Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Five

Bash

The buzz of the Venom arena is electric tonight, every seat filled, the air thick with anticipation. When I was a young boy skating on the ponds of Quebec, I never, ever thought I would get here. Game seven in the Stanley Cup Finals. The series is tied 3-3 against the Redhawks, and everything we've fought for this season comes down to this final game. From the bench, I can see Dante up in the owner's suite, his expression a mask of nerves, Julie beside him, clapping and cheering with an intensity that matches the crowd's. The rest of the wives, friends, and family are there too, a sea of Venom jerseys, their faces painted in team colors, waving banners and flags.

In the middle of that chaos, I spot Sage. My life, my future, my mon amour . She's impossible to miss, rocking my jersey, her eyes locked on the ice every time I skate past. Knowing she's here, that she believes in me, in us, adds a weight of responsibility but also a surge of confidence.

As the final period ticks down, the game is a nail-biter. We've exchanged the lead four times tonight, and with every goal, the roar from the crowd shakes the rafters. Briggs scores a clutch goal to tie the game late in the third, pulling us back from the brink just when the Redhawks thought they had us. The tension is palpable, every play met with gasps and cheers, the whole arena riding the highs and lows like a tidal wave. The final buzzer of regulation sounds, signaling over time, and as we catch our breaths on the bench, I lock eyes with Sage for a moment. Her smile, wide and encouraging, is all I need to refuel.

We're not just playing for the Cup; we're playing for everyone who stood by us, who filled these stands game after game. Now, it's time to finish this, to claim the victory that's so close I can almost taste it. It's time to step straight into my future and grab the bull by the horns as my sweet as pie pink-booted cowgirl would say.

As the overtime kicks off, my skates carve into the fresh ice with renewed purpose. The puck drops, and the intensity immediately skyrockets. We know the Redhawks are going to press hard—they always do—but we're ready, our bodies and minds honed to a fine edge. After so many rounds, this team is exhausted, battered, and bruised. Most of us are playing with some type of injury. But right now, none of that matters. I stay close to the action, every nerve alight with the electric atmosphere of the arena.

Briggs catches a pass, and I'm right there with him, cutting through their defense like a hot knife. The Redhawks have a tough, physical forecheck, but our line is unstoppable tonight. We've found a rhythm, a silent communication that needs no words, only sharp glances and the subtle tilt of a stick.

I hear Briggs's quick shout, "Bash, left!" and I'm already there, receiving his pass with a crisp snap of my blade.

Coach Brenig yells from the sidelines, pushing us, "Keep the pressure, boys!" His voice cuts through the roar of the crowd. My legs burn with exertion as I push harder, faster. This team has chemistry second-to-none, and we're creating chances, drawing the Redhawks out, looking for that one break, that one slip they'll make. And when it comes, we'll be ready to strike, to end this game and take everything we've fought for.

Midway through overtime, the tension ratchets up as the Redhawks break through our defense. My heart skips as their forward, a known sniper, lines up a shot that could end our season. The arena falls silent for a split second, every breath held. The puck rockets toward the goal, but Noah, ever our last line of defense, launches to his left, glove outstretched. The slap of the puck hitting leather echoes like a gunshot, and a collective sigh of relief sweeps through the crowd.

Right after Noah's game-saving grab, the ref's arm shoots up—a hooking penalty against the Redhawks. The crowd's intensity hits a new peak, sensing the shift. Coach Brenig doesn't waste a second, calling a timeout. We huddle by the bench, helmets almost touching, everyone's breath visible in the cold air.

Coach looks at each of us, his gaze finally settling on me, Anders, and Ranger. "Alright, we're shaking it up for the power play," he announces, his voice firm over the noise of the arena. Normally, I'm lined up with Briggs, and Ranger runs with Anders. But tonight, Coach is playing his wildcard with his top three goal-scorers out on the same line. "Bash, you're with Anders and Ranger. Let's make this count."

A mix of nerves and adrenaline floods through me as we take our positions on the ice. The game could change in these next moments, and Coach is betting on us to seal the deal. We spread out, creating space and drawing the Redhawks thin.

The puck drops, and Ranger passes it crisply to me. I catch it, feeling the weight of the moment, then slide it across to Anders, who's already maneuvering into position. This is it—the play that could end our season on the highest note possible.

"You got this, motherfuckers!" I hear Latham from the bench, the encouragement fueling my drive. My muscles burn, my lungs ache, but my focus is laser sharp. As I near the opposing goalie, I see Anders positioning himself perfectly. Without a second thought, I send the puck his way, knowing he has the more powerful shot.

Anders catches my pass cleanly on his tape. He pauses, just a beat, the kind that throws the goalie off his rhythm. My heart pounds against my chest as I watch, the entire arena holding its breath. Anders makes his move, a quick fake to the left before snapping the puck right. It sails past the goalie, and the sound of it hitting the back of the net is almost drowned out by the eruption from the crowd.

