Chapter 25
ANNE
Four days to rest, prepare, and realize that two series stood between us and the Stanley Cup.
The next morning, with the city still buzzing and both of us still not quite believing it was real, Anne sat cross-legged on my couch and pulled up her phone.
"Michelle sent three new listings," she said. "But there's one she wants us to see first."
She tilted the screen toward me and walked me through it on FaceTime — Michelle moving from room to room with the particular efficiency of someone who had sold houses to athletes before and understood what mattered.
The kitchen first. Island big enough for Finn to sit at while we cooked. Hardwood throughout.
"Backyard," Anne said, and Michelle stepped outside. Playset already installed. Big yard. Room to grow.
"Basement," Anne said. Michelle descended the stairs. Finished. Enough space for every LEGO set Finn owned and then some.
"Master bathroom," Anne said, with a look that told me she already knew something I didn't.
Michelle opened the door.
Cedar sauna in the corner.
I said nothing for a long moment.
"Recovery tool," Anne said. "Very important."
"Very important," I agreed.
"And Finn's room." Her voice changed slightly on it — careful, like she was watching me as she said it.
Michelle moved down the hall. Pushed open a door.
Blue walls. Built-in shelves. A window seat looking out over the backyard.
I looked at it through a four-inch phone screen and tried to picture my son waking up in that room every morning. Running down those stairs. Growing up in that house.
"Liam?" Anne said quietly.
"Get Michelle to draw up the paperwork," I said. "I want to see it in person — but I already know."
She smiled. I could see it even on the small screen — that particular smile, the one that had been mine since Cornell and that I was never going to take for granted again.
We had a house to buy.
And two series to win.
Games 3 and 4 were in Boston.
Their arena, their fans, everything hostile from the moment we landed. Boston came out harder on home ice — desperation and crowd noise and the particular intensity of a team that knew exactly how to make visiting teams uncomfortable.
We lost Game 3. Clawed back in Game 4 — Liam scoring twice, the second one a backhand in tight that he'd been setting up all series, the goal that put us ahead with eight minutes left and the crowd going completely silent.
2-1 final. Series: 2-2.
I worked his shoulder in the hotel after every game — ice, manual therapy, fresh tape. He was managing it. Some nights better than others. The cumulative wear of a long playoff run was real, but the joint was holding.
"One more series after this," I told him one night, his shoulder under my hands, both of us too tired for full sentences.
"One more series," he agreed.
"Then you rest all summer."
"Then we move into our house."
"That too."
The offer had been accepted the morning of Game 3. We'd found out via text from Michelle while I was taping his shoulder in the hotel, and we'd looked at each other over his shoulder with matching expressions of complete disbelief.
We had a house.
A house with a blue bedroom and a cedar sauna and a backyard where Finn was going to spend his whole childhood.
Closing date: two weeks after the Cup Finals, whatever happened.
Game 5 was back home.
One win and we'd be one game from the Finals.
I wore Liam's jersey and sat in our seats behind the bench and watched him play with the focused, contained intensity that I'd come to recognize as his highest gear — not frantic, not showy, just precise and relentless and completely present on every shift.
Third period, series tied 2-2, clock running down, he got the puck in the slot and put a wrist shot past the goalie that beat him so cleanly the goalie barely moved.
3-2 Blaze.
We held on.
One win from the Stanley Cup Finals.
Outside the locker room he found me immediately. "Come to Boston."
"The team plane?—"
"You're on it. Dr. Harrison already cleared it. I need you there when we close this out."
I looked at him — at the absolute certainty in his face, the way he'd already decided this was happening.
"I'll be there," I said.
Game 6 in Boston.
Series clincher. Winner goes to the Stanley Cup Finals.
Their arena was everything Boston arenas were — loud, hostile, completely committed to making us miserable. We went out onto that ice knowing we were one win from the biggest stage in hockey.
First period: nothing. Both goalies sharp, both defenses tight.
Second period: Boston scored first. We answered five minutes later on a Carter power play. 1-1.
Third period.
The longest twenty minutes of a very long playoff run.
Midway through, Liam carried the puck into the zone, drew two defenders, and slid it to our defenseman at the point. The shot came. Liam was already at the net, stick on the ice, and he tipped it.
The puck changed direction.
Red light.
2-1 Blaze.
I was on my feet in the family section, both hands over my mouth, heart completely stopped.
Six minutes.
Boston pressed everything. Their goalie pulled. Shots from everywhere.
Our goalie stopped every single one.
Final buzzer.
2-1.
The St. Louis Blaze were going to the Stanley Cup Finals.
I waited outside the locker room with the other families, the noise still unreal around us, and when Liam came out — champagne-soaked, grinning, looking for me before he looked for anything else — I walked straight into him.
"We did it," he said into my hair.
"You did it."
"Finals, Anne. We're going to the Finals."
I pulled back to look at him. "Four more wins."
"Four more wins." He was already thinking about it — I could see it, that forward-leaning focus that never fully shut off. Then it softened. "Finn gets to be there. For the Cup."
"He's going to lose his mind."
"So am I." He kissed me. "So am I."
We flew home that night, the whole plane buzzing with something that felt less like celebration and more like the held-breath feeling before the biggest thing you've ever done.
The Finals started in five days.
Five days.
I called Finn from the gate before we boarded.
"Mommy!" He was already screaming. "Grandma said you're going to the Stanley Cup!"
"We are. And guess what? You're coming to watch."
The sound he made was not quite human.
"For real? For real, Mommy?"
"For real. Pack your jersey."
I hung up smiling and walked onto the plane, and somewhere over the middle of the country, somewhere between Boston and St. Louis, I let myself feel the full weight of what was coming.
The Stanley Cup Finals.
Liam on the biggest stage in hockey.
Finn in the stands watching his father play for the greatest trophy in the sport.
I hung up smiling and immediately called Jess.
"Stanley Cup Finals," I said when she picked up. "St. Louis. I need you to drive down with Justin and pick up Finn from my mom's on the way."
A pause. "So you want me to load two six-year-olds into my car, drive four hours to a city I've never been to, and watch hockey for a week."
"Yes."
"Anne, I'm an L&D nurse. I can't just —" I heard her exhale. "Let me check my schedule. When do you need to know?"
"Tonight if possible. Games start in five days."
"Fine. Give me two hours."
She called back in forty-five minutes.
"I swapped my shifts. We can leave Thursday morning." A beat. "But you owe me."
"Anything."
"Front row seats and someone to watch the boys when I need a break."
"Done." I hesitated. "There's one more thing."
"What?"
"Just... keep an open mind when you meet Liam's teammates. There are some really nice, fun guys."
Silence.
"Anne."
"I'm just saying."
"You're introducing me to someone."
"I'm introducing you to a group of people. What you do with it is entirely up to you."
A long pause. "Fine. But if this gets weird I'm blaming you."
"Deal."