23. Matt #2
Alec leads the herd, and I quickly spot Cam, Reed, Brett, and Jensen barreling right behind him.
They tackle me, dogpiling together as tears start to stream down our faces, and we cheer uncontrollably.
We’re a mess, crying, cheering, sobbing, laughing together through a moment that may never happen again, a moment that nothing and no one can ever take away from us.
I scream into the abyss, “We’re Stanley Cup champions!”
A flash of red hair appears in my mind, and I know I’m not escaping this pileup easily, but she’s the first place I’m going.
“We did it!” Kos cries out, shaking me with glee.
“Winning fucking tip-in right there!” Costy cheers, praising Kos.
The noise is music to my ears, and I feel like I might be floating on an actual cloud—or maybe that’s just the pressure of a thousand guys on top of me. But gradually, it starts to lighten as they peel away, and I can get back to my feet.
Turning around toward the bench, I search for her. She’s probably worried about the pileup, and I want to make sure she knows I’m okay. I also want more than anything in the goddamn world to kiss the woman I love.
But I don’t see her. The bench is empty—of players, coaches, staff, everyone.
Then her sweet voice sings in my ear as someone taps my shoulder, “Looking for someone?”
I spin around, and my jaw falls to the floor as I see Shay standing on the ice before me. “Holy shit. What are you doing? You’re out here!”
I reach for her, grabbing for her arms, and she busts into a fit of nervous giggles. She holds on, gripping my arms for dear life, smiling ear to ear. Her eyes are wide and brimming with tears.
“I’m out here! I think I might puke or pass out, but I’m hereeee.” She pulls me closer to her, and I glide forward. Staring up at me with pride in her gaze, she shouts, “You’re a championnnn!”
“Woo!” I tip my head back and shout, a rally of echoes following from the other guys.
Lowering my chin back down, I find her staring off to the side, and I follow it all the way to Coach Carrington, who’s beaming, looking at her with such respect in his eyes. I think she likely reminds him a little of himself.
His gaze shifts up to me, and I don’t know what’s gotten into him. Maybe it’s his loving wife and daughter who’re at his side or his win tonight, but slowly, his gaze softens, and he nods. I don’t have to hear his words to know what he’s giving me permission for.
Turning back to Shay, I slide my hand along her jaw, and her eyes bulge out of her head as I brush my thumb along her cheek.
Screw the podcasters and the broadcasters who talk nonstop about her injury, her lapse of fear for my safety, or anything that isn’t how incredibly talented she is, both as a player and as a coach.
Same goes for anyone talking about me. All of that is noise that has no merit or weight in our lives, not at the end of the day.
“Rooney.” Leaning down, I speak loudly, wanting her to hear every word clearly. “What do you say we give them something else to talk about?”
I take a quick, nervous breath as moments flash through my mind.
I couldn’t have done this without her—I know that for a fact.
She is the glue that holds me together—physically, mentally, in every way.
We’ve each had our own trials and tribulations along the way, but we’re here together, and that’s what matters most.
Slowly, her sweet stare softens, and her lips part, the wetness in her eyes growing. Her next movement is so slight that I almost don’t catch it. She does it again, nodding her head in my hand, and everything else in the world falls away.
“God, I fucking love you,” I exhale into her mouth before our lips collide, our kiss full of passion, abandon, and possibility.
Her hands shift to the collar of my jersey, pulling me closer, and she deepens the kiss. She rolls her forehead against mine, and I think the moment that follows rivals the one that just happened, maybe even more than winning.
“I love you too.” She kisses me again, and it takes everything in me not to part her lips with my tongue and really give everyone a show. But we’ll save that for tonight’s celebration when we’re alone.
When we inch apart, her eyes open, sparkling emeralds finding mine. They widen slightly, panic striking her stare.
“I’m doing okay.”
She’s saying that for her own validation, and I double down.
“You’re doing so good, baby. Are you kidding me?”
Her smile deepens, and she hooks her arm in mine, holding on tightly as the Stanley Cup is carried out onto the ice by the Keeper of the Cup.
I don’t think the cheering has died down, but it definitely finds a new spike when the commissioner shakes Kos’s hand for a couple of photos and finally hands the Cup over to him.
Grabbing the trophy—one that holds decades upon decades of history carved into the panels—he hoists it into the air and skates toward us, cheering with everything he has left.
He skates a lap, pumping it into the air to share it with the fans.
Slowly, he lowers it just above his head and does the only other thing hockey players dream of when winning the Cup—gives it a kiss.
He nods at Costy, who glides forward, arms ready to accept it.
With pride etched into every feature, he raises it in the air, gives it a kiss, does a quick lap, and skates back, handing it off to Larinski, who does the same.
Burnsy is next, then JD. I expect JD to hand it off to one of our other forwards or defensemen, but instead, he skates toward the wing of players where I’m standing with Shay nervously at my side.
“You’re up, Big Mac.” His smile overtakes his face.
I don’t respond or react. Instead, I look down at Shay, wanting to gauge her feelings.
She’s beaming. “Go. I’ll be okay.”
Andy appears out of nowhere on her other side, looping his arm through hers, and I nod in thanks before glancing back at her.
“Are you sure?”
Planting her hand on my side, she shoves me away, and I glide forward.
“Go get your cup, MacArthur! That’s an order.”
“You heard your coach,” JD teases, handing it off to me.
The metal hits my bare hands, and I swear I might just cry.
The Stanley Cup is in my hands. It’s really happening.
Those who have made their way out onto the ice—the crowd, my teammates, and the organization—begin chanting my nickname, bringing tears to my eyes again. “Big Mac! Big Mac!”
Skating slowly around the perimeter of the ice, I force myself to look around at the stands still flooded with fans, at the Cup above my head that will soon hold my name forever, and at everyone gathered near me. Family. Friends. Loved ones.
An ache rips through my chest, taking me by surprise before I can even process the image of my dad and my mom in my mind.
I wish they were here. More than anything, I’d love to share this with them.
After all, I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for the sacrifices they’d made along the way.
The endless practices, games, camps, and everything in between.