Chapter 25 Finn
FINN
A DAY WITH TWO THINGS I ADORE THE MOST
Boarding is a penalty called when a player checks or hits an opponent violently into the boards (the walls around the rink), especially if it’s dangerous or from behind. And I’m like a bull in a china shop, filled with an abundance of adrenaline and energy because it’s my day with the Stanley Cup!
I body-slam Kate’s door like I’m busting into a playoff game. There’s no mercy.
The sun’s not up, but it’s my day with the Stanley Cup, and I have the adrenaline of a golden retriever on espresso.
“Eyes open, princess. Stanley says good morning!” I shout, already laughing.
There are some muffled groans from under the covers.
A thud. Possibly a curse. I can’t wait a minute longer.
I nudge the door open with my foot and step into the room like a hero returning from battle—barefoot, dressed in my Championship T-shirt that’s wrinkled, and my hair is still damp from the world’s fastest shower.
And in my arms? Lord Stanley. In all his ridiculous, glorious, silver glory.
Kate has managed to sit up in bed, and she’s blinking like I’m a hallucination. She’s got that soft, confused morning face that kills me every time.
“Is that… real?” she asks, voice scratchy.
I lift the Cup like I’m presenting a damn Oscar. “Realer than my GPA in college.”
She stares.
I beam. “Meet my new best friend,” I tell her, dead serious. “He might be cold, high-maintenance, and shaped like a wedding cake, but I think you two will get along.”
I drop her coffee—triple shot oat milk latte, her usual—on the nightstand like an offering, then lean in and kiss her temple. She still smells like sleep, dryer sheets, and me.
I love that she smells like me, and she’s still wearing one of the one-hundred Championship T-shirts I now own.
“No time for pants,” I say, eyeing her legs. “You’re already dressed like a champion.”
She groans and flops back on the bed. “It’s 6 A.M.”
“Exactly. We only get this day once. The Cup waits for no one.”
“You promised you wouldn’t wake me up like a psychopath,” she says, but she’s smiling.
“I lied,” I reply impishly.
Kate's laughing into her pillow, and that’s when I know today will be perfect. She lifts the pillow and aims it at my head. I deflect it easily because I have the reflexes of a ninja.
I turn to her and hold out a hand. “Come on. Let’s go make terrible choices.”
“We already did that!” She snickers. I’m doomed because the way she looks at me makes me feel like the only man in the world.
I chuckle. I love her sense of humor. She’s becoming accustomed to our married life, and it makes me happy. The fact that she makes jokes about our unconventional beginning is a bonus.
I also love the fact that she’s coming with me on today’s adventure. I’m not quite sure how the day will unfold, but I’m sure it will be memorable.
Kate stands and downs the coffee like it’s a challenge, throwing me a look over the rim that says, “Buckle up.” She skips to the shower with that championship swagger I swear she’s been hiding since we met.
I cradle the Cup like it’s a newborn. “She’s in,” I whisper to it, triumphantly.
First thing on my list? Breakfast. Cereal, to be exact. Not just any cereal. The kind with marshmallows and no nutritional value whatsoever.
I carry the Cup into the kitchen like it’s a damn crown jewel. Kate joins me minutes later as I’m pouring dye-infused sugar corn into the cup. Kate grabs a second box, holding it with both hands, laughing so hard she snorts. “This is sacrilegious.”
“No,” I say, grabbing two spoons. “This is America. And this is the breakfast of champions!” I say as I pour in a gallon of milk. Kate hands me a ladle. We’re like savages eating out of the silver bowl. We’re grinning like idiots. Milk splashes, but I don’t care.
Sticky fingers. Sticky memories. Hell, I want to propose to her all over again. I’m having fun, and I can’t believe she’s here with me.
She takes pictures of me, then of us.
Midday – “Cup-cation”
By seven, we’re in the car—well, my car, which is technically a sports car that is meant for someone who owns one (1) hockey bag, and not more than three (3) hockey sticks, and maybe (4) fishing rods.
Not that I would put those in this car. No, this is my prized possession.
It’s detailed on a monthly basis and is stored for the winter.
Hell, it only comes out when the roads are hot and the sun is hotter.
And before Kate, it was my chick magnet—not that I needed any help.
