20. Jeremiah #3
Back in the locker room, it’s weirdly quiet. It feels like we’re holding vigil on the eve of war. I wonder, briefly, how it would have turned out if only the Revolutionary War was won by hockey instead of bombs bursting in air. It’s just a silly thought, and before I know it, we’re back on the ice.
East takes possession from the start, and less than a minute in, Kingston gets sent to the sin bin for hooking. During a power play, the Stripes almost score when Reeves takes a dangerous top-shelf shot, but Josh blocks it into the crease.
The crowd goes wild, and I take one split second to glance toward Erica. She’s on the edge of her seat, death-gripping the armrests until her knuckles go white.
And then, a miracle. The puck deflects off somebody’s stick and skitters loose.
Tyson’s on it before it even settles, one motion, and clears it with a long pass to Dash, who’s wide open.
Dash skates behind the net and wraps the puck around the pipe.
The building comes apart. We win with a seven-to-six victory.
Erica’s on her feet, hat crooked, screaming along with eleven thousand strangers.
The dogpile on Dash lasts about forty-five seconds before somebody’s helmet goes flying.
Then it's everybody's helmet, gloves, and sticks scattered across center ice like the world’s worst yard sale.
We peel off him one at a time. Then the whole team is on Josh, tapping his pads, his helmet, whatever we can reach. He made the save that got us here.
The next forty minutes to an hour is a blur.
East and West shuffle into one long row for the handshake. Marchand saying something in French I don’t catch. Congratulations from some of my Olympic buddies who played for the Stripes.
They roll out a carpet across center ice.
Tyson goes first, because that’s what captains do.
Shakes the presenter’s hand. Lifts the cup over his head.
The crowd roars. It makes it to me eventually, and I feel like I’m in a trance as I lift it.
Similar to winning gold at the Olympics, this is one of the most surreal experiences of my career.
The locker room is a three-ring circus. Music’s up loud enough that conversation happens mostly by lip-reading.
Stone’s found a bench to dance on, badly, on purpose.
Somebody dumps a cooler of orange Gatorade over Coach’s head before he’s finished his first sentence to the reporters crowding the door.
I sit through the scrum still in gear, answer the same four questions eleven different ways. By the time I’m showered, the clock says almost two hours since the final buzzer.
Erica’s waiting by the family room doors in the GILL POWER hat. Standing next to her is Zoe, and by the looks of it, she’s posting game highlights on her phone.
“Zesty!” Erica pulls me down by the front of my hoodie for a kiss that gets a whistle from somewhere behind me I choose to ignore.
When we break apart, she introduces me to her friend.
Zoe extends a hand, deadpan. “We’ve met. Sort of.”
“Yes, you slammed the door in my face for not having Girl Scout cookies.”
“And I’d do it again.”
She’s already looking past me at whoever’s coming through the tunnel next, unbothered that half of them are on the opposing team. East. West. None of it seems to register.
Then Dante Leinecker passes, and we catch the tail end of his peacocking to whoever will listen.
“I got thirty-nine penalty minutes.” He looks proud of it. “I should win a prize for hitting a record.”
Zoe’s whole face changes. “Oooh, I love a bad boy.”
I open my mouth to point out that thirty-nine penalty minutes isn’t a selling point. Erica beats me to it. “Don’t. You will not win this one.”
I pull her off to the side once Leinecker’s gone, Zoe already three conversations deep with someone from the Denver contingent.
“I’ve got more media scrums and fan autographs. But if you can wait a while longer, I think some of the guys are going out to celebrate.” I get about that far before she stops me, a hand flat on my chest.
“Jeremiah.” She shakes her head. “I didn’t sleep at all last night. I would’ve fallen asleep standing up somewhere around the second intermission if this hadn’t been the actual championship.”
“You should’ve said something.”
“And missed this?” She gestures at the wreck of a hallway, streamers already stuck to somebody’s shoe. “Not a chance.”
“Tomorrow’s worse, honestly. Exit interviews and media day, here at the arena. They’ve got us from nine to six with a room full of about a hundred reporters.”
I tuck a loose piece of hair back under the brim of her hat. “Maybe you’ll want to go dress shopping until I’m free.”
“You’re serious about this dress thing.”
“Dead serious.” I gauge her squinty stare. “So I guess I mean I want to see you in it.”
“Not till the gala.”
She kisses me once, quick. I've got somewhere to be, cameras and autographs to sign, and Coach probably wanting a word before the night's over.
“You’ve got a way home?” I ask.
“Zoe’s got some kind of rideshare rewards thing.” A tip of her head toward wherever Zoe’s vanished. “We’re fine.”
“Text me when you’re back. I mean it.”
“Bossy”
“Just protective.”
Her fingers are the last thing to let go, dragging off mine as I step back. I decide it right there. She’s not on her own anymore. Not while I'm around.