Chapter 22 Open Ice #2
I barely have time to process the win before I get flattened by Kai, who tackles me from behind, arms locked around my ribs like he’s trying to pop me open and see what’s inside.
Then the rest of the team pours in, Tommy and Marcus and Raz and every guy who ever called me a slur or a try-hard or a sub, and suddenly I’m at the bottom of a mountain, crushed by a thousand pounds of muscle, sweat, and championship adrenaline.
For a second, I honestly can’t breathe, but then someone’s hands are in my hair, yanking off my helmet, and I come up gasping into a tidal wave of noise.
The scoreboard is still blinking down the last .01 of a second, the confetti cannons have already misfired into the lower bowl, and there’s a camera in my face.
I can’t feel my jaw, can’t feel my legs, but I start laughing anyway, because what else can you do?
Somewhere in the pile, Kai is screaming, “You did it! You did it! Ash is a fucking god!” and then he’s kissing the side of my face, which is weird, but not the weirdest thing that’s ever happened to me in this jersey.
I look for Darius. I always do.
It’s like my head has a magnet in it; even in the chaos, I know exactly where he is. He’s still at his net, stick held high, head tilted back, eyes closed like he’s soaking in every last sound.
For a second, it’s just him and me and the cold space between us.
Then he’s moving, fast, deliberate, cutting through the dogpile and the flying gear and the swarm of kids who somehow made it over the glass and onto the ice.
He tosses his blocker and mask to the side, like it’s nothing, then skates straight at me. He doesn’t stop.
He just plows into me, arms around my shoulders, forehead slammed against mine so hard it feels like a headbutt, but the good kind, the kind that says, “I am here and you are not alone.”
His breath is a hot gust on my face. He’s shaking, but so am I.
“We did it, Ash,” he says, voice blown out from yelling, raw at the edges. “We fucking did it.”
“All of it,” I say, and I mean it, and I know he does too.
He pulls back just enough to look at me. There’s blood on his temple, sweat pouring down the side of his face, and a smile so real it actually scares me for a second.
“You’re the best,” he says, like it’s a confession.
It’s all I can do to say, “You too, man.” My throat is fucked. There’s a sharpness in my chest that is pain, but also something better than pain.
Someone launches a Gatorade cooler. I get doused, the shock of it clearing my head for the first time in three months.
The cold is glorious. The confetti, the noise, the cameras, all of it is suddenly background.
The real show is right here. In this pile, in this moment, in the heat and weight of bodies that, for the first time, aren’t trying to kill each other.
After the on-ice chaos, after the handshake line, after the photo with the Cup that I can’t even hold up because my arms are noodles, we do the locker room.
Beer, champagne, a little more blood (Marcus gets clipped by a flying cork), and a whole lot of screaming. Someone finds a speaker and puts on “We Are the Champions,” which is so cliche it hurts, but everyone’s too wasted to care.
Coach makes a speech, voice rough with emotion. She says, “You made it. Not because you’re the best players, but because you’re the toughest sons of bitches I’ve ever met.” She lifts her beer to us, and for a second, her eyes are glassy.
Tommy smashes a can on his own head. Raz tries to eat the tape ball that’s been haunting the locker room for a month. Kai, somehow, is already FaceTiming his mom, who is crying and waving a tiny rainbow flag.
Darius and I keep finding each other, over and over, like gravity keeps getting stronger every time we try to stand apart.
At one point he dumps a full bottle of champagne over my head, then leans in, mouth at my ear, and says, “Never let anyone tell you you didn’t earn this.”
I want to say something smart. I want to say anything. But instead, I just laugh, because everything that matters has already been said.
Eventually, there’s the party.
It’s at a rental mansion in Medina, something out of a movie, with a pool and a hot tub and a deck that looks out over the water.
The whole team is there, plus friends, families, people I haven’t seen in years, all crammed together in this expensive, overdecorated house that smells like vanilla candles and spilled beer.
I float from room to room, numb in the best way.
Everyone wants to talk, to take selfies, to ask what it feels like to be a champion. I say, “It’s fucking unreal.” I say, “Still processing.” I say, “I just want to eat five large pizzas and sleep for a month.” It’s all true.
The kitchen is full of food, the good kind.
I shove two entire sliders into my mouth at once, then chase it with a handful of jalapeno chips. Someone asks if I’m going to do a “gay sports podcast” now. I say, “Sure, as long as there’s a buffet.”
