I was just about to leave when Killer stopped me a second time. “And yet, as good as your dad was, there’s still one thing he never did.”
“What’s that?” I’d asked, intrigued.
“He never won a Cup.” Killer’s penetrated gaze bore into my soul from across the office. “Dakota, you’ve got a chance to achieve what your pops never could.”
I had to stop and let that soak in. Of course, he hadn’t told me anything I didn’t already know—but now I was seeing it in a new light.
“Thanks, Killer,” I’d said.
I hadn’t known it then, Killer planted a seed in my mind, and I left his office with a new mission: to do what my dad never did, and bring the Stanley Cup to Las Vegas.
Which is why I wasn’t at all nervous before Game Seven. Because I knew this whole year had led up to this very point. The Cup wasours… we just had to go out and win it.
I glanced at the clock. Two hours remained until we took the ice.
I grabbed the soccer ball out of my locker.
“Alright, boys. Let’s play some sewerball,” I said, taking a group with me into the hallway.
Anythingto take their minds off the game.
Sewerball took the edge off … but only for a bit. Eventually, it was time to head back to the locker room. Once the boys got suited up in their gear, the nerves returned.
With thirty minutes left until we took the ice, Cale Cotton jumped up and ran to the bathroom. The rest of us sat there, listening in awkward silence as the youngster retched and heaved his guts out.
Fuck.
Even I was starting to get a bad feeling.
I still wasn’tnervous.But I certainly wasn’t getting a warm, happy feeling when I glanced around the room at all the pale, sickly faces.
C’mon, boys, get it together,I thought.
I racked my brain, trying to find the right words, or the right joke, that would break the tension and take everyone’s mind off the game. Wealltried, again and again, but the anxiety always returned. The room was steeped in it.
I hate to say it, but it was starting to feel like the moment was too big for this team …
But with five minutes left on the clock, something funny happened.
It started as a faint noise in the distance; a chant among the waiting crowd.
“You boys hear that?” I asked. I couldn’t make out the words, but the fans were definitely chantingsomething.
Everybody held still and listened closer.
“Let’s go, Ve~gas!”
The chant began to spread, growing louder as the digital clock counted down the minutes, and then seconds until we took the ice. The fans began to stomp their feet to the beat, making the walls of the locker room shake.
“They believe,” I said simply.
I looked around at our teammates. I’m not sure when, exactly, it happened—but with only seconds left until we took the ice, there was no longer a single hint of nervousness or doubt in anyone’s eyes. Instead, we were filled with a sense of determination and confidence, ready to give our all for the city of Las Vegas, for our fans, and for each other.
We took the ice, the fans’ chant lifting us up and making us feel like we were ten feet tall.
Looking at my teammates’ faces on the bench, I knew it in my heart:
We’ve got this.
