But me? Nope. I can’t hide the tears of joy that dampen my eyes. IT’s as if I won the Cup all over again, but impressionable souls and Kate here surround me. I use the back of my hand to wipe away the dampness before anyone notices because this is the best part of the day!
These kids? They don’t care who I am. They care that somethingimpossibleis standing in front of them. And that one day, maybe, just maybe, it’s not impossible forthem.
After we’ve exhausted our ten minutes of fame, Kate and I change out of our skates. She grabs my hand when we’re walking out, fingers laced. “That,” she says quietly, “was incredible.”
I nod. “Better than cereal.”
“Definitely,” she says, grinning, because every kid and adult in the rink smiled today.
The sun is setting in the sky when we ride home. The Cup is in the backseat, like he’s earned his rest. Kate leans in and places her head on my shoulder at a stoplight, and I think—I get it now.
The championship wasn’t just winning the Cup.
It wasthis.
EVENING-The Superhero Dinner.
I enter the kitchen and smell spices, garlic, and triumph. As per my request, Kate prepared the iconic Meatball Madness spaghetti dish fromHancockin full cinematic glory. And in the dining room chair, Lord Stanley sits—the Stanley Cup itself —is now filled to the brim.
"I hope I'm not the one cleaning him," she says with a smirk. She places her hands on her hips, and her cheeks are flushed from the heat of the stove and the thrill of the incredible day.
"I got you, babe. You cooked, I’ll clean," I say, already rolling up my sleeves. We had a blast eating red sauce and meatballs from the Cup, and we even fed each other.
After dinner, we replay the game on the big screen—every goal, every hit, every roar from the crowd — as if it’s a bedtime story for champions. The two of us pose for photos with the Cup like proud parents of chaos.
Then, in what can only be described as alcohol anarchy, we mix iced tea spiked with vodka straight from the silver bowl, as if it were holy water.
It's messy. It’s magical. And it’s ours.
And true to my word, I’ve cleaned the Cup by nine.
26
KATE
WHEN FAKE IS TOO REAL
“Started out playing make-believe/NowI can't tell what's true/It's hard to call it a lie/When it feels this good with you.” Kate Riggs
It’s been a week since the blip in our marriage where Finn forgot my gig. But tonight, I walk out to the back patio with the sun dipping low, and admire my husband at the grill with a pair of tongs and a beer in hand.
The patio is huge—like, band-could-play-a-wedding-here kind of massive. A string of party lights twinkle overhead, and a fire pit sits in the corner waiting for winter. There was a long, farmhouse-style table set with cloth napkins, wine glasses, and an excessive amount of silverware.
“Wow,” I say.
He turns and stares. He doesn’t even pretend to be subtle.
“Damn,” he says, and I wonder what’s wrong.
“What? Do I have catsup on my face?” I ask.
He chuckles. “No. You’re just that beautiful. You’re gonna make it really hard to pretend this marriage is fake.”
I blush. “Flattery will not get you out of doing dishes,” I snark.
Dinner is shockingly normal—steaks grilled to perfection, roasted potatoes, and corn, which I ignored. The wine flowed. The breeze carried music from a hidden speaker somewhere. The stars came out one by one. And so did my inhibitions.
“I can’t believe this is your life,” I say, swirling the last of the wine in my glass.
