“All of it,” I say, and I mean it, and I know he does too.
He pulls back just enough to look at me. There’s blood on his temple, sweat pouring down the side of his face, and a smile so real it actually scares me for a second.
“You’re the best,” he says, like it’s a confession.
It’s all I can do to say, “You too, man.” My throat is fucked. There’s a sharpness in my chest that is pain, but also something better than pain.
Someone launches a Gatorade cooler. I get doused, the shock of it clearing my head for the first time in three months.
The cold is glorious. The confetti, the noise, the cameras, all of it is suddenly background.
The real show is right here. In this pile, in this moment, in the heat and weight of bodies that, for the first time, aren’t trying to kill each other.
After the on-ice chaos, after the handshake line, after the photo with the Cup that I can’t even hold up because my arms are noodles, we do the locker room.
Beer, champagne, a little more blood (Marcus gets clipped by a flying cork), and a whole lot of screaming. Someone finds a speaker and puts on “We Are the Champions,” which is so cliche it hurts, but everyone’s too wasted to care.
Coach makes a speech, voice rough with emotion. She says, “You made it. Not because you’re the best players, but because you’re the toughest sons of bitches I’ve ever met.” She lifts her beer to us, and for a second, her eyes are glassy.
Tommy smashes a can on his own head. Raz tries to eat the tape ball that’s been haunting the locker room for a month. Kai, somehow, is already FaceTiming his mom, who is crying and waving a tiny rainbow flag.
Darius and I keep finding each other, over and over, like gravity keeps getting stronger every time we try to stand apart.
At one point he dumps a full bottle of champagne over my head, then leans in, mouth at my ear, and says, “Never let anyone tell you you didn’t earn this.”
I want to say something smart. I want to say anything. But instead, I just laugh, because everything that matters has already been said.
Eventually, there’s the party.
It’s at a rental mansion in Medina, something out of a movie, with a pool and a hot tub and a deck that looks out over the water.
The whole team is there, plus friends, families, people I haven’t seen in years, all crammed together in this expensive, overdecorated house that smells like vanilla candles and spilled beer.
I float from room to room, numb in the best way.
Everyone wants to talk, to take selfies, to ask what it feels like to be a champion. I say, “It’s fucking unreal.” I say, “Still processing.” I say, “I just want to eat five large pizzas and sleep for a month.” It’s all true.
The kitchen is full of food, the good kind.
I shove two entire sliders into my mouth at once, then chase it with a handful of jalapeño chips. Someone asks if I’m going to do a “gay sports podcast” now. I say, “Sure, as long as there’s a buffet.”
Later, in the living room, Tommy stands on the coffee table, a full glass in his massive paw. He waits for the room to quiet, which takes a solid minute. Then, in a voice so deep it rattles the windows, he says, “For Cap.” He doesn’t say anything else.
He just lifts the glass.
Everyone follows. The silence is deep, holy.
After a beat, Marcus, who is not a crier but looks like he might break down, says, “He’d be so proud.” Then, softer, “Of all of us.”
The room stays quiet for a while, even as people sip and blink and try not to let the tears show. It’s the best toast I’ve ever heard.
The party ramps up again. More booze. Someone gets naked in the hot tub. I think it’s O’Doul, but it could be any of the defensemen.
Kai, who is approximately four whiskeys past coherent, climbs onto a chair and starts giving a speech. "I just want to say," he announces, swaying, one arm pointing directly at me and the other sweeping toward Darius across the room, "that LOVE WINS, motherfuckers. Love! Wins!" He's pointing so aggressively he nearly falls off the chair.
Marcus, without breaking stride or spilling his drink, walks over, picks Kai up fireman-style, and deposits him on the living room couch. "Stay," Marcus says, like he's training a dog.
Kai salutes from the cushions and immediately passes out. I'm laughing so hard my ribs feel like they're going to split open.
