Second stop:Omnia.
A bouncer tries to say no, but Blake lifts the Cup and goes, “We brought a guest.”
The bouncer lets us in after taking a picture of us, saying his wife will never believe him.
We get the best table in the place. DJ shout us out. Lights swirl. People lose their minds when they realize what's in the booth with us. Champagne? Flowing. Shots? Endless. Victor fills the Cup with something neon yellow and insists we all drink from it. It tastes like danger, with electrolytes and moonshine.
Next stop:A dive bar with zero business hosting champions.
It’s got sticky floors, a jukebox, and three locals who don’t even blink when we walk in like a frat wedding exploded.
Kal sets the Cup on the bar and goes, “One round in her. Let’s go.”
The bartender pours whiskey straight into it. We sip it like a holy ritual.
At some point, someone carries the Cup onto the dance floor. Some tourists twerk on it. Alexandre grabs it back like it’s a baby in traffic. We chant. We dance. We drink. Kal climbs a stripper pole for his jersey. How it got up there is anyone’s guess.. Blake arm-wrestles a dude in an Elvis costume. Victor poses for a picture with a bachelorette. I lose my voice yelling “STANLEY!” every five minutes.
Next: the rooftop of a random hotel.
I don’t think this is a good idea, but the guys are out of control. I need to manage the situation to ensure no one falls off.
We’re above the Strip. The lights below twinkle. It’s magical—an ephemeral breeze cools me, the moon winks, the stars twinkle, and Lord Stanley in my hands. There’s no music, only the distant hum of Vegas still buzzing beneath us.
And we sit. Sweaty. Drunk. Spent.
Happy. Deliriously happy.
“I’m never coming down,” Blake mutters, looking at the skyline.
“You don’t have to,” I say, tipping the Cup toward him.
Because tonight? We’re legends.
But it’s been a long night and should’ve ended hours ago.
We’d already hit the Strip, drank out of the Cup, danced like idiots, made history, and taken enough blurry photos to get blacklisted from three casinos. But then Kal — dead serious, glassy-eyed, shirt wide open — says, “One more stop.”
I hold my groan. It’s nearly 3 AM when we all pile into the party van. By the time we roll into the third bar, the Cup smells like tequila, glitter, and barbecue sauce. I don’t even want to know how.
We’ve been riding the high since the last puck drop—shoulders loose, spirits high, winning the Cup is so monumental that we can taste it. The Maulers are scattered in the street, laughing, flirting, and drinking like we’re immortal.
We smell of sweat, spilled whiskey, and playoff adrenaline. But that doesn’t stop us from leaning on each other in the alley behind the last bar. Someone’s shoe is missing (Blake’s), someone’s singing Celine Dion in falsetto (Kal), and I’m one bad decision away from eating a street taco off the curb.
This new spot’s buried inside a hotel that no tourist ever finds—no name on the front. Just velvet ropes, a line wrapped around the block, and a bouncer who looks at us and waves us in like we’re royalty when he sees the Cup.
Inside are lights. Bass. Heat. The kind of place where the air tastes like perfume and money. Celebs in corners. Performers are just offstage. Everyone is shining.
But me?
I’m scanning the room the second we step inside. I don’t even know what I’m looking for until I seeher.
She’s across the room, half-lit by a nearby neon sign and the strobe light. She’s laughing, her head is tipped back, and one hand is holding a drink, the other tugging her friend close like they’re mid-conspiracy.
Her hair’s down, a brunette, with legs that go on for miles under that tiny red mini-dress that’s deadly and cowboy boots that don’t belong in Vegas but somehow belong onher.
The crowd melts. The music fades. My chest does that damn thing again—tightens like it’s been punched and pulled all at once.
“Damn,” Mikael mutters beside me. “Who’s that?—?”
