46. Devon

Devon

I grind my teeth together, staring out at the ice. My second Stanley Cup game in two years. I should be ecstatic, over the moon. But all I can think about is Lola.

Eight months ago, I wouldn't have believed anyone who said we'd make it to the championship again. And one month ago, I wouldn't have believed anyone who said Lola wouldn't be at the championship game, cheering me on and wearing the opponent's jersey. But now, here I am, surrounded by people who love me, and yet feeling completely alone.

We are getting our asses handed to us.

Brett is back to his usual style of play—reckless, too hard, and not calculating enough—and I haven't been able to stop myself from taking my anger out on the other players. They know exactly how to get under my skin, and they're doing it expertly.

I think about the fight I started, the one that landed me in the penalty box.

"What's the matter, Chambers?" one of the Rangers had said, his face taunting. "Can't play without your little bitch cheering you on?"

I'd slammed his head against the wall so hard that he'd be seeing stars for the next decade, but the refs didn't like that so much. Melissa said she had to pull a lot of strings to get management to let me play this game, but I almost wish she didn't.

A rousing cheer goes through the arena as I get out of the box. Somehow, we managed to hold through the power play, and the score is still tied at 1-1. Grey motions for me to stay on the ice and then gestures up toward the box.

For a second, I think he's taunting me, too, reminding me that Lola isn't here to watch me play until I glance up and see her standing in the box next to Ellie, wearing a Vipers jersey.

My jersey.

All the screens in the stadium show her as beautiful as ever, albeit looking a little tired. I want to hold her and let her sleep on my chest. I want to run my hand over her hair, slip that jersey over her head, and touch every inch of her. As I stare up at her, I see her, and the larger-than-life image of her on the screen behind her head says: All for the cameras.

My body shifts gears, and I am done feeling sorry for myself. Now that my girl is here, I need to win the fucking trophy for her.

I skate over to Brett, smacking my hands on his shoulders and watching as his eyes widen.

"Listen up, fuck face," I shout to be heard over the noise of the crowd. "We are winning this fucking game if we have to leave all our limbs behind on the ice to do it. You understand?"

"Yes, sir," Brett says, a grin spreading over his face. We get into position for the face-off, with me right across from the Ranger who taunted me earlier.

"Well, well, we—" he starts, but the ref drops the puck, and I move faster than I ever have in my life, scooping it up and sending it hurtling toward the net before the Ranger across from me even knows what hit him.

The puck sails past the goalie, who looks like he forgot where he was for a moment, and the crowd erupts in raucous cheers.

"What was that?" I ask, skating past the Ranger and raising my hand to my ear like I can't quite hear him. He scowls at me, but I'm too busy celebrating with Brett and Sammy to care.

"Let's fucking go!" Grey cheers, clapping us on the backs when he pulls us off the ice. "One minute of rest, then we're getting the three of you back on the ice. Keep that momentum!"

When we hit the ice again, it's as a cohesive unit. We work the puck beautifully, and I wonder if any of my coaches from childhood are watching and noting how all those extra hours I spent on the ice are paying off now, in front of millions of people, as I maneuver through two defenders and get the puck to Sammy, who feints, then passes to Brett, who buries the puck in the back of the net.

Only ten minutes of play after Lola arrived, and we're already two points richer than we were before. The Rangers play hard, not letting us go without a fight, but we've found a sort of rhythm that will go down in the sports history books.

We trade points back and forth, but I'm not even thinking about the score. Instead, I'm thinking about the look on Lola's face every time the Vipers score.

Brett, Sammy, and I work the Rangers like wet clay, pushing through them and dismantling their defense piece by piece. As the seconds tick out on the clock, Sammy hits a slapshot across the rink to me, and I bounce the puck off my stick.

The entire arena watches as the puck sails through the air, slips past the goalie, bounces off the ice behind him, and catches in the net.

The crowd erupts in jubilant cheers.

We've won. The Vipers have won the Stanley Cup for the second year in a row.

After the confetti drops, I skate out to the center of the ice and take the cup from the announcer. I skate around the rink, staring out at the sea of adoring fans, and right away, I know who I want to hand the cup to next. I skate over to the team, and they all agree.

With the Stanley Cup still in my hands, I skate over to the side of the rink, where Lola and the other women are watching. Lola looks shocked when I appear in front of her.

Rather than handing her the cup, I hold it up over her and watch as she places a hand on the shining metal. Her eyes are wide when they meet mine.

"You were so important to this season," I tell her, looking deep into her eyes. I know we have so much to talk about later when we're alone, but right now, I want to celebrate this win with her. "This trophy is yours, too."

"Devon—" she whispers, a tear slipping down her cheek. I shake my head at her, leaning down and planting a kiss on her cheek.

"Later," I say, meeting her eyes again. "I just want you however I can get you, Lola."

"I want you, too," she says, her hand tightening on my sleeve. "I want it all."

When I skate away, taking the trophy back to the rest of the team, I know winning the Stanley Cup wasn't even the best part of this night.