerves. A blank stare. A fingernail, anxiously chewed. More than a few bouncing knees. But it wasn't a nervous, frightful energy—it was a giddy sort of optimism. Like me, these guys had trained their whole lives for this moment. It was so close, and now that it was here, it seemed almost too good to be true.
Well, fuck that. I'd waited longer than anyone else here, and I wasn't going to let this one slip by.
“This is it, boys,” I began. “It's what we've working for. Everyone's got a job to do, and you already know what that is, so I'm not going to remind you. Don't overthink it. Sixty minutes of solid hockey. That's it, that's all we need, from top to bottom.”
Twenty heads nodded.
We took the ice for warm-ups. I skated over and found Brynn with the kids, sitting front row. Brynn sat sandwiched between the boys—ever since she let them know that they'd have a new nanny once the playoffs were over, the poor boys had grown increasingly needy around her. They thought that if the playoffs ended tonight, they'd never see her again.
I slid to a stop in front of the glass and waved at the kids. They pounded on the glass and smiled from ear to ear. Chloe was too cool to wear a 'baggy, hideous' hockey jersey, but both boys wore their dad's name and number. Yup, that's right, Nick and Cam had renounced their Chicago fandom—at least for this series, anyway. That made me happier than I ever expected.
I winked at Brynn. I loved the way she smiled at me. How her eyes glittered, and she fought off a smile that threatened to spread across her entire face, and—
“Wow-ee, look at those bedroom eyes,” Lance joked as he coasted by and whacked my butt with his stick. “You really think your kids haven't figured it out yet, eh? You two are so obvious.”
I gave him a shove and chased after him.
***
An animal is most dangerous when it's cornered, and Chicago wouldn't go down without a fight.
From the moment the first puck was dropped, Chicago came at us, hard, fast, and heavy. Every loose puck was a dogfight, every hit was meant to hurt. Shots on both sides were rare and hard to come by—space in the defensive zone was too precious for either team to give up. Both teams protected their goalies. And if you wanted to go to the net, you had to pay the price.
By the end of the second period, neither team had scored. We returned to the dressing room for the intermission. We looked worn from battle: bruises, black eyes, a broken nose, more than a few fresh stitches, flushed cheeks, hair drenched with sweat, chests heaving for air.
There was something else, too. The boys were starting to get nervous that we hadn't yet scored. Everyone looked to me to say something, to say the magic words to rally the troops and lead them to victory.
I took a deep breath and did my duty as captain one last time.
“So we haven't scored. But neither have they. Boys, whatever desperation you feel right now, the other team is right through this wall”—I pounded my fist on the cinder block wall—“feeling the same way, but a hundred times worse. Like a boulder on their shoulders. Because if they don't score the next goal, they know they'll fold. They need the next goal, boys, but they're not going to get it, because it's ours.”
A few heads nodded.
“It's right there for the taking, boys. Let's wrap this up tonight. Let's lift the Cup on home ice, in front of our kids and our loved ones. Finish it off tonight, and you'll always be a legend in their eyes. I promise you, you'll never forget this night.”
More heads started nodding.
I cracked a grin. “So let's get it done. Send me riding off into the sunset, so I can retire and spend the rest of my life with that nanny, alright?”
My teammates booed and flung an assortment of sweaty towels at me. I laughed, swatting the towels away, and took my seat at my stall. But then the boys began a cheer, “For Boomer!”
Lance nudged my shoulder. “One last period to play, Captain. How's it feel?”
I couldn't stop smiling. “Honestly? I can't fuckin' wait, Lance.”
***
We returned to the ice for the start of the third period. I could sense right away that we'd loosened over the break—while Chicago had stiffened.
Right then and there, I had a good feeling the game was already won.
Five minutes into the third, we were staving off another Chicago attack. Ilya made a save, and the rebound bounced into the corner. I got there first and flung the puck around the boards, hoping my left wing could get there first. Lance and the Chicago d-man both raced to the puck, but Lance chipped the puck off the boards and past the d-man—and then turned on the jets to go streaking in on the Chicago goalie, all alone.
Lance doesn't screw up too many golden opportunities like that, and the crowd jumped to their feet, ready to blow the roof off the building if the young star could score.
Lance deked left, then right, then placed a laser of a shot right between the goalie's legs and into the net. The building shook as eighteen-thousand roaring fans jumped up and down in revelry.
The next fifteen minutes of play never felt so long in my life. Every shift felt more important than the last, every shot more dangerous, as Chicago desperately tried to tie the game.
But Ilya kept us alive, making one great save after another.
With under a minute left in the game, Chicago's urgency hit a fever pitch, and they threw everything they could at the net.
The crowd started the countdown: “ten, nine, eight, seven …”
Ilya tracked shots through traffic, snagging pucks out of air. The shots he didn't see happened to hit him—you have to be good to be lucky.
And precious seconds continued to roll off the clock.
“Three, two, one!”
Then the horn sounded and it was over.
We'd done it.
We'd really done it.
I raced over to Ilya and jumped into the goalie's arms—he toppled over and the two of us hit the ice.
“You did it, bud!” I yelled, laughing.
Our teammates weren't far behind. They hurried over and every last man jumped onto the dogpile, until Ilya and I were crushed under the weight of twenty of our closest brothers.
Next thing I knew, the Cup was being passed into my hands, and I hoisted it high into the air. Thirty-five pounds of silver held straight overhead, but to my arms, it felt totally weightless.
I skated the trophy right over to where my family sat. They jumped up and clapped, all of them, even Chloe, their expressions jubilant as they shared the moment with me.
“Thank you,” I mouthed to Brynn.
I couldn't have done it without you.