Chapter 24
Chapter Twenty-Four
FOUR MONTHS LATER – JUNE
Elliot
“Let’s fucking go, boys!” Peyton shouts, tapping his stick aggressively against the floor.
“Yahooo!” Blaine howls next to me, then smacks his stick into my leg pads.
If it were any other game, I’d be right in the middle with them, howling like a wolf at the moon. But it’s game six of the Stanley Cup Finals, and we’re about to step back onto the ice for the third period. We’ve had an incredible run so far, and if we win this, we’ll be back-to-back champions.
Back-to-back champions.
Fuck. It doesn’t feel real.
The score is currently 3-1, but Florida hasn’t made it easy for us.
They’ve been dishing out dirty hits and doing it in such a subtle way that the officials haven’t noticed or haven’t cared to call it.
One of their wingers has been taunting me all night, calling me names and purposefully standing in my way or hitting me in the head with the butt of his stick. I won’t let him rile me up, though.
I want my name on the Cup again, next to Blaine’s. I want us to continue to make history for another year running.
The buzzer sounds, letting the crowd know the period is about to start, and I lead my teammates down the tunnel.
The crowd is so loud tonight. Their roars vibrate through the arena, but as always, the second my skate touches the ice, I block out the noise, and my brain becomes silent.
It’s like the volume dial has been lowered for the rest of the noise in my head too.
I have a single shot focus, and nothing is going to break that.
Skating over to the net, I drop my water bottle on top, then go through my usual routine. Scuff up the ice with my skates, pat the right post, pat the left, then use my glove to pat the crossbar.
“You’ve been good to me so far, but I need you to keep it up for me. The next twenty minutes are gonna be legendary. We’re going to make the history books, you and me,” I say to the painted steel, giving it another loving pat. “You up for that?”
Obviously, the posts don’t answer because they can’t talk, but I give a firm nod in agreement.
Lifting my mask, I shake off my glove to pick up my water bottle and squirt some water in my mouth before squirting some over my face.
I shake my head in the same way Boomer does when he gets out of the bath and secure my mask back in place.
Tracing the outline of the blue paint, I tap the blade of my stick into my glove before crouching down into position, ready for Blaine to take the face-off.
We’ve got this.
Blaine wins the drop, and the clock begins to count down the final twenty minutes. As expected, Florida are all over them in the offensive zone, trying their best to use aggression and bullying tactics to get the better of my teammates, but they fail to take possession of the puck.
We’ve been rock solid this whole time. Nothing is going to break through us.
The first ten minutes are spent heavily in the offensive zone. Not that I mind because it makes it easier for me, but when I skate over to the bench for the TV time-out, it’s clear Florida’s taunts are starting to weigh on them.
“Don’t let them get under your skin. That’s what they want. They’re trying to break you down and make you weak. You are not fucking weak. You got it?” Coach Harris tells us, and we all shout in agreement.
When they take their positions for the next face-off, it’s like we’ve had a surge of energy. Blaine is lightning fast as he dekes one of Florida’s wingers, and then he sends a saucer pass over to Peyton, who takes a shot and slips the puck into the top left corner, extending our lead 4-1.
The crowd goes wild, and I scream in celebration, throwing my arms in the air. They skate by the bench, then make their way over to me.
Fuck. We’re so close. We could really do this.
“That was a fucking beauty!” I shout to Peyton over the roar of the fans.
“Keep being big for me, Olsen.” He pats my chest. “Be fucking big!”
And I do. Florida ends up with a power play after Zach gets two minutes for hooking. I’m extending my legs and arms as far and fast as I can, throwing my body in the way of the puck to prevent it from making its way into the net.
When there are two minutes left on the clock, the energy in the arena intensifies. It’s electric. The fans’ excitement is palpable. I can feel it like a blanket over my skin.
Blaine lines up to take the face-off in the O-zone. He flicks it back to Jackson at the top of the circle, and my eyes widen as he makes a one-timer right off the draw.
And the puck flies into the net, lighting the lamp for the fifth time tonight.
“Fucking yeah!” I yell, a wide grin splitting my face.
I’m trembling with excitement as the clock counts down.
With a minute left, Florida pulls their goalie for an extra attacker, but it’s no use. I block every shot they take, sending the puck flying into the boards or controlling the rebound and passing on to the stick of a waiting teammate.
At the thirty-second mark, they give up.
They don’t try to fight for the puck or challenge Blaine, who has possession behind me.
My teammates on the bench are jumping and hugging each other, their wide grins visible from here.
The roar of the fans is thunderous, and immediately, my eyes begin to burn with tears.
We did it. We dominated Florida.
We’re back-to-back champions.
When there are five seconds left on the clock, sticks and gloves and helmets are thrown into the air, covering the ice as my teammates clear the bench.
I manage to drop my stick and helmet onto the ice and quickly flick off my glove and blocker before Blaine launches himself at me.
The rest of my team collides into us, pushing us back until we’re a pile of bodies against the boards, jumping and screaming with tears rolling down our faces.
“We fucking did it!” Blaine cries, pressing his sweaty forehead against mine.
I’m so overcome with emotion, I can’t speak. My words are lodged thick in my throat. All I can do is nod, and I’m grinning so big my face aches.
The carpet comes out, and then we’re all cheering like hooligans when the Cup is carried out.
Peyton is the first to lift it. His first championship as captain.
Then I hoot and holler as Blaine makes a lap of the ice with it above his head, and when it’s my turn.
I flick my gaze up to the box, where I know Hunter is.
He’s been watching from the family box with Walt, Alex, Carter, and Hayden.
Even Ethan and Jacob have come to support us.
I can’t see him from here, but I know he’s watching.
So with the Cup in my hands, I look up toward the box and lift it above my head.
We take photos, and when it’s time for the family to come out onto the ice, tears pool in my eyes the second I see Hunter. He helps Walt cross the ice to stand on the carpet, and then I skate over and launch myself at Hunter. He catches me, wrapping his arms around me in a tight hug.
“I’m so fucking proud of you,” he says, kissing the side of my head. “So fucking proud.”
I cry into his shoulder, feeling every emotion running through me like a tidal wave. My hands are shaking when I return to my skates. Hunter takes my face in both hands and kisses me.
I’ve always wanted this. Someone to be there for me at the end of a game.
To go home to and celebrate the wins, but also be there to support me during the losses.
Hunter has been my rock. My safe landing.
He’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and I still can’t believe my luck that I get to call this man mine.
The man who loves me unconditionally.
The man who has so much patience and kindness.
The man who holds me when things feel too much.
The man who encourages me to not be afraid of being my authentic self.
The man who loves me for exactly who I am.
“I love you so much,” I tell him, pressing my lips to his.
“I love you too, two-time Stanley Cup champion.” He grins, and I let out a wet laugh.
“Oh, say that again, Lieutenant.”
He kisses me again, then takes my chin in his hand like he always does. “I love you, Elliot Olsen. Two-time Stanley Cup champion and the love of my life.”
I might have won the greatest trophy in the world twice, but this man right here? He’s the most perfect prize of all.