Page 169 of For the Record
I let myself believe it when Fox keeps the puck on his tape and Florida stops playing completely.
For the first time tonight, I let myself picture it. The horn. The Cup. Her face.
Five.
Helm grabs my jersey.
Four.
Kettler’s hand lands on my shoulder.
Three.
Two.
One.
The horn sounds.
Volk drops his stick and raises both hands in the air, the widest smile I’ve ever seen on his face. Fox and Logan crash into me from either side, and we drift toward him. The rest of the team flies off the bench and collides with us.
The ice fills with abandoned gloves, sticks, helmets. Noise rushes back in all at once—the crowd, my teammates, someone screaming directly into my ear. I grab whoever’s closest, and I think I yell too.
We fucking did it.
The reality of it hits me, and the first place I look is at her.
Not Coach. Not my teammates. Not the bench. Not the crowd.
Her.
She’s crying and laughing at once, both hands over her mouth.
“We did it,” I yell. I don’t know if she reads my lips, but she nods.
This isn’t the first promise I’ve kept this year, but this one took the longest to follow through on. She’s going to come down here, and I’m going to spin her around and kiss her. Just like I told her I would.
Helm gets an arm around my neck and pulls me under, and the last thing I see before I disappear into the pile is Summer Starling.
