Page 4 of Victory Lap

I grab the fence. I need the fence. Somewhere across the yard, Avi catches my eye and raises one eyebrow a quarter inch, which in Ikonen is a standing ovation, and I mouth the word framed at him, because I am getting it framed, and he shakes his head and goes back to the brisket line. He knows exactly what just happened. Someday I’m going to find out what that scale is and where it comes from, and I think it’s going to explain this entire family to me.

The light does the thing Atlanta does in July around eight. The yard goes gold, all of it. The humidity finally admits it’s beautiful. And Baz is lying flat on his stomach on our patio with his phone held sideways, whispering encouragement to the cat in the Cup.

“You’re a legend,” he tells her. “You’re an icon. Give me the paw. Cher. The paw.”

Kerimore gives him the paw, over the rim, like royalty confirming a treaty. Baz makes a sound only dogs should hear. Avi comes to stand next to me behind the Cup with two waters, because he has decided I’ve had enough beer to become sentimental. That was true an hour ago.

“Move,” Baz says, waving at us without looking up. “You’re in my shot. This is her moment.”

And Avi, who does not perform, who once gave an entire press conference in eleven words, who has spent his whole life deciding exactly how much of himself a camera gets, puts two fingers under my chin, tips my face over, and kisses me behind the Stanley Cup in the gold light in our own backyard.

I hear the shutter going. Baz shoots the way he plays, constantly and with commitment. He was aiming at a cat. He keeps shooting anyway. And I am being kissed by a man who tastes like the pastry he swore he wasn’t going to eat off the tray, and I’m laughing into it, and he’s not stopping. The Cup is right there with a paw hanging over the rim. Somewhere behind us, our teammates are talking, and celebrating, and enjoying the victory. This is my life. This is my actual life.

“Okay,” Baz says, scrolling, when we surface. “Cat. Cat. Cat, majestic. Cat, blurry. Cat, war crime, deleting. And then, uh.” He stops scrolling. He looks at the screen, then at us and his face goes soft. “Then there’s this one.”

He turns the phone around.

The Cup blazes at the near edge of the frame, out of focus. The paw is on the rim. And behind it, sharp, in the gold, there we are. My eyes are closed. Avi’s aren’t quite. His fingers are under my chin and I’m mid-laugh and he’s mid-kiss. Nobody in that picture is performing anything. It looks like what it is. That’s the whole review. It looks exactly like what it is.

“Send me that,” Avi says quietly.

“Already did,” Baz says. “Both of you. Timestamped. You’re welcome. Now move. She’s doing the paw again.”

Later, the house is ours again. The keeper collected the Cup off the counter at ten, wearing the face of a man who plans to professionally forget several things he saw today. The last cars pull out and now it’s just us and a kitchen that’s filled with leftover food. Avi loads the dishwasher his way, which is the only way. I sit on the counter where the Cup was, and I hold my phone, and I look at the picture for a long time.

“We don’t have to do anything with it,” I say. “It can just be ours.”

He closes the dishwasher. Leans on the counter next to my knee. On the screen the gold is still going. The paw is still on the rim. His fingers are still under my chin.

“Inside the room is real,” he says. “Outside the room is real. And you don’t let them touch.” He looks up at me. “I made that rule because I was afraid of exactly this picture.”

“I know you did.”

“We also said we decide when those doors open. Us. Nobody else.” His hand settles on my thigh, thumb moving. “Nobody kicked this one open, Ash. It’s just standing there. And I want to walk through it. With you.”

“You’re sure?” I make myself say the rest. “Because once it’s out there, it’s out there. There’s no getting it back. It’s every broadcast. It’s every intermission panel. It’s the guy in the second row in Philadelphia with a sign.”

“Let him make a sign. I have a Cup.” He takes the phone out of my hand and sets it face down on the counter, which is how I know the next part matters. “I am done letting fear hold the door. Tomorrow the Cup is yours.” The smallest pull at the corner of his mouth. “So is this. Post it on your day. Loudly. It should be loud. It’s you.”

I look at this man in our kitchen. A year ago he answered fourteen napkin questions from a stranger because he was too polite to say no. Now he’s standing between my knees telling me to be loud.

“I’ll write the caption tomorrow,” I say. “I have drafts.”

“Of course there are.” He laughs. The real one. The one I used to collect like rare coins, the one I get every day now and still count anyway.

Team Chat #1

Berger

LIVE from the Cup schedule: rule four says “no submersion in any body of water, natural or artificial.” they made this rule because of somebody. somebody made them write this down

Thompson

it was murray’s kids and everyone knows it was murray’s kids

Murray

that was PARADE WEEK and we have apologized as a family