Chicago calls a timeout.
The building is deafening, twenty thousand Otters fans screaming themselves hoarse, but down on our bench it goes eerily quiet. The guys circle in, chests heaving, eyes locked on me.
“This is it,” I say, calm but cutting through the noise. “Two minutes. You don’t get cute. You don’t force it. You trust the system and you trust each other.”
I look at them one by one. “We’ve got the extra man advantage and we’re not going to waste it. They’re desperate. Use it. We didn’t work this hard all season, come this far, toplay safe. We came to finish it.” I pause, searching their sweat soaked faces. “The Cup is yours. Bring it home.”
The horn sounds. The power-play unit hops the boards.
Two minutes left.
It feels like an eternity.
Our guys set up in Chicago’s zone, cycling the puck, probing for a crack. Their defence holds, collapsing fast, sticks everywhere. Every lane closes just as it opens. The clock bleeds down. Sixty seconds. Forty.
My jaw locks as overtime looms closer and closer.
Then Noah makes his move. A quick deke provides just enough separation for him to get his shot off. The puck bounces off the goalie’s pads and lands right on Austin’s stick.
He doesn’t hesitate.
He snaps it into the top left hand corner of the net before their goalie can react with eleven seconds left on the clock.
The building explodes as the goal horn blares. Sound like I’ve never heard before, enough to make my ear drums bleed. Austin disappears under a swarm of bodies, green and gold jerseys piling on him in celebration.
My heart swells and pounds in my chest as I watch, wishing I could be out there with them. But it’s not over yet.
Chicago pulls their goalie in a last, desperate gamble. Austin wins the faceoff and sends it deep. We kill the seconds until the final buzzer sounds.
The Ottawa Otters have won their first Stanley Cup.
My players dive over the boards to join their teammates already on the ice. The fans are on their feet, louder than ever. Queen’s “We Are the Champions” blares on the loud speakers. Party cannons shoot green and gold confetti over the ice. I stand back and just watch it all happen. I watch these men, who have given me everything in their tanks this past year, celebrate all that hard work and sacrifice.
When I finally join them on the ice, Noah skates over, his handoutstretched. I stare at it a moment, before grabbing it and hauling him into a bear hug.
“Holy shit, Ace! You’re hugging me!” He laughs as I literally lift him off the ground.
“First time for everything,” I shout so he hears me over the crowd.
I work my way through my team, handing out high fives, crushing handshakes, pulling guys into tight hugs. Everyone is shouting. Laughing. Crying. By the time the families are finally allowed onto the ice, my legs feel heavy and the adrenaline starts to ebb. I am exhausted.
Then I see Sam.
He’s sprinting toward me, faster than I’ve seen the kid move before. I get a second wind and open my arms just in time before he slams into me. I scoop him up and hold him tight against my chest, ruffling his hair with my free hand. This brilliant, beautiful kid I somehow get to love like my own.
“Good game, Coach,” he shouts, his voice barely audible over the roar of the crowd.
“Thanks, son.”
He squeezes me hard, then harder, like he never wants to let go. He does eventually, making his way over to where Ben stands waiting for him.
I lift my head and search the crowd for the one person I need to see.
Elliot is standing there with tears streaking her cheeks and the biggest smile I have ever seen on her face. She barrels straight into me, arms wrapping tight as she buries her face against my chest.
“Hey, Boss,” I say, laughing into her hair. “So you run into people on ice now too?”
She pulls back just enough to look at me. Her green eyes are shining, full of love and pride and everything that matters. “You’re damn right I do.”
