Chapter 35
Thirty-Five
Brody
I get to the rink early. I’m dialed in for the big game. The only thing that should be on my mind is how we’re going to beat
the Tampa Storm tonight, but while I should be focusing on my pregame routine and how we’re going to get through their solid
defense, it’s hard to keep the thought of Olivia from sneaking in.
She was there when I was alone playing video games before my pregame nap this afternoon. Again when I walked past the players’
lounge and spotted a game of Catan on the table. Even now when a drop of banana milk lands on my lapel. One more game.
Months ago, I had far worse fears weighing on my mind.
Knowing the value of a family legacy no longer balances on my shoulders, I walk confidently into the locker room ready to kick ass tonight.
As I slide my phone on the top shelf of my locker, I notice an envelope sticking out of one of my gloves.
Apprehensively, I pull it out; hockey players can’t resist a good prank, even if we’re getting ready for the most important game of our lives.
The card is addressed to me in a distinct penmanship I recognize immediately—I’d recognize that loopy Y anywhere.
My hands go numb as I claw the envelope.
It’s no prank. It’s a letter from Olivia.
While the room begins to fill with anxious teammates, I step out into the hall with the letter tucked inside my suit jacket.
The air cools as I approach the ice. It’s quiet now, as employees dart around with a nervous excitement getting everything
ready for the last puck drop of the NHL season. In a few hours, this place will be so loud I won’t be able to hear a ref’s
whistle. I take a second to breathe it all in. The air is as crisp as the flooded ice is glossy.
My first Stanley Cup Final—the coveted game 7. I should feel paralyzed with fear, anxiety stricken with severe doubt. Instead,
I’m weirdly calm, like this is all happening exactly as it’s supposed to. Before, I would have been too scared of my dad to
enjoy this moment. Worried I’d look up into the crowd and find him shouting at me. Worried about the horrible things he’d
have to say to me after the game if we lost, and worried what retaliation would occur if we won. Now that I’m free from his
criticism, I know that, win or lose, I will be okay. Win or lose, I am still me: a person who belongs to himself and not a
family legacy.
I slide my finger along the envelope’s seal and pull out a neatly folded piece of paper. Under the bright rink lights, I read
silently.
I miss you. The type of missing that leaves you halved.
It’s the same type of hollowness that got me into this mess in the first place.
Except now I know that the void isn’t something I can fill with anger or even revenge.
Loving you temporarily mended my brokenness, but I can’t love you properly until I take accountability for the hurt I’ve been ignoring—the hurt I tried to pawn off onto you.
I’ve been working on it. I’ve grown since you’ve last seen me. You might notice—I hope you do.
I’m sorry. For all the lies but mostly for misjudging your character. You’re nothing like your father and that became apparent
the day I met you and your instinct was to offer kindness. This used to piss me off. I wanted so desperately for you to be
him, or worse, because it would justify what I was doing. But I kept falling deeper and deeper in love until I couldn’t see
a way out.
We might be the only two people who could ever fully understand each other. When I say I love you, know I mean all of it.
Get what’s yours tonight. I’ll be watching, cheering you on without a doubt in my mind that Brody Lee is a man who has been
through far worse than a challenging game and lived to smile his perfectly cocky grin.
Look for me after the game if you still feel the same way about us.
She signs it Olivia Hinckley above a smudge of green-and-gold glitter in the shape of a heart.
I tuck the note back into the inner pocket of my suit jacket and head back into the locker room ready to win the Stanley Cup.
It’s not until the Tampa Storm call a time-out with two minutes left in the third period that I let myself feel the excitement
of the moment. It creeps in—the thought of lifting the Cup tonight—only for a second before I push it to the back of my mind.
It’s not over yet. This is the type of game you have to take second by second.
The scoreboard looming over center ice says we’re up three to two.
My hands shake as I squirt water into my mouth—nothing will satisfy me until we win.
I throw my leg over the boards and hop on the ice, ready to take the draw.
This is about to be the longest two minutes of my life—and I’ve been lit on literal fire before.