The goal light flashes, a beacon of our triumph. The sound is deafening, and the cheers, screams, and pounding of thousands of feet are a symphony of victory. I skate full speed toward Ranger, throwing my arms around him. The rest of the team pours onto the ice, a flood of neon green, overwhelming us with cheers and pats on the back.

Anders crashes into me so hard that we almost end up ass-first on the ice. He's screaming so close to my ear that I don't understand the words at first. At last, he pulls away, still gripping my arms as he shakes me. "We did it, Bash! We freaking did it!" Tears are rolling down his cheeks. "My last year on the team and we won our second fucking Stanley Cup!"

" Mon Dieu , this is unbelievable!" I'm tearing up, too, and I'm not even sure why. I know that this is our win and that my role in it was small… but having assisted in the winning goal makes it feel that, after all my team has done for me, I was finally able to give something back.

The arena is a tempest of cheers and confetti. The jubilation is palpable, the fans roaring their triumph, but there's still formalities to attend to—the presentation of the Stanley Cup and the Conn Smythe Trophy.

The ice is soon prepared for the ceremony, with NHL officials and the presentation team making their way out. Anders, still catching his breath and wiping sweat mixed with tears from his face, is called to the center. The announcement comes over the loudspeaker, clear and resonant, "And the Conn Smythe Trophy goes to Venom team captain Anders Beck!"

The arena's roar reaches a crescendo as Anders grips the trophy as the playoff MVP, his eyes scanning the sea of cheering faces.

Then comes the moment every hockey player dreams of. The Stanley Cup is brought out, glinting under the arena lights, escorted by two guards in white gloves. It's a revered ritual, and the crowd stands in awe.

Dante steps up to the microphone first, his presence commanding silence. "What a season, what a playoff ride, what a team!" our owner and sometimes nemesis begins, his voice brimming with pride. "These men have shown resilience, skill, and the heart of true champions. Vegas, this victory is yours as much as it is ours!"

The commissioner hands the Cup to Anders, the captain, who has already had a night he'll never forget. His hands grip the Cup, and he hoists it high above his head. His face is a mask of joy and relief, tears streaming down as he takes his lap, the team following behind him like ducklings with their mother. Each player takes a turn lifting the Cup, the symbol of their hard-fought victory.

When my turn comes, the weight of the Cup feels like nothing compared to the weight lifted from my shoulders. I lift it high, the silver catching the light, sending reflections dancing over the cheering crowd. The metal is cool against my palms, grounding, real. A lifetime of early morning practices, of sacrifices and dreams, of losses and lessons, all lead to this singular, shining moment. As I hold the Cup, I look out over the faces in the crowd, seeing tears and smiles, and I know this is a memory seared into not just my mind, but the heart of every person here.

I pass the Cup to Latham, who, in typical fashion, breaks into a victory moonwalk, eliciting a fresh wave of cheers from the crowd. The atmosphere is electric, celebratory chaos as we each take our moment with the Cup.

I reflect on the journey here, on the battles fought both on and off the ice. I told myself that as long as we did our best, the outcome wouldn't matter. But standing here, Cup in hand, victorious—this moment is indescribably sweet, a taste of triumph no TicTac could ever match.

As the initial round of celebration begins to quiet, Anders gestures for a moment of attention. The arena's roar subsides into an expectant hush. He's handed a microphone, and with hands that tremble—not just from the exertion of the game but from the enormity of this life-defining moment—he begins his speech. His voice, though laden with emotion, is steady and clear.

"Tonight, this isn't just a victory for us as a team—it's a triumph for every single person who has stood by us, who has cheered for us, and who has believed in us," Anders starts, his gaze sweeping over his teammates and the fans filling the stands. "This Cup, it's not just for us; it's for you, our incredible fans, our families, and for all who dared to dream with us."

He pauses, taking a moment to let his words resonate, his eyes reflecting the bright lights. "I want to talk about family—the ones we're born into and the ones we find along the way. In this team, I've found brothers. In our coaches and staff, I've found mentors and friends. And in the stands, I see faces that have supported not just our games but through the highs and lows of life."

His voice grows stronger, more impassioned. "Hockey is more than just a game for us. It's a community, a family that extends beyond the ice. We sweat together, we bleed together, and tonight, we celebrate together."

Anders lifts the mic a little higher. "To the families that support us—the parents, the spouses, the children—you share in every early morning, every late night, every sacrifice. This win is as much yours as it is ours."

The crowd erupts in cheers, moved by his words. The players around him nod and clap, visibly touched by the recognition of their collective efforts and sacrifices.

"And to my teammates, my brothers—you guys are the most relentless, dedicated group of individuals I've ever had the honor of leading. Each of you plays a crucial part in this family. Without you, there is no team; there is no Cup. Together, we've turned dreams into reality."

