Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
Bowen
I clomped along the rubber mat in the tunnel after warm-ups, and my skates thudded heavily with each step. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and the nip of ice, and perspiration trickled down my back, soaking into my gear. My lungs heaved from the exertion of warm-ups, muscles still tight with adrenaline, but there was a lightness in my chest that hadn’t been there before.
Parker. Warmth surged through me, cutting through the cool air of the tunnel. She had sacrificed her privacy—exposed her feelings to the arena, my teammates, and the media—to declare her love for me. Her courage humbled me.
And I’d returned the sentiment. Publicly. I could almost see the headlines now, the press having a field day with this unexpected love story unfolding right before the biggest game of my career. But, strangely, I didn’t care. Let them talk, let them speculate—none of it mattered. What mattered was Parker, and the way she’d chosen that moment to show her ultimate support—her love.
The tension that had been coiled tightly in my chest for days unraveled. Rather than being distracted, I felt centered, focused. Parker’s declaration had settled something deep within me. I could go into the game with a clear mind, knowing that the most important person in my life was behind me, cheering me on. The game ahead still loomed large, but no matter the outcome, I had already won something far more valuable.
The team filtered into the locker room. Derek punched my arm and sang in falsetto, “It’s a love stor-y,” with a playful grin.
“Asshole,” I said without heat and punched him back. Laughter erupted around the room, bouncing off the walls, teasing and good-natured. My lips twitched, and a chuckle threatened to burst out of my throat. I tamped it down, though my tone carried a tinge of amusement. “Fuckers.”
Chase wrapped an arm around my shoulders. “Congrats, man,” he said sincerely. “Couldn’t have happened to a better man.”
Heat rose in my cheeks from the unfamiliar sensation of being the center of attention. I grunted in response, the only sound I could manage.
Beck clapped my back, and I staggered a step forward. “Welcome to the club, dickwad.”
“Thanks,” I mumbled roughly. My stomach gave a little flip. Oh, for fuck’s sake. It was time to get my head in the game.
The locker room buzzed with a tense, electric energy. The collective anticipation vibrated through the air, thick and palpable. Red jerseys glared under the harsh fluorescent lights. The familiar smells of sweat, wet skates, and the faint hint of disinfectant filled my nostrils. Occasional outbursts of nervous laughter and swearing punctuated the low hum of conversation.
My heart pummeled my chest, a merciless drumbeat of excitement and anxiety. It was the culmination of a season’s worth of blood, sweat, and tears. From the bottom of the league to the brink of history, the Blazers were on the verge of achieving the impossible. Taping my stick, I glanced around at my teammates, each one lost in their own pre-game rituals, fierce resolve in their expressions.
The coaches spoke, each one reminding us of offensive and defensive strategies tailored to the game against Boston. I listened, focusing on each word, until I knew the game plan by heart.
When the coaches wound down, Beck stood up, commanding immediate attention. His eyes blazed with intensity as he looked at each player.
“Motherfuckers,” he began, informal yet powerful, “we’ve been through hell and back this season. We’ve fought, bled, and never once backed down. Tonight, we stand on the edge of greatness. This isn’t just a game—this is our moment. We play for each other, for every fan who believed in us, and for every doubter who said we couldn’t do it. We’ve come too far to let this slip away. Give everything on that ice. No regrets, no excuses. We win tonight, we make history. Let’s show the world what the Blazers are made of!”
My stomach lifted as if I was on a rollercoaster. The room erupted in cheers, the noise reverberating through my bones. Pride and savage determination coursed through my veins. I’d won Parker’s love, and I was ready to win the Cup.
When it was time to take to the ice, we surged to our feet, barreled down the tunnel, and burst through the smoking dragon’s head. The crowd’s roar hit me like a check to the boards, the heavy bass of hard rock thudding in my chest, and the flashing spotlights added to the chaos. My heart pounded in anticipation, a wild rhythm that threatened to overshadow my focus. I shoved down the gnawing fear of failure that threatened to rise within me; I would ruthlessly fight for every puck, every pass, every shot.
The preliminary ceremonies seemed endless, but I finally took my position around the face-off circle, my gaze laser-focused on the two players at the center of the ice. The referee dropped the puck, and Beck won the battle. The game exploded into action, and adrenaline flooded my veins like fire.
Four minutes into the game, Alec shot through a screen of players and Derek tipped the puck past Boston for the opening goal. We were on the board. The crowd erupted. Every goal counted, but it was too early in the game to bask in the moment. I took to the ice with a steely purpose, determined to show Boston what I could do.
With eight seconds remaining in the first period, Chase passed to me, and I backhanded a shot into the net. The crowd leaped to its feet, the din electric, while Beck and Chase smothered me in a celebratory hug. When we filed off the ice for the first intermission with the score 2-0, I glanced into the stands and Parker was jumping and waving her arms in the air, shouting a cheer. I couldn’t help the twitch of my lips.
Boston pressed hard in the second period, their goalie holding the score at 2-0. During the second intermission, frustration ate at me, and nerves thickened the air in the locker room. We didn’t have enough of a lead. Coach reamed our asses, his words cutting through the fog of fatigue. Anything could happen in the third period. As we skated back onto the ice, I clenched my teeth, hell-bent on maintaining our lead.
In the third period, Beck chased the puck into Boston’s zone and passed to Chase, who fired it past their netminder. The crowd’s roar was a symphony of triumph. With five minutes left in the game, I saw my chance. I shot over the goalie’s right shoulder; the puck slipped into the net. The score ticked to 4-0. I raised my stick in the air, a “Yes!” tearing from my throat. I didn’t want to jinx the game, but my gut swirled with optimism, daring to believe we could do this.
