Chapter 4
FINN
LIFTING THE CUP
Sudden-death overtime means the next goal wins it all. It’s high-stakes, all-or-nothing, and that final goal often leads directly to us hoisting the Cup in the final game.
Blake keeps shouting, “Let’s go, let’s go!”
Blake might’ve “accidentally” clipped Kal’s skate in the last play. I’m not sure.
Kal’s jawing in my face, and Victor raises both fists in the air, and I know he’s saying, “Let’s do this!”
Kal wins the face-off. I don’t even know how — I think he might’ve growled. Victor swoops in, picks up the puck like it’s nothing, and we go. The sound of the crowd is a wall of white noise behind my ears. All I see is the ice and my brothers flying down it with me.
Alexandre’s on the wing — fast as hell, sharp as a knife — and Blake’s roaring up behind, a tank with skates. Kal crashes the line and sets the screen. The goalie barely has time to register what’s coming before all five of us are there.
I see the puck pop off Victor’s stick — a perfect pass — and everything slows down.
There’s sweat on my chin that I didn’t know was there. Sweat slicks down my spine.
I don’t think. I just shoot.
Clink.
The goalie flails and loses his balance. The red light blazes behind the net, and the whole world erupts. I don’t hear the buzzer. I don’t hear the crowd.
I stand there for a second, frozen, watching the puck in the back of the net. I’m listening to 20,000 people go insane.
Game Seven. Six rounds. Two months of hell. All of it — mine.
Ours. Players storm off the bench, and we all skate to our goalie. We tackle him. My knees hit the ice before I realize I’ve dropped.
The Cup is ours.
We won.
We won.
We fucking won.
Victor grabs my helmet and smashes his forehead into mine, laughing like a lunatic. “We did it!”
“I know. I can’t believe it. This is surreal, man.”
We toss our helmets and gloves, not caring where they land.
I launch myself at Kal and Victor. Blake and Alexandre join in. Someone’s yelling in French. Someone’s crying. We slam into our goalie, Luc. We’re laughing and so happy that we forget that our legs are Jell-O. We all go down in a heap, fists pounding shoulders, gloves flying.
My mouth hurts from smiling. We manage to stand. Then I’m buried in bodies — Kal slamming into me again, Blake lifting me off the ice, Alexandre and Victor are just a few of the players screaming, laughing, and pounding backs.
Everything’s a blur of noise and flashing lights, and the crowd’s thunder. Cameras snap like lightning. Photographers swarm the ice like it’s a concert and we’re the headliners.
And then the moment we’ve all been waiting for—the Cup comes out.
Lord Stanley, silver and surreal, gleaming under a thousand lights. It’s heavier than it looks. Or maybe I’m just shaking.
But when Victor passes it to me, my hands shake as I grab it with both hands and raise it above my head, and kiss the cup—the sublime feeling as the silver shines under the bright lights.
The camera’s flash, the stadium is still loud, I don’t even know where my teammates are on the ice, but it’s the best kind of chaos.
If it weren’t for the adrenaline, I wouldn’t be able to lift the heavy cup because my arms are dead, and the Cup is heavier than I could have imagined.
I worked my ass off for it. I paid in pieces of myself.
Kal skates by, pointing at me like I’m a legend before he takes the Cup next, bringing it to his lips and promptly kissing it.
He makes a circle, passes it to Blake, who lifts it like a trophy from a gladiator in the ring, and roars like a gruff bear.
Alexandre cradles it like it’s his soulmate and says something in French that makes him tear up.
We all take turns skating it around the rink, like a victory lap around the sun.
The whole team piles in for photos — one with the Cup, one with everyone, one messy one with everyone laughing, wet, half-crying. Cameras pop. Lights flash. We get in tight and yell “WE’RE NUMBER ONE!” until our throats are raw.
I even won the Conn Smythe trophy for being the game’s MVP. The sports network and TMZ interviewed me.
After the fanfare, the families enter the ice. Mom and Dad hug me.
“I knew you’d win it!” Dad shouts above the noise.
“I love you, Finn,” my mother says. A stranger on the ice takes my mother’s phone and snaps pictures that will be ingrained in our family history.
Me? I’m taking it all in. I watch my teammates—my family, smiling and laughing. In this moment, we recall all the injuries we sustained, the pain, the suffering, and the tears of frustration we held inside. All of that for this one glorious moment.
Then it’s into the locker room. And that’s where the real party begins.
Music blares — some victory anthem we won’t remember tomorrow—and the champagne’s flying before anyone says a word.
Kal shakes his bottle like a lunatic and pops the cork into the ceiling.
Blake douses the coach with a magnum, and the poor man stands there, soaked, but grinning like a kid.
We all add champagne to ensure he’s duly anointed as our champion, whose stewardship brought us here.
Someone hands me another bottle. I shake it and spray it straight into Alexandre’s face.
We’re laughing, soaked, now shirtless, and screaming. Victor’s got the Cup in the middle of the room, repeatedly hoisting it into the air. Someone’s standing on the bench. The sound of corks popping and teammates yelling entirely drowns out the coach’s attempt to congratulate us.
Many have tears of joy. I think Kal’s on Instagram Live with his shirt off.
We’re all drunk on adrenaline, soaked in champagne, and smiling so wide our faces hurt.
Then, Coach makes a heartfelt speech.
This is it.
This is the dream. This is everything we worked for. This is everything I ever wanted. The noise. The history. The high.
It’s my dream come true. It’s surreal. And now that I’ve accomplished that, I don’t know what’s next.