29. Brody
29 /
brody
June
The roar of the crowd thundered in my ears, a wave of sound propelling me across the blue line. Near our goal, Harpy was locked in a brutal duel with Dallas’s captain, fighting to take possession of the puck. Riley was yelling something I couldn’t make out over the noise, but I knew his voice well enough to catch the meaning: “Be ready, Tanner.”
I was ready—hyper-alert, with every muscle in my body coiled tight and each nerve vibrating with anticipation. Overtime in game six of the Stanley Cup Finals wasn’t just a pressure cooker; it was the hockey version of Armageddon. We were up three games to their two, so a victory tonight would clinch the series and give the Cup to Buffalo for the first time in decades.
Harpy succeeded in stealing the puck and took off, his skates slicing through the ice as he streaked toward Dallas’s zone. Brett Carson, Harpy’s right winger, was already there, hugging the boards as Richie Mason cut toward the net. I dropped back to cover, scanning the ice for any Thunder player who was ready to tear into them.
That’s when it happened, a bad bounce. The puck clipped Harpy’s stick and spun free, ricocheting straight toward a Dallas winger who was ready to go. My heart dropped into my gut, and my legs moved on instinct, pushing off hard as I skated backward, positioning myself to cut him off. Riley darted toward the center, trying to seal the lane, but Dallas’s man sped toward us like a runaway freight train. We were in trouble.
The Thunder’s bench erupted as their man closed in on Gabe. We were in Warrior Arena, but the fans were split because many Dallas fans had poured into Buffalo to witness the game. Half the crowd was screaming for us to stop the goal while the other half was yelling for Dallas to force a game seven. My lungs were on fire as I closed the gap, but the Thunder winger had already cocked his stick. A wicked shot came off the blade with a sickening crack, and for a terrifying second, all I could do was watch.
Gabe lunged to his right, striking like a snake. Thwack! The puck disappeared into his glove, and the ref blew his whistle. Relief hit me so hard I nearly crumpled, but there was no time to rest. The puck was still in our zone, and the faceoff would be crucial.
Harpy skated toward the dot, jaw set and eyes blazing. Riley tapped me on my shin pad with his stick, and then we reset, both of us scanning the ice. I couldn’t look at Gabe. There was so much pressure on him in this game, I didn’t understand how he held up under the stress. His saves were critical for us, and if I thought too much about the weight he was carrying, I’d lose focus on my own job.
The ref dropped the puck, and Harpy won the draw, tapping it back to me. The biscuit found my stick, and I sent it up the boards. Carson caught the pass, pivoting to avoid a Dallas defenseman before shoving the puck down the wall to Richie Mason. Richie cut toward the crease, and for a heartbeat, it looked like he might stuff it home. Then the Thunder’s goalie sprawled, his pad smothering the puck as Richie slammed into the boards, cursing so loudly I heard him from down the ice.
The whistle blew again, and we were back to the grind. Shift after shift, we all tried our best, but no one scored. Holky came close, Logan was winding up to shoot when a Dallas winger checked him off course, and Jax sent Dallas a slapshot I felt sure would go in. Sadly, it veered slightly right and bounced off the goalpost. Each play was a do-or-die moment, and the game ate at my nerves. Every time the puck came near, I used my stick as an extension of my arm—slashing, deflecting, controlling. We never let up, and I could practically smell adrenaline in the air. Yet the Thunder kept coming, wave after wave, apparently powered by a nuclear reactor.
In the back of my mind, I couldn’t stop thinking about Gabe. He was a fortress, saving our asses more times and ways than I could count. He had to be exhausted. His movements were razor sharp, but when I sneaked a glance, I could see the tension in his shoulders. How many more heart-stopping saves could he make? If we lost, could he survive a game seven?
As I skated to the bench for another line change, I locked eyes with him for the briefest moment. His message was clear: Stay in it, Brody. We’ve got this.
The period raged on. Every shift was a battle, and each shot on goal was a chance to end the agony. The clock ticked as the minutes became a blur of yells, sweat, and exhaustion. But I felt it deep in my chest—a whisper of possibility, the belief that if we hung on long enough, our break would come.
It did. Our line hit the ice again, and within seconds, Harpy had the puck on his stick, weaving through the neutral zone. Richie zoomed down the wing, ready for a pass if Harpy needed to get rid of the puck. Then— shit —the puck slipped loose and skittered toward me. I was barely on our side of the blue line, and my stick found it like it had a mind of its own.
