Chapter 26
LIAM
Stanley Cup Finals.
The words had lived in my head since I was five years old, skating on a backyard rink my dad flooded every winter, pretending the garden hose was the red line and the fence posts were the goalie.
Now here we were.
Four wins from the Cup.
Our opponent: the Carolina Thunder. A fast, young team that had upset two higher seeds to get here, playing loose and fearless the way teams did when nobody expected them to go this far. They were dangerous precisely because they had nothing to lose.
We had everything to lose.
Which meant we had everything to play for.
The days before Game 1 were preparation and controlled anticipation.
Video sessions. Light practices. Anne working my shoulder every afternoon with the focused precision she'd brought to it since Dallas — daily treatment, fresh tape, checking the joint with the same systematic care she'd applied on day one in the training room.
"Still holding," she said one afternoon, rotating my arm carefully through its range.
"It'll hold."
"I know. Four more games." She smoothed the last strip of tape flat. "Then you rest."
"Then we move into our house."
She smiled at the shoulder she was taping. "That too."
The house was sitting there, closed and empty and waiting. Finn's blue room. The backyard playset. The cedar sauna that I had absolutely professional reasons for being excited about.
In two weeks, if everything went right, it would have people in it.
Thursday afternoon Anne got the call that Jess had picked up Finn and they were on the road.
I watched her text back and forth with them throughout the day — Finn's updates arriving via my phone since he'd commandeered it at some point, sending me photographs of gas station snacks he considered important and one blurry video of Justin explaining a hockey rule he'd gotten almost entirely wrong.
I sent back a voice memo correcting the icing call.
Finn sent back a voice memo telling me Justin said I was wrong.
I was not wrong.
They arrived mid-afternoon — Jess's car pulling into the hotel parking lot and both back doors flying open before she'd fully stopped. The boys spilled out still mid-conversation, talking over each other, and Finn spotted me and ran.
I caught him and held on.
"Daddy! We talked about hockey the whole way! Justin knows about icing now!"
"I heard. He has some notes on my explanation."
"He said you were wrong."
"I was not wrong."
Justin appeared at my elbow. "You were a little wrong."
I looked at him. "You've been in St. Louis for thirty seconds and you're already arguing with me."
He grinned, completely unintimidated. "Finn said you like arguing."
I looked at Finn.
Finn looked at the sky.
Jess came around the car, pulling her sunglasses up, and held out her hand. "The famous Liam O'Connell. I've heard everything."
"Good things, I hope."
"Mostly." She shook my hand with the directness of someone who didn't waste time on pleasantries she didn't mean. "Thanks for the tickets. Justin's been talking about this since Anne called."
"Happy to have you both." I looked toward the hotel entrance where Carter had just appeared, pretending to check his phone. "Come on — I'll introduce you to the team."
I watched Carter register Jess from fifteen feet away.
He put his phone in his pocket and stood up straighter.
I said nothing.
Game 1 night.
The arena had been building to this all week — the city quiet in that held-breath way it got before something enormous, then loud, then louder, until by the time we skated out for warmups the building was already shaking.
I looked up at the family section.
Anne. Finn. Jess. Justin. All four of them in Blaze jerseys, all four already on their feet, Finn bouncing in place with his puck in both hands.
I tapped the glass.
Both boys lost their minds simultaneously.
We came out fast.
The Thunder were exactly what the scouting had said — quick on the puck, aggressive on the forecheck, not afraid of anything. But we were sharper. More physical. A team that had been tested through six weeks of playoff hockey and knew exactly who we were.
First period: I scored on a power play. Half-wall, one-timer, the shot I'd been taking since I was twelve. The building erupted and I pointed at the family section before I thought about it — just reflex, just where my eyes went.
Finn pointed back with both hands and screamed something I couldn't hear.
The Thunder tied it early in the second. We answered two minutes later — Carter, wrist shot, beautiful — and went to the third up 2-1.