But today? It’s a Stanley Cup chariot. Lord Stanley is riding in the back like royalty. We’ve buckled him in with a seatbelt and draped him in our championship jersey over the lower tiers to protect it like a VIP guest.
I used gum to anchor a hat inside the cap that says “I partied with the champs.” I don’t even know where we got the hat. Probably Luc’s backpack, because it contains things no one should ever ask about—goalies and all that.
Kate calls me a menace. She’s not wrong. She’s riding with her feet up on the dash, her hair is still damp and in a ponytail, and our Championship hat is on her head. Her sunglasses make her look like a movie star. Yes, she’s that gorgeous.
I think it’s cute that she keeps looking over her shoulder at the Cup like she can’t believe it’s real.
After we’re situated, we hit the road. Top down. “Everybody” is the song on the radio, and Kate is shimmying her shoulders to the beat. Stanley’s silver reflects the sun’s perfect rays, and I swear people honk at us just for existing.
I’m on top of the world all over again, and the fact that Kate is sitting beside me is the highlight of the morning.
We take Stanley to the beach—Kate kicks off her shoes and runs ahead of me, leaving footprints in the sand. I carry the Cup like a groom crossing the threshold, all the way to the waterline.
We take photos. One with the Cup wearing sunglasses. One of Kate kissing it like it’s a baby. One of me holding it above my head like I just won the whole damn planet.
Then, we make our way to the boardwalk, where we unload like a crew of reality TV celebrities. The names of the team on the back of our championship T-shirts, our flushed faces are radiant, and we have zero shame.
People stare. Someone drops their ice cream. A kid points and yells, “That’s the Stanley Cup!” and I yell back, “Damn right it is!” like I’m announcing a WWE match.
We take pictures with it on the beach and in front of a taco truck. Then, we walk into a sketchy souvenir shop, and Kate tries to convince me to buy a fishing hat for Stanley.
I drink out of the Cup at a burger shack—green Gatorade, tequila, and some mystery soda Kate dumps into it.
We take a turn sipping from it, and then we promptly spit half of it out because the liquid tastes “like bad decisions in a silver cup.”
Kate documents everything with pictures. There’s now a running tally on her Notes app of the most items we’ve put in the Cup:
· Gatorade (green)
· Tequila before noon (very planned)
· Champagne
· French fries (unplanned)
And at some point—I don’t even know how—I end up at this tiny public bathroom near the docks, standing in front of a crusty mirror with the Cup balanced on the sink. I take a selfie. Just me, Lord Stanley, and the words “you look tired” scrawled in soap bubbles behind us.
I text it to the group chat.
The guys drop comments, and then I exit, singing, “We are the Champions.”
Kate gives me a side-eye, snaps a picture to commemorate the moment, and then I join her. I slide my arm around her waist and kiss her into submission. We walk to the car with bystanders slapping me on the back, chanting “Maulers.”
And then we do something crazy simple. We go to the local rink for a victory lap. Kate’s never been on skates. She struggles to stand, but once she gets a few strides in, she’s pretty good.
The Cup is heavy—all that silver, and the weight of men who’ve traveled this road before us. It’s too heavy for Kate, and she’s new to ice skating, so there’s no way she’s carrying this heavy cup.
I skate slowly, carrying the Cup like it’s senior prom. Kate tries to zoom past me and falls on her ass. I can’t help but laugh. So does she. I think I’m in love. I’m so happy I’m a brick short of hysterical.
It’s late afternoon, and the kids begin to show up at the rink. They immediately spot me, not like I’m all that, but the Cup has a way of garnering attention. The kids excitedly race to tell their friends, and they gawk and take pictures before hurrying to the locker rooms to change.
They emerge minutes later, in too-big jerseys, helmets wobbling, each wearing dreams bigger than their skates. We bring the Cup to the perimeter of the ice, and chaos erupts. They clamor around us, and the smiles on their faces? It’s priceless.
We exit the ice with them, and they hoot and holler. Then the stampede ensues.
I’ve never seen Kate with kids before today, and all I can say is that I’m blown away. She kneels on the concrete floor and speaks to them in a calm voice. They lean in, wide-eyed, and hanging on every word. Astonishingly, no one shouts or shoves.