As soon as the Storm get possession of the puck, Gauthier is skating off for the extra attacker. Six of their best versus
five of ours. The goal is to box them out, get possession of the puck, and kill off as much time as possible. Every single
player on the ice is ready to play the best defensive hockey of their life to run out the time remaining on the clock. If
we’re really lucky, we get it out of our zone for a line change, but if not, we’re prepared to play the game out. Right here,
right now.
Our defense gets possession and chips it into the neutral zone. This buys us a bit of time while they get onside. The Storm
quickly get set up and are back in our zone before any of us have a chance to get off the ice for a line change. I knew stepping
on this ice there was a possibility I would play until the clock ran out. Since this is what I’ve trained for my entire life,
I welcome the challenge, bearing down on my stick.
As the clock continues to tick, I can practically taste the champagne. Despite the extra-long shift—grinding in front of the
net—I feel surprisingly refreshed. We’re using our bodies and whatever gas we have left in the tank to ward off the six skaters
and prevent a clear shot on Hammer. We’re fueled by the adrenaline of being seconds away from the sweetest victory any of
us have ever tasted.
There are so many bodies in front of our net that it feels like a too-many-men penalty.
The puck is momentarily lost in a scramble in front of Hammer, until it pops out near Chef’s stick.
I check the scoreboard’s illuminated red countdown.
Ten seconds remain. I take off skating, getting myself in position for a cross ice long pass.
I call out to him, “Chef, I’m open!” He looks.
Snap. It’s tape-to-tape and I’m barreling down the ice toward an empty net.
The old Brody would have let his nerves get the best of him. I would be second-guessing myself, wondering what my dad would
do if I shot wide. Then searching for him in the crowd after I fumbled the puck, hanging my head in shame when the other team
stole possession and scored to win the game. Hiding from my phone and whatever damage control my dad suggested for repairing
the Parker legacy’s image.
Finally, there’s no doubt for me to silence. I wind up, releasing an absolute bomb into the empty net. It’s a cocky shot,
and normally one that would end with a fist in your face, but this is the Stanley Cup Final and I don’t care. Consider it
payback for the dirty hits Storm players have handed out this series. Our fans deserve a grand finale finish.
The puck flies into the netting and the final buzzer sounds. Game over. The rest is a blur.
I throw my stick and gloves into the air, and they fall like the confetti that’s soon to come. I launch my body into the glass
where fans are screaming and banging on the opposite side. Fists pound against the plexiglass like a drumbeat vibrating the
entire rink. I fly down center ice, skating faster than I was during regulation as I join the rest of my teammates dogpiling
on top of Hammer.
Players always say this moment is indescribable. I always thought they said that because they didn’t have the vocabulary.
I never thought I’d be left without the right words, but that’s exactly what this moment is. It’s the unknown.
Everything I’ve ever done in my life led me here. This is exactly what I’ve been fighting for every time I’ve stepped on the ice. I know how to play hockey. I’ve done it my whole life. But this moment is a first: My first time winning the Stanley Cup. It takes me a second to get used to it.
I let the moment marinate for a few beats. The crowd lingers. Still cheering, they press themselves as close to ice level
as the barrier allows. They’re wheeling out the Cup now. It doesn’t take a whole lot of reflection for me to realize that
I like this feeling, but is it indescribable? Nah, I’d say it’s as fucking fantastic as you could imagine.
The Cup is weightless over my head as I take it for a spin around the ice. After I hand it off to Chef, a reporter shoves
her mic in my face, asking me how I feel, as if I’m in the right headspace to string together something coherent and safe
for live television. I feel a lively “fuck yeah” on the tip of my tongue but swallow it for later.
Instead, I give her the sound bite she wants. I bend down, taking the mic into my hands, and say directly into the camera,
“We’re Minnesota nice until the puck drops.” I let out a primal “Woo!” followed by a spirited “Fuck yeah!” I can’t help myself.
She wrangles the mic out of my grip, and I skate on my way.
Family members begin making their way onto the ice. Players are reunited with significant others who pelt them with kisses.
