Page 1 of Victory Lap

Chapter 1: Avi

Kerimore is asleep in the Stanley Cup.

I considered moving her. The keeper considered it too. He is a serious man in white gloves. He travels everywhere the Cup travels. This morning he watched my cat climb the counter, assess the bowl, and pour herself into it like it had been engineered for her. He made a phone call. He listened, looked at the cat, listened some more.

“She stays,” he said finally, with the gravity of a man amending a constitution. “There will be a form.”

“What kind of form?” I asked.

“Incident report. Non-damage. Category: other.” He looked at the cat for a long moment. “There is no box for this. I will be writing in the margin.”

I signed the form. She stays. The most famous trophy in hockey holds maybe eight pounds of cat, and she fills all of it. I am not going to be the one who tells her to leave. I have seen what happens to people who tell her things.

The caterer arrived at nine. A barbecue place from Ash’s list. I did not fight this. There is a version of feeding thirty people that ruins your own party, and I have watched other men host that version. What I made is on the counter next to the Cup. Karjalanpiirakka, four dozen, started at six this morning with the radio off.

Today is my day with the Cup.

There were options. The league sent a schedule in June. I looked at the line with my name on it for longer than a line deserves. Finland was possible. A lake I know there. Helsinki, where my father’s name opens doors. Somewhere with cameras, if I wanted cameras. That has never once been true.

I wrote down my own address.

Ash found the schedule on the counter that night. He read it and said nothing, which is not a thing Ash typically does. So I stood in the doorway and watched him not say it. He put his hand flat on the page. Held it there. Then he looked up with his face doing the thing his face does. “I’ll make a list,” he said. The day became this.

By noon the yard is full. I have stopped counting people and started counting plates. Plates are honest. People will tell you they are fine. Plates tell you who came back three times. Today that is Berger, who is standing at the food line rating my catering to anyone within range.

“This is an eight-nine,” he says. “Maybe a nine-one when the brisket’s ready.”

“The second tray comes at three.”

“Then why am I not holding the first tray?”

“Because you rated my yard a seven.”

“The yard is a seven, Cappy. The yard has no shade structure. I’m not going to lie to you on your Cup day. That’s not what we do.”

I hand him the plate I was building for myself. He closes his eyes when he eats. He does not know that he does that. I file the eight-nine under things Berger says instead of thank you.

I surrendered my kitchen an hour ago. Lundmark wanted the stove. Soucy wanted to supervise Lundy. There is a version of hosting that means doing everything. There is another version that means knowing when your house is being borrowed by people who need to borrow it. I took the second one. Through the window, Lundy moves as if the kitchen is his crease. Economical. Unhurried. Soucy leans on my counter with the settled weight of a man who has decided where he needs to be. Whatever they are saying in there is theirs. I stay outside instead.

Grayson stands by the cooler in his mismatched sneakers, talking with a cluster of my teammates. Coach comes through carrying the Cup itself, Kerimore riding in it, overseeing everything.

“Best money anybody ever spent,” he tells Grayson, tipping the Cup at the yard like evidence.

“Say that again before arbitration season,” Grayson says, “and I will have you gone from the team.”

“You’re joking,” Coach says.

“Mostly.” Grayson watches the yard over his sunglasses. “The calls started the morning after the parade. Half this roster got expensive overnight. My whole job this summer is saying no.”

Coach laughs and carries the Cup onward. Grayson does not laugh. I file that too.

Fontenot has discovered the cat in the Cup.

“The Bugs are going in the Cup,” he announces. “The kittens will be in the Cup when we have it. There will be pictures.”

“Leave them be,” Tikh says.

“We’re putting the kittens in the Stanley Cup, Tikhon. This is a core memory.”