Later, in the living room, Tommy stands on the coffee table, a full glass in his massive paw. He waits for the room to quiet, which takes a solid minute. Then, in a voice so deep it rattles the windows, he says, “For Cap.” He doesn’t say anything else.
He just lifts the glass.
Everyone follows. The silence is deep, holy.
After a beat, Marcus, who is not a crier but looks like he might break down, says, “He’d be so proud.” Then, softer, “Of all of us.”
The room stays quiet for a while, even as people sip and blink and try not to let the tears show. It’s the best toast I’ve ever heard.
The party ramps up again. More booze. Someone gets naked in the hot tub. I think it’s O’Doul, but it could be any of the defensemen.
Kai, who is approximately four whiskeys past coherent, climbs onto a chair and starts giving a speech.
"I just want to say," he announces, swaying, one arm pointing directly at me and the other sweeping toward Darius across the room, "that LOVE WINS, motherfuckers.
Love! Wins!" He's pointing so aggressively he nearly falls off the chair.
Marcus, without breaking stride or spilling his drink, walks over, picks Kai up fireman-style, and deposits him on the living room couch. "Stay," Marcus says, like he's training a dog.
Kai salutes from the cushions and immediately passes out. I'm laughing so hard my ribs feel like they're going to split open.
Somewhere around 3 a.m., the crowd starts to thin.
I find myself on the back deck, alone except for the sound of water lapping the shore below.
I lean on the railing, feeling the ache in my legs, the bruises blossoming on my hip and ribs, the sunburn I definitely picked up from the stadium lights.
Behind me, a door slides open. I know it’s Darius before I even turn.
He’s in jeans and a black t-shirt, hair still wet from the shower, the tattoo on his forearm sharp against his skin. He doesn’t say anything. Just comes and stands next to me, hands flat on the railing.
We stare at the water for a long time. The moon is a thumbnail. The air is cold, but not cold enough to matter.
He says, “You okay?”
I nod. “Are you?”
He shrugs. “Better than I’ve been in a while.”
Another silence. Then he turns, eyes on me, like he’s waiting for permission to speak.
I give it. “What is it?”
He takes a breath. “This is probably the wrong time. But I need to say it.”
I brace for a joke, or maybe a sappy confession. But he surprises me.
“I’m glad you’re still here,” he says, voice steady. “Not just on the team. Here.”
I feel something in my chest snap, then settle back into place. “Yeah,” I say, voice a little rough. “Me too.”
He stands closer. The only light is the string of bulbs overhead, painting us both in soft yellow. He doesn’t touch me, but the air is different now, charged.
I clear my throat. “Come home with me?”
He doesn’t even hesitate.
“Yeah,” he says.
And just like that, the noise of the world drops away.
For once, it’s just the two of us, and the night, and everything that comes next.
———
Darius
The cab smells like bleach and wet wool, which is how you know it’s legit.
It’s two in the goddamn morning and the city is running on fumes, the streets glossy with rain and every traffic light doubling itself on the slick black glass of asphalt.
We’re crammed in the back seat, thigh to thigh, my jacket still wet from the party, his hair standing up like he’s been electrocuted. Ash keeps sliding down in the seat, knees up against the partition, hands fidgeting with the hem of his hoodie.
I can tell he’s vibrating with the aftershocks of the win, or maybe just the nearness.
The driver doesn’t say shit, just keeps his eyes locked on the road, windshield wipers thrashing in time with the low thump of music from the speakers.
The back seat is too small for us, but I don’t want to be anywhere else.
Ash looks at me, the blue and red of a distant Walgreens sign painting a bruise across his face. “You good?” he whispers.
I nod, jaw tight, because if I open my mouth right now it’ll be either a confession or something worse.
He lets the silence ride. It’s not awkward. It’s the silence of people who have run out of things to lose.
His hand finds mine on the seat, fingers interlacing, and for a second, I forget about the last year, the last month, the last fucking disaster of our lives.
“D,” he says, voice soft but not uncertain. “You can come up, if you want.”
I want.
He grins, like he already knew the answer. “I gotta warn you, though. My apartment is full of Pop-Tart wrappers and unassembled IKEA furniture.”
“Doesn’t scare me,” I say.
He leans in, mouth almost at my ear. “What does?”
I think about it. “Not much anymore.”
The city is a blur of color and hunger, every closed bar and every open 24-hour noodle shop spilling light out onto the street. I press my forehead to the cold glass, watch the shapes whip by, feel his hand in mine, hot and alive.
When we get to his building, Ash throws a bill at the driver and pulls me out by the wrist, half-running up the steps.