FINN
LIFTING THE CUP
Sudden-death overtimemeansthe next goal wins it all. It’s high-stakes, all-or-nothing, and that final goal often leads directly to ushoisting the Cupin the final game.
I don’t remember the last time I took a full breath. My lungs are tight, my legs burn, and my heart is doing something between a drum’s roar and a hummingbird trapped in my chest. The clock says 00:18, tied game. Game 7. Stanley Cup. Everything we’ve hoped for is on hold.
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 andsets 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 fuckingwon.
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.