Boston pulled their goalie for an extra attacker, and the tension mounted. They thwarted Hudson’s shutout attempt with a goal, a sinking feeling twisting in my stomach for him as Boston celebrated. The final two minutes counted down, my heart tripping with every second. The air was charged as we fought for control, adrenaline surging through my veins with every move. Five, four, three…
The buzzer sounded with a 4-1 victory.
We’d done it.
In one amazing season, we’d risen from the basement to win the Stanley Cup for the first time in franchise history.
All hell broke loose. The team emptied the bench and flooded onto the ice, forming a writhing dog-pile that threatened to take me to my knees. The deafening roar of the crowd rose above the victory shouts of my teammates, reverberating off the rafters. Hats rained down on the ice.
I cleared the mass of teammates and searched the stands. Smiling broadly, Parker threw me a dramatic kiss. I thumped my chest over my heart.
The next minutes were a flurry of handshakes and bro-hugs with Boston, then they skated off the ice, expressions somber.
The equipment managers replaced our helmets with ball caps and hung championship scarves around our necks. As I turned my cap around backward, my stomach swirled like a tornado, and something I’d never felt overwhelmed me.
Was that…giddiness?
I shook my head in disbelief, but the corner of my mouth turned up.
And then, there it was, waiting in the shadows.
The Stanley Cup.
During the dog-pile and handshake line, workers had set the stage for the presentation ceremony with carpets, backdrops, and a table. The Stanley Cup, held by two white-gloved officials, waited in the wings.
The crowd’s anticipation reached a fever pitch, the roar of the fans reverberating through my bones. The Jumbotron flashed “Champions” in bold, radiant letters, and the LED screens around the rink followed suit, their running lights bathing the arena in a pulsing glow.
The white-gloved attendants emerged, their measured steps in synch. They carried the Cup with the reverence it deserved, its silver surface catching the light and gleaming. My heart pummeled my rib cage at the sight. The attendants gently placed the trophy on the black-velvet-covered table. The team, coaches, and staff gathered in a semicircle around the scene.
The public address announcer’s voice rang out, loud and resonant, cutting through the sea of cheers. “Ladies and gentlemen, the Stanley Cup!” The crowd erupted into a thunderous cheer that seemed to shake the very foundations of the arena, and my belly swooped.
The NHL Commissioner stepped forward, a broad smile etched on his face. He raised his hands, calling for silence. The arena quieted to a buzz.
“Congratulations to the San Jose Blazers!” the commissioner’s voice boomed through the handheld mic. The audience roared its approval and pulsed with raw energy, making the air feel alive. “Tonight, you have shown the world the true meaning of teamwork, resilience, and dedication. You’ve earned this moment.
“But the Blazers couldn’t have done it without support. Without the unwavering support of each and every one of you, the incredible fans.” Their cheers were deafening, a wall of sound that slammed into me.
The commissioner nodded to Beck. “I have the honor of presenting the Stanley Cup to Beck Levesque, captain of the San Jose Blazers!” From the backdrop, cold pyrotechnics erupted into the air with a gold shimmer. Clashing cymbals resonated around the arena.
Beck skated forward, his gob-smacked expression reflecting my inner turmoil—I couldn’t believe the moment was real. From the first time he tied on his stakes, every hockey player dreamed of winning the Stanley Cup. Incredulous, I thought my head would float from my shoulders.
With obvious effort, the commissioner hefted the thirty-two-pound prize and handed it to Beck. He lifted it over his head with ease, and the fans’ cacophony shook the rafters and rattled through my chest. For his leadership, Beck deserved to raise the Cup high.
Holding the trophy aloft, Beck skated the perimeter of the arena in front of the ecstatic crowd, occasionally lowering the Cup to kiss it. The cameramen swarmed, capturing every angle of the historic moment. Queen’s “We Are the Champions” blasted through the speakers, joining the raucous celebration, including my own thrilled cheers.
Beck completed his victory lap and passed the Cup to Chase, who received it with a grin that could have illuminated the darkest corners of the arena. The joy on his face was palpable, his elation clear as he took his turn parading around the rink.
And then it was my turn. Chase thrust the Cup at me, and my lips spread into a rusty but honest-to-God smile. Chase laughed and thumped my shoulder as I hoisted the heavy Cup above my head. The sheer heft of it was a tangible reminder of all the hard work and sacrifice that had led to this pinnacle of success. I skated to the boards and sought Parker, presenting the trophy before her. Grinning, she wiped tears from her eyes. And, fuck, I fought tears of my own. Tears of joy.
I relinquished the Cup to Derek, who then passed it to Luc. The Blazers took their turns, each player raising the Cup with a mixture of reverence and exultation. They skated around the rink, the Cup held high, their faces lit by flashing spotlights and urged on by the triumphant strains of rock anthems. The crowd’s energy was a living, breathing thing, amplifying the euphoria of the moment.
After the coaches and staff raised the Cup, the girlfriends, wives, and families streamed onto the ice, kids slipping and sliding in their enthusiasm to reach their dads. Pride and happiness illuminated their faces as they joined the celebration, their presence adding a heartfelt touch.
But I only had eyes for one girlfriend, the one wearing a Monroe jersey. Parker shuffled across the ice, a broad smile on her face. Her foot slipped, her eyes widened, and her arms wind-milled.
With the speed I’d built up in practices, I rocketed toward her and caught her in my arms. I steadied her against my chest.
“Whoops!” She giggled and leaned back to gaze up at me. “Congratulations!” She had to raise her voice to be heard above the revelry.
I had a vague impression of cameras surrounding us and reporters shouting questions, but I didn’t care. I lowered my head and took Parker’s mouth, pouring myself into a deep, lingering kiss. After catcalls from my teammates, I broke away. “I love you,” I rumbled in her ear.
“I love you too.”
We’d won the Stanley Cup, and I’d won Parker’s love.
All in one night.