I dug my skates into the ice and took off, jets blazing, into the Thunder’s zone. Their defense closed in fast, but I jinked hard, cutting left, then right. Somehow, I blew past them, soaring toward Dallas’s goal. For an instant, everything froze: no crowd, no teammates, no Thunder players bearing down on me. It was just me, the puck, and the faintest sliver of daylight over the goalie’s blocker.
I wound up, and the power exploding in my legs surged upward as I swung. The puck flew off my stick, taking my pounding heart along for the ride.
Thwank! Rubber met iron, and the puck ricocheted behind the net.
Mason pounced and sent it to Harpy, who was waiting at the slot. Harpy wound up, his blade slicing the air before connecting with the puck. My heart stopped when the shot bounced off the goalie’s blocker and slid back into open ice.
It careened toward Riley, who snagged it and swiveled to get into position for a shot. As he came around, our eyes locked. In that heartbeat, we both knew it: I had the better shot. Without hesitation, he dished it to me, and I shot off the pass. The puck flew off my blade at an angle only the hockey gods could love.
The tender flashed his glove, but he was a millisecond too late, and the puck flew into the back of the net. After a second of disbelief, the crowd erupted into a deafening wave of cheers that shook the arena on its foundations. I barely heard the goal horn, but the flashing red light was all I needed. Hell yes! The Warriors had won the fucking Cup.
Harpy was on me, crushing me in a hug while he screamed in my ear. Mason, Carson, and Riley tackled us, and our bench exploded. The boys stormed the ice, and in seconds, I was surrounded by a mob of teammates. Between the crowd’s clamor and the blaring music, they must have heard the noise in Toronto.
All at once, Gabe was there. The guys parted, and he grabbed me in a bear hug. His voice was hoarse as he yelled something I couldn’t hear over the chaos. Before I could shout a response, we went down, buried under a pile of Warriors.
Squished under the weight of the team, Gabe and I held onto each other, and he kissed me. It was slow and deep, like nothing else in the world mattered. When we finally broke the kiss, he yelled, “I’m so fucking proud of you. See what you can do when you’re happy!”
The rest of the time at the arena was a beautiful haze in my memory. The presentation of the Cup to Jax, who hoisted it and then handed it off to me, was one of the proudest moments of my life. In the locker room, the party was so wild the PR people locked it down tight. Criswell made his rounds, and when he got to me, he grabbed me in a tight hug. “Damn, kid, you’re unstoppable.”
The press conference was a blur of questions and flashbulbs. I was surprised to be seated at the table along with Harpy, Gabe, and Jax. It was the first time I’d ever been at the center of a presser.
After we all showered, the entire team went out. A loud mix of players, wives, boyfriends, and girlfriends filled Revolution Hops with laughter and clinking glasses. We filled the Cup with champagne so every Warrior could have a drink, and there were endless rounds of cheers from the jubilant fans who’d filled the place to capacity. I could barely focus on any of it; my attention kept drifting to Gabe, who was never far from my side.
We eventually slipped away and found a quiet corner on the rooftop. The city stretched out before us, the sounds of other nearby celebrations ringing out in the summer air. The Warriors hadn’t won a Cup for twenty-three years, and I was glad to have had a part in that. Gabe pulled me close, and I melted into his kiss.
He grinned when we parted, his eyes glinting under the string lights. “Remember how skittish you were at first? I thought I’d never have a shot.”
I couldn’t help laughing, even as a lump rose in my throat. As I gazed into his eyes, I still couldn’t believe my luck. Winning the Cup was monumental, but it paled compared to having Gabe in my life. “Well, staying away from you was my goal at first, at least in theory. You know why.”
He nodded, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “Yes, and I know how far you’ve come since then. I told you in Boston that I was in awe of you, and I’m even more so now. You’ve faced so much and come back stronger every time. I couldn’t be any luckier than to have you.”
Happiness swelled in my chest until it almost hurt. My eyes stung, but I blinked quickly, refusing to let the tears fall. The lump in my throat didn’t keep me silent. “I don’t see how I could’ve made it through without you. You’ve changed my life, Gabe, helped me turn everything around. I’m the lucky one.”
He cupped my cheeks in his hands, and his deep, glistening eyes held me in place like an anchor. “Yeah? I guess we’ll have to agree to disagree about who’s lucky.”
I wrapped my arms around him and held on as tightly as I could. “Can we both say we’re lucky and leave it at that?”
He brushed his lips over mine, his kiss as soft as his smile. “Let’s do that. I always knew you were the smart one.”
The next kiss lingered, deeper this time but still laced with sweetness. Finally, I’d relaxed enough to let myself believe it would always be this way. Life was extraordinary, and I wouldn’t let myself forget it. Not now, not ever.