Two more games until I could finally, truly have it all.
27
ADAN
The locker room was pure chaos. Champagne sprayed everywhere: the real stuff this time, NCAA rules be damned. I clutched the Frozen Four trophy, my arms aching from holding it up for photos, but I couldn’t let go. We’d done it. National fucking champions.
“RIVERA!” Tank screamed in my ear for the hundredth time. “WE’RE NATIONAL CHAMPIONS!”
“I know!” I shouted back, laughing as Webb dumped another bottle over both our heads.
But even in the middle of the celebration, even with nineteen of my brothers going absolutely insane around me, my eyes kept finding the clock on the wall. 10:47p.m. One hour and thirteen minutes until midnight. One hour and thirteen minutes until I officially wasn’t a student anymore, wasn’t Nils’s player anymore, wasn’t bound by any rules except the ones we made ourselves.
Martinez grabbed the trophy from me, hoisting it over his head while the team chanted. I let myself get pulled into another group hug, another champagne shower, another round of celebration. But underneath it all, I was counting minutes like a kid waiting for Christmas morning.
The media scrum was torture. Reporters shoving microphones in my face, asking the same questions over and over.
“How does it feel to cap off your college career with a national championship?”
“Incredible. This team worked so hard all season. To finish like this is a dream come true.”
“You’re heading to Detroit on Monday. How do you balance celebrating this with preparing for the next level?”
“Tonight’s about this team, this accomplishment. I’ll worry about Monday later.”
Good answers. Safe answers. All while my eyes tracked the coaches being interviewed across the room. Nils in his Millard polo, professional and composed while discussing our defensive strategy in the final period. Our eyes met once across the chaos—just a second, but everything was in that look. The pride, the want, the promise that this was almost over.
11:15p.m.
My parents pushed through the crowd, my mom already crying before she reached me. “Mijo!You did it! Everything!”
“Mamá, you’re gonna make me cry too,” I said, pulling both of them into a hug.
“National champion,” my dad said, voice thick with emotion. “My son is a national champion.”
We posed for pictures: them with the trophy, me with the trophy, all of us with the trophy. My mom was full-on sobbing now, and even my dad was wiping his eyes when he thought no one was looking.
“Come home tonight,” my mom said, smoothing my champagne-soaked hair. “I’ll make your favorite. We can celebrate properly?—”
“María,” my dad cut her off gently. He looked at me with understanding that made my chest tight. “I think Adan has somewhere else to be tonight.”
My mom looked confused for a moment, then her eyes widened. “Oh!” She cupped my face in her hands. “Be happy,mijo. You deserve everything.”
“Thanks, Mamá.”
They hugged me again, my dad whispering, “No more waiting. You’ve both waited long enough.”
11:38p.m.
The celebration was finally winding down. Players headed out with family, and coaches were making their rounds with final congratulations. I was edging toward the exit when Coach Brennan intercepted me.
“Rivera. Come here.”
Before I could respond, he pulled me into a hug. Coach Brennan, who shook hands like they were business transactions and thought high fives were too emotional, was hugging me.
“Coach?”
“You did good, kid. On the ice and off.”