Third period we held them. Jensen added an insurance goal with five minutes left and we closed it out.
3-1.
Series: 1-0.
In the locker room Coach kept it short: one win, three more needed, enjoy tonight and be ready to work tomorrow.
He was right. But tonight we'd earned.
I found Anne and Finn outside with Jess and Justin, Carter hovering in the general vicinity of Jess in a way that he clearly thought was subtle.
Both boys were vibrating — hoarse and wired and refusing to acknowledge that it was past any reasonable bedtime.
Justin tugged my sleeve. "Mr. O'Connell, that was the coolest thing I've ever seen in my whole life."
"You can call me Liam."
"Liam. That was the coolest thing I've ever seen in my whole life."
"Glad you were here."
Carter materialized beside Jess. "Hey. I'm Carter. I play left wing."
Jess looked at him. “Nice to meet you. Anne’s been telling me about Liam’s teammates.”
"Good things, I hope."
"Mostly." She smiled.
Carter looked like he'd been hit by a truck and was entirely happy about it.
Anne caught my eye and pressed her lips together against a smile.
We walked out to the parking lot together — all six of us, the boys still going, Carter finding reasons to stay in Jess's orbit. As we reached the cars he produced what appeared to be a restaurant recommendation that he'd been waiting to deliver for some time.
"There's a great place near the Galleria," he said. "If you and Justin want somewhere good for breakfast tomorrow."
"That'd be great, actually." Jess looked at him. "You could come. Show us in person."
Carter's expression did something that I'd only seen a couple of times in five years.
"Yeah," he said. "I could do that."
Jess smiled. "Good."
They said their goodnights, and when Jess and Justin headed toward their car, Carter stood watching for just a moment before turning back to us with the look of a man who had completely forgotten what he was doing.
Anne looked at me.
I looked at Anne.
"Don't say anything," he said.
"I didn't say anything," I said.
"You were thinking very loudly."
"Breakfast," Anne said innocently. "That's a great idea, Carter."
He pointed at her. "Also don't say anything."
He walked to his car.
Anne took my hand as we headed to ours, Finn between us, still chattering.
At the apartment, Finn was asleep before his head hit the pillow — lights out, puck in his fist, one shoe still on.
Anne and I stood in the doorway for a moment.
"Best night of his life," she said quietly.
"Every good night keeps being the best night of his life."
"That's how it should be."
We tiptoed out and closed the door.
In our bedroom, she turned to me.
"Congratulations," she said. "Game 1."
"One win."
"Still." She reached for my shirt. "Let me celebrate with you."
She pushed me gently onto the bed and worked her way down my body with a patience and deliberateness that made me forget entirely about Game 2, the Thunder's forecheck, the shoulder tape — everything except her hands and her mouth and the specific way she looked up at me.
"Anne—"
"Shh." Her mouth closed around me and I stopped talking.
She took her time. She started to tease me again the way she did every time, flicking her tongue around the head of my erection, like she was making a point of it. By the time she finally moved back up my body I was gripping the headboard and my capacity for full sentences had mostly departed.
I pulled her over me. She settled against me, hands flat on my chest, and looked down with that particular expression — open and certain and entirely present.
She moved slowly at first. Then less slowly. Both of us quiet the way we'd learned to be with Finn down the hall, the urgency contained, which somehow made everything more intense rather than less.
When she came it was with her face pressed to my neck and my name barely a sound.
I followed her not long after, hands on her hips, her hair falling around us.
We lay tangled together afterward, her breathing slowing against my chest.
"Three more," she said eventually.
"Three more," I agreed.
"You're going to win this."
"We're going to win this."
She lifted her head to look at me.
"We," she agreed.
Outside the window, St. Louis was still making noise — car horns somewhere in the distance, the particular city sound of a fanbase that hadn't gone to sleep yet and wasn't planning to.
Three more wins.
We were going to bring the Cup home.