God, I could mainline this sound directly into my veins.
“So about this championship,” I continue, skating in a slow circle so I can address the whole arena. “It was a team effort, obviously, which means thanking Leo Cooper for scoring the game-winner. It's honestly the most interesting thing about him, ladies, so form an orderly queue.”
More laughter and an eye roll from Cooper.
“Ben Kellerman, our secret weapon on defense, who last week actually blocked a shot without apologizing to the puck afterward! Progress! By playoffs, he might even hit someone without apologizing! Or at least think about it very aggressively!” I grin at Kellerman. "Seriously, though, Ben was key to the win…”
The jumbotron finds Kellerman, and his face is so red with heat that it could power the campus for a few hours. He’s going to replay this moment in his head for weeks, probably whilelying in bed at 3:00 a.m., wondering if everyone thinks he’s as much of a disaster as I’m making him sound. He is, but in an endearing way.
“And Erik—” I pause dramatically, pointing my stick toward Schmidt. The jumbotron finds him, and his expression has already settled into weary resignation. “—who celebrated our championship by making a spreadsheet to track our summer workouts! With buffer time for traffic!”
Schmidt just shakes his head, but there’s the tiniest upturn at the corner of his mouth. The crowd eats it up, their laughter mixing with applause.
“But seriously,” I say, and I let my voice drop just enough to signal the shift. The laughter fades to an expectant hush. “This banner belongs to every fan who lost their voice screaming for us. Everyone who believed in Pine Barren hockey when they said we couldn’t compete with the big schools.”
The arena goes quiet—not silent, but that breathless kind of quiet where thousands of people lean forward at the same time—and they're waiting for me.
“And I promise you—” I raise my stick high above my head, “—this won’t be the last one!”
The place goes nuclear. The building shakes. And I gesture for my teammates—both current and Mike and Maine—to join me for the victory lap. Like we did in that fateful game a few months back, we move as one unit, raising our sticks to salute different sections of the crowd.
That’s when I spot Kellerman.
The kid has completely stopped skating. He’s just standing there at the blue line, head tilted back, staring up at the banner with his mouth hanging open. Pure, unfiltered awe. His eyes are actually glassy, the kid totally overwhelmed by emotion even though he was part of the victory.
That was you three years ago, watching Maine and Declan, Mike and Linc, thinking they were gods among mortals.
Now Kellerman looks atmewith that same expression. To him, I’m not the disaster who once set his equipment bag on fire trying to dry his gloves with a lighter, or the guy who accidentally locked himself in the bus bathroom on the way to Syracuse.
I’m his captain. His hero.
Christ, the kid has no idea I’m just a really good con artist with quick reflexes.
I cruise over, snapping him out of his trance. “Get used to it, Kellerman! This is just the beginning!”
His face transforms, splitting into a grin so wide it looks painful. “Hope you're right, Rook. I'd love another."
The earnestness in his voice makes something twist in my gut and the weight of his trust sits heavy. He's a loyal kid who'd probably jump off the arena roof if I told him it would help the team, and the responsibility of that is terrifying to me given I'd always had others to look up to and follow.
The ceremony comes to an end, and back in the locker room, it's controlled chaos. Guys are half-dressed, shouting over each other, music blaring. The whole mess is beautiful, the kind of mayhem that fills every corner of your brain so completely that you can’t think about anything else.
That’s when they corner me.
“There’s our boy!” Maine's voice cuts through everything else, and suddenly I’m being pulled into an embrace that smells expensive.
"Hey, Big Time," I grin. "You've upgraded your threads since you got that NHL money…”
Mike’s right behind him. "Dude, you think wepayfor any of this shit? If you need a suit or some trainers, please let me know…”
We break into the same easy conversation we've shared for years, even though they're both different. It’s only been three months since graduation, but they already carry themselves differently. Their shoulders are broader, or maybe they just hold them differently now. They take up more space, claiming it.
“Championship banner looks good out there,” Mike says, but there’s weight in his tone, something that transforms it from observation to expectation.
“Your team now, Rook.” Maine’s hand clamps down on my shoulder. “Your show to run.”
“No pressure though,” Mike adds with a grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Just the entire legacy of PBU hockey, a program we built from nothing.”
“Don’t be the guy who fumbles it," Maine says, and even though he’s smiling, we all know he’s not joking.