They wait, practically holding their breath, as I gently lift the Cup and plant it between them.
“You can touch it.” She says as she touches the silver. “One at a time, okay? Everyone will get a turn.” A little boy with jelly on his chin nods solemnly, his fingers hovering inches away. Behind them, parents squeeze closer, phones raised, the shutters click like applause.
I snap pictures of her with the kids. It’s as if I’m the official team photographer. One of the kids points at the Cup and goes, “Is that the real one?”
I kneel and look her dead in the eye.
“Yup. But he only shows up for those who have earned it. It’s a long shot, but I dreamed of holding it when I was about your age.”
Kate watches me, and her eyes are full of emotion. I’m sure she had a dream of being a singer, and she knows what it’s like when your dream comes true. We have a moment, our souls are barred, and we’ve become one. It’s a moment that doesn’t need words, and it’s everything.
I swallow hard, filled with feelings I can’t name, and then I skate back to the ice, and leave the Cup in the middle of the ice with the kids, and hop up next to Kate, who’s resting in the bleachers. She grabs my hand and holds it in her lap like it’s made of glass.
“You okay?” I ask.
She shrugs. “You’re kinda ridiculous,” she smirks, breaking the serious mood.
“Thanks.”
“Also, I didn’t know you had a soft side.”
“I don’t,” I say. “That’s a lie invented by my publicist.”
But she keeps looking at me like I’ve just shifted dimensions. Like I’m a superhero, and today, maybe I am. Because for a second, I’m not Finn the hockey player, or Finn the MVP, or Finn the guy trying to one-up Mikael in bathroom selfies.
It’s just me and Kate, two newlyweds, and we’re bonding.
I lean over and kiss her. It’s a soft kiss, but it deepens until we’re interrupted.
“Finn, can we get a picture of you?” I look at the kid on the other side of the wall.
“You want a picture of me?” I ask.
“Yeah, would you?”
“Sure thing!” I reply, giving Kate a wink, and join him on the ice. His eyes are the size of dinner plates as he looks at me, then he touches the Cup.
“This is so cool,” he says. Then, the other kids skate in for a team picture.
One kid cries—a good cry.
Kate’s eyes mist as if she’ll share in their happy tears, but she manages to hold it together.
But me? Nope. I can’t hide the tears of joy that dampen my eyes. IT’s as if I won the Cup all over again, but impressionable souls and Kate here surround me. I use the back of my hand to wipe away the dampness before anyone notices because this is the best part of the day!
These kids? They don’t care who I am. They care that something impossible is standing in front of them. And that one day, maybe, just maybe, it’s not impossible for them.
After we’ve exhausted our ten minutes of fame, Kate and I change out of our skates. She grabs my hand when we’re walking out, fingers laced. “That,” she says quietly, “was incredible.”
I nod. “Better than cereal.”
“Definitely,” she says, grinning, because every kid and adult in the rink smiled today.
The sun is setting in the sky when we ride home. The Cup is in the backseat, like he’s earned his rest. Kate leans in and places her head on my shoulder at a stoplight, and I think—I get it now.
The championship wasn’t just winning the Cup.
It was this.
EVENING-The Superhero Dinner.
I enter the kitchen and smell spices, garlic, and triumph. As per my request, Kate prepared the iconic Meatball Madness spaghetti dish from Hancock in full cinematic glory. And in the dining room chair, Lord Stanley sits—the Stanley Cup itself —is now filled to the brim.
"I hope I'm not the one cleaning him," she says with a smirk. She places her hands on her hips, and her cheeks are flushed from the heat of the stove and the thrill of the incredible day.
"I got you, babe. You cooked, I’ll clean," I say, already rolling up my sleeves. We had a blast eating red sauce and meatballs from the Cup, and we even fed each other.
After dinner, we replay the game on the big screen—every goal, every hit, every roar from the crowd — as if it’s a bedtime story for champions. The two of us pose for photos with the Cup like proud parents of chaos.
Then, in what can only be described as alcohol anarchy, we mix iced tea spiked with vodka straight from the silver bowl, as if it were holy water.
It's messy. It’s magical. And it’s ours.
And true to my word, I’ve cleaned the Cup by nine.