I cradle the Cup like it’s a newborn. “She’s in,” I whisper to it, triumphantly.
First thing on my list? Breakfast. Cereal, to be exact. Not justanycereal. The kind with marshmallows and no nutritional value whatsoever.
I carry the Cup into the kitchen like it’s a damn crown jewel. Kate joins me minutes later as I’m pouring dye-infused sugar corn into the cup. Kate grabs a second box, holding it with both hands, laughing so hard she snorts. “This is sacrilegious.”
“No,” I say, grabbing two spoons. “This is America. And this is the breakfast of champions!” I say as I pour in a gallon of milk. Kate hands me a ladle. We’re like savages eating out of the silver bowl. We’re grinning like idiots. Milk splashes, but I don’t care.
Sticky fingers. Sticky memories. Hell, I want to propose to her all over again. I’m having fun, and I can’t believe she’s here with me.
She takes pictures of me, then of us.
Midday – “Cup-cation”
By seven, we’re in the car—well,mycar, which is technically a sports car that is meant for someone who owns one (1) hockey bag, and not more than three (3) hockey sticks, and maybe (4) fishing rods. Not that I would put those in this car. No, this is my prized possession. It’s detailed on a monthly basis and is stored for the winter. Hell, it only comes out when the roads are hot and the sun is hotter.
And before Kate, it was my chick magnet—not that I needed any help.
But today? It’s a Stanley Cup chariot. Lord Stanley is riding in the back like royalty. We’ve buckled him in with a seatbelt and draped him in our championship jersey over the lower tiers to protect it like a VIP guest.
I used gum to anchor a hat inside the cap that says“I partied with the champs.”I don’t even know where we got the hat. Probably Luc’s backpack, because it contains things no one should ever ask about—goalies and all that.
Kate calls me a menace. She’s not wrong. She’s riding with her feet up on the dash, her hair is still damp and in a ponytail, and our Championship hat is on her head. Her sunglasses make her look like a movie star. Yes, she’s that gorgeous.
I think it’s cute that she keeps looking over her shoulder at the Cup like she can’t believe it’s real.
After we’re situated, we hit the road. Top down. “Everybody” is the song on the radio, and Kate is shimmying her shoulders to the beat. Stanley’s silver reflects the sun’s perfect rays, and I swear people honk at us just for existing.
I’m on top of the world all over again, and the fact that Kate is sitting beside me is the highlight of the morning.
We take Stanley to the beach—Kate kicks off her shoes and runs ahead of me, leaving footprints in the sand. I carry the Cup like a groom crossing the threshold, all the way to the waterline.
We take photos. One with the Cup wearing sunglasses. One of Kate kissing it like it’s a baby. One of me holding it above my head like I just won the whole damn planet.
Then, we make our way to the boardwalk, where we unload like a crew of reality TV celebrities. The names of the team on the back of our championship T-shirts, our flushed faces are radiant, and we have zero shame.
People stare. Someone drops their ice cream. A kid points and yells, “That’s the Stanley Cup!” and I yell back, “Damn right it is!” like I’m announcing a WWE match.
We take pictures with it on the beach and in front of a taco truck. Then, we walk into a sketchy souvenir shop, and Kate tries to convince me to buy a fishing hat for Stanley.
I drink out of the Cup at a burger shack—green Gatorade, tequila, and some mystery soda Kate dumps into it.
We take a turn sipping from it, and then we promptly spit half of it out because the liquid tastes “like bad decisions in a silver cup.”
Kate documents everything with pictures. There’s now a running tally on her Notes app of the most items we’ve put in the Cup:
• Gatorade (green)
• Tequila before noon (very planned)
• Champagne
• French fries (unplanned)
And at some point—I don’t even know how—I end up at this tiny public bathroom near the docks, standing in front of a crusty mirror with the Cup balanced on the sink. I take a selfie. Just me, Lord Stanley, and the words“you look tired”scrawled in soap bubbles behind us.
I text it to the group chat.
The guys drop comments, and then I exit, singing, “We are the Champions.”