Andy’s kids jump into his arms and try to catch the last of the tiny shards of green-and-gold confetti falling from the roof.
I look for Olivia in the mob of excited wives, girlfriends, and partners rushing the ice, but she’s not there. Of course not.
She probably meant we would talk much later after the game—like tomorrow. She doesn’t have a pass for ice level. She would
have to pull a lot of strings to get down here. I try to rationalize it, but I still wish she were with me.
Right when I think I won’t get a reunion, Olivia appears at the bench.
She stands in the middle of the open bench door, looking up and down the rink until she spots me.
Our eyes meet. I smile, even bigger than I did when the clock ran out.
Her bottom lip trembles as she smiles back.
Her wide eyes glisten under the bright lights.
In the middle of a chaotic rink, everything is silent.
The moment is still, as if she’s the only person in all of existence, and in this moment, to me, she is.
I lift my bare hands, fanning them in front of me like they’re on fire. Her smile swells into a laugh. I blow out the left
hand. Then I blow out the right hand. She mirrors the same back to me. Finally, ready to hoist the real prize in my arms,
I wave her over. It’s all happening in slow motion like a highlight reel playback.
She takes off from the bench, running across the ice toward me. Too impatient to wait, I skate to her. She steps with grace
and strength on the snowy ice and as we reach each other, she jumps into my arms right where she belongs. Her hands link around
the back of my neck and mine squeeze her waist.
I kiss her as if it’s our last. And she kisses me back with such passion that I know it won’t be. I could hold her here forever,
until the last fan begrudgingly leaves the stadium, until the last speck of confetti is picked up, until they lock the doors
and turn off the lights, but she wiggles herself down.
“How’s it feel?” she asks. Her feet are back on the ice, but she’s still pressed against me.
My hands linger around her waist. “Kissing you is better than I remembered.”
She gives me a playful shove as she kisses her teeth. “You know what I mean.”
And I do. It all feels good right now. The love and victory are blurred together. It’s hard to know if it would be as sweet
without her. I’m glad I didn’t have to find out. Win or lose, she’s the person I want to see after the game.
“It feels like the type of thing I want to celebrate with my girlfriend.” I tuck her under my arm. I eye her up and down, looking for a VIP ice-level authorization pass, but there’s nothing hanging around her neck. “How did you get down here?”
“Same way I got that letter in your locker,” she says, gloating. “I know some very powerful people around here.”
She looks off toward the bench where Chilly is entertaining the crowd. Quinn stands nearby, pretending like we didn’t catch
her peering over at us. We wave. She gives us a very sporty thumbs-up before quickly turning back to Chilly where she intervenes
as a drunk fan attempts to pour beer down the cat’s open mouth.
“You know, when I first saw that letter, I was worried you were tampering with my things again.” I pause, hoping it’s not
too soon to joke about her swapping my sticks. There’s a brief moment of strained silence before we both laugh.
“That’s not my style anymore,” she says as her cheeks flush. “If I have any suggestions for you, I’ll tell them right to your
face. Like I can’t believe you took a slap shot into an empty net.”
I grimace, thinking of the flurry of angry posts about me on social media right now. I bet the Storm fans are having a field
day with that one. Luckily, I’ll be somewhere for the next couple weeks where they can’t reach me—celebrating this win. “Yeah,
that was really stupid of me.”
She shakes her head. “It was very Minnesota Freeze fan favorite of you.”
Olivia points to the crowd of fans gathered by Chilly. We listen closely. “Victor!” one loud person shouts. “Lee!” the crowd
chants back. This goes on for a few rounds before it dies down and they are chanting something about a big Hammer.
Slowly, the team starts to head back to the locker room where our champagne shower awaits. “What do you say we get out of here and go celebrate?”
She cocks her head over at me and says, “You’re not taking me to another Catan tournament, are you?”
“I hope so. That would be two championships in one night,” I say. “This couple can’t lose!” I pump my arms and the nearby
crowd gets rowdy.
Together, hand in hand, we head off the ice to celebrate tonight’s many victories.