As he concludes, Anders passes the microphone back and lifts the Stanley Cup once more. The entire team swarms around him, our cheers filling the arena, a tangible display of the brotherhood and unity he just eloquently honored. In this moment, as the confetti begins to fall like snow, Anders not only marks the end of a season but also caps his career with an unforgettable farewell, his legacy forever etched in the annals of hockey history.

The gate opens, and the families pour onto the ice. I spot Sage and rush to her, lifting her into a bear hug.

"You did it! You're a pucking champion!" Sage's tears waterfall down her flushed cheeks. She holds out the hem of her jersey, the one with my name emblazoned on it. "I'm dating a Stanley Cup champion! You're an NHL baddie, dadgummit!"

"It wasn't just me," I remind her, but the bubble of joy growing in my chest is almost enough to lift me clean off the ice and float me away. All around us, my teammates celebrate our victories with the same joy I feel.

Noah has Molly up on his shoulders, where she screams like a tiny, blonde Valkyrie, pumping her fists. Her mouth is moving, but she makes no sound; she must have lost her voice while cheering earlier.

Anders is sobbing into Stella's shoulder. She says something, and he looks up, only to pull her into a fierce kiss.

Oliver has both of Mona's hands clasped in his. They are spinning around like a pair of figure skaters going for a gold medal.

Briggs is attempting to lift Layla in the air the way Anders lifted the Cup, and she is having none of it.

Latham has skated off to one side and has Scarlett pinned against the wall while he leans over her, book-boyfriend style. I have a feeling I know what they'll be doing tonight.

Ranger is bent over, twerking against Delilah, who is whipping her arm above her head like a cowgirl at a rodeo. Twenty bucks says that they're going to go viral on TikTok and get a stern call from Julie tomorrow.

Coop and Toni are locked in an embrace, waving furiously toward a private box. Dante must have gone back up there with the commissioner.

Our team owner comes out again and actually blows us a kiss. Then he lifts his arms over his head in victory.

In the end, the team has to be corralled together for a group photo with the Stanley Cup front and center. Noah tries to nudge me closer, but I want to make sure that he, Latham, and Anders are as close to the Cup as they can get. Anders and Noah won't be back next year, and Latham still hasn't told us how his contract negotiations went down. This could be their last year to win. The rest of us will have another shot.

They deserve all the honors we can give them.

* * *

Distill is an absolute zoo.

All the local fans know that Distill is our after-game hangout spot, and a huge number of them have followed us here to help celebrate our Stanley Cup victory. A few of the puck bunnies try to crowd in, and I'm pretty sure I see Tiffany try to make a move on our backup goalie. He shuts that shit down so hard she leaves in a huff. When I think about how far I've come in love and in life in this single season, I can barely believe it.

As we lift our beverages of choice, Noah gets serious for a moment. "I know I can't even come close to giving a speech like our captain, but I want you to know that you're the best team a guy could ask for. Your hard work and dedication is the reason we've become as close as we are. Thanks for not being assholes… mostly." He looks pointedly at Latham, then at Briggs.

"Same to you, mostly!" Briggs toasts.

I wave my glass in the air. "To the best damn team I've ever known."

"To some Stanley Cup champions!" Ranger hoots.

Oliver removes the paper umbrella from his colorful cocktail and tucks it into one arm of his glasses. "Before, I loved thee as brothers, but now I do respect thee as my soul."

We drink to that.

Sage is quiet for most of the night, but not bad quiet. She keeps watching everyone, soaking in the happy energy of our festivities. Whenever she catches me looking at her, she finds little excuses to brush her leg against mine, touch my hand, or bump shoulders.

"You okay?" I ask her.

"I'm great. Just happy." She nudges me again. "What about you?"

"Fantastic." I set my beer down and turn in my seat to face her. "I can't wait to spend the rest of my life celebrating with you. Will you be my wife?"

Sage's eyes widen. "I… what? Just like that?"

"I can do a big proposal, if you like. But let's say I did. What would you say?"

She slips her hand into mine and fixes me with a radiant smile. "I reckon I'd agree. You sure that this isn't just the endorphins talking, though?"

"You think I'd be unserious about you?" I lift her hand to my lips and kiss her knuckles. "Sage. I've been serious about you since day one. I want to keep you. I want you for forever. I know it will be complicated, that we still need to work out how to make space for the things we both want, but I'm willing to work it out. To make compromises. You're it for me, you and your pink boots and your scary cat and your ranch and your ability to wield power tools better than any man—"

"Bash." Sage presses her other palm beneath her eyes and dashes away tears. "Yes. When you ask me again, I'll definitely say yes."

I loop one arm around her and pull her close. I want to take her home right now, to start the next phase of our life together, but I also want to stay here and savor this moment with my team: a celebration of something we've worked so hard to earn, but also the end of something we've built together over the course of years. What a privilege, to love both my present and my future in equal measure.

From the ponds of Quebec to the shining lights of Vegas, this is my fairy tale ending. Or maybe it's just the beginning of whatever lies ahead.