Epilogue
EPILOGUE
I didn’t think hockey would ever make me cry. Sure, I had taken some hits that made my eyes water before and there was the time I broke my wrist in middle school, but nothing mounted to the feeling engulfing me right now.
The Star-Spangled Banner belted out in the arena while the U. S flag raised above our heads. The arena was dark except for the spotlight on the team and the flag. The crowd was screaming, and I felt the weight of the gold medal around my neck. We had just played the game of our lives, shutting out Russia to win Olympic gold. The first time, the women’s hockey team had won in the last four winter games.
Tears streamed down my cheeks from the immense pride and relief of it being all over. My fellow teammates had their arms around my shoulders as we stood in one giant line. I scanned the crowd for the one man who made this all possible. Hunter stood by the bench with Jackson and Kennedy. The three of them were jumping up and down, cheering me on. This is what my dad had meant by the Olympics being more than just a medal. This feeling was one I would remember and cherish for the rest of my life. It was indescribable, yet infinite all at onc e. I wanted to take the feeling and put it in a jar so I could revisit it in the future when asked to describe it. As the anthem ended, we were escorted off the ice and the media frenzy began.
I looked around desperately for Hunter. We had agreed to find each other before I went to change. There was a debriefing prior to the game about a window of time before we could change for media interactions. I didn’t care about ESPN asking me what my plans were or NBC asking me about the game. I only cared about a pair of steel eyes finding my own. Finally, I saw him break through the crowd in the tunnel and I rushed into his open arms.
My dismissal shocked the news anchors, but all I cared about was the feeling of Hunter's arms embracing my waist. He lifted me in the air, circling as he laughed. The telltale clicks of media cameras rang out behind us. Tomorrow, this image will be on the front page of news outlets everywhere.
“You did it, Sunshine!” Hunter exclaimed.
Between my own giggles, I kissed him. I couldn’t get enough of his lips on my own. He had been my unwavering support through this entire Olympic journey. Jackson came up behind us singing “ We are the Champions ,” with Kennedy in tow.
A news anchor made her way over, the cameraman trailing behind her. Hunter didn’t leave when they approached. Instead, he put me back down on my skates and wrapped an arm around my waist. If she wanted an interview so badly, she would have to do so while I stayed entwined with him. It’s where I wanted to be for the foreseeable future, preferably in bed.
The news anchor, who was wearing jeans and an ESPN quarter zip, cleared her throat and smiled. She wore her black hair in a sleek ponytail and the crinkles in the corner of her eyes gave away her stressed state. Our media training gleamed on the fact that most outlets had a ‘target’ for the evenin g. Based on my performance tonight, I wasn’t surprised that I was hers.
“Maci, what a great game-winning goal at the end of the third period. Tell us, what’s next now that you’ve won Olympic gold? Are the rumors about the new PWHL draft true?”
The PWHL—Professional Women’s Hockey League, was just green-lighted with six new franchises, three in the U.S. and three in Canada. It rocked the women’s hockey world so that we would finally have a chance at our own version of the NHL. I had been swarmed with questions about whether I’d enter the draft or not.
Hunter, Jackson, Axel, and Crew all signed with a new expansion team forming in Houston. Their contracts were the first of their kind—an entire university shift signed to one team. It made huge headlines when it happened. If I entered the PWHL, there was a strong chance I’d go to a team in Canada. Hunter assured me that no matter my choice, we would make it work. I hadn’t given him my answer yet, but I knew what I wanted.
“No, I am not elected to join the draft for the PWHL. I accepted a position earlier tonight to be the director of a youth hockey club in Houston.” Hunter’s face went slack in shock.
The reporter scrambled to ask a follow-up question, but I cut her off, “As of the end of that period. I am retired. No further questions.”
I pulled Hunter away from the crowd. I didn’t need a professional career, nor did I want it. Nothing would top the feeling off right now, and I didn’t want to waste time doing long distance with Hunter. I wanted him. To build a life with him and all the time we spent coaching, peewee changed me. I loved it just as much as I loved playing. Like father, like daughter, some would say. My decision brought me peace. There wasn’t regret at hanging up my skates, not one bit. Plus, the Sugarland arena just was within walking distance of studio spaces. My deposit was finalized last night. I’ll get to coach and freelance my art.
Hunter looked down at me in his arms. His eyes searched my own. “Are you sure?”
I smiled, “I love you. There’s nowhere else I would rather be, plus if I don’t coach, they’ll keep letting assholes like you do it. Can’t have a bunch of eight-year-olds quit because their coach made them do suicides until they puked.”
Hunter’s head tipped back, his velvety laugh filling the surrounding space. I relished in that sound; it felt like home. He looked back at me, his love and admiration for me shining in his eyes.
“Maci Rae, marry me,” He demanded more than he asked.
I bit my lip and Hunter growled, “Use your words Sunshine, yes or no?”
My cheeks flamed as I thought about the first time he used that phrase on me, back when I let him own me.
“Yes,” I said confidently.
Hunter picked me up again, his smile large as his forehead touched my own.
“I love you,” He breathed
“I know.” I closed the space between us. I couldn’t wait to spend the rest of my life kissing Hunter St. James.