Page 122 of Bombshells
It doesn’t seem real until Campeau screams, “YEEEEEEEEES!” in a display of emotion never before seen on his stoic face.
Then my teammates pile onto me like a pack of puppies, while music thunders through the arena.
Unbelievably, there’s still fourteen minutes left in the third period. As I line up for another faceoff, I know that technically anything could still happen.
It doesn’t, though. We play a nice clean period, avoiding the penalty box. The minutes tick down while a frustrated Nashville team fails to break us.
And when the buzzer rings, we’ve done it. We’ve won the whole damn thing.
I tip my head back and look up at the stadium, which is throbbing with emotion. So this is how it feels. Wow.
The cup is suddenly visible at the edge of the rink. Yes that cup.
I can’t wait to touch it. And celebrate with Sylvie.
* * *
Four hours later, I’ve been showered in kisses and hugs, then showered in champagne, and then showered for real. Then I’ve gotten drunk on champagne with my teammates, with Sylvie, with my mom, and with the whole stinkin’ world.
And then I’ve sobered up in time to get messages of congratulations from everyone I’ve ever known, including my little brothers.
But not my father, who insists on being the exception who proves the rule.
And I’m finally, finally opening the door to my hotel room again in the wee hours of the morning.
“God,” Sylvie moans, shuffling in behind me. “I’m so tired that I can’t feel my face. Can I have the bathroom first?”
“Go ahead, sweetheart.”
She drags herself in there with a nightgown and a few toiletries. I strip down to my boxers and turn down the bed. Now we can sleep as long as we like. There won’t be any practice tomorrow. Nobody will wake us up early. It’s been a night for the record books.
Even so, I’m not quite ready for it to end.
Sylvie comes out of the bathroom looking sweetly sleepy. She hops into the bed and groans as she slides down into the high-thread-count sheets. “What an amazing day.” She yawns.
I stroke her hair away from her face. “You know, I heard some of my teammates say, ‘This is the happiest day of my life.’”
“That’s fair,” she says, giving me a tired smile. “It’s the culmination of years of hard work. I’m sure they didn’t mean to upstage the birth of their future children.”
“Well, that’s the thing.” I chuckle. “The day I met you, I was deep in that groove—like I’d make my season pay off, or I’d die trying. Nothing else mattered. And then half an hour later I spotted you.”
She slips her hand into mine. “It’s been quite a year, hasn’t it?
“I got so much more than I asked for. But I was wondering if you were game to actually make this the best day of my life.”
She frowns up at me. “You already scored with me, and then scored in a winning championship game. Unless you want a back rub or a drink from the mini bar, I really don’t see what else I could add.”
That’s when I reach over and slide open the nightstand drawer, plucking a little box off the bible.
“Sylvie, I know it’s been less than a year since we met. But I’m in love with you. And I plan to stay that way for the rest of my life.” I open the little box and show her the ring that’s inside it.
It’s an emerald-cut solitaire diamond that my mother helped me choose. “A classic design for a classic beauty,” my mother had said.
“Anton.” Eyes wide, Sylvie sits up quickly. “Is…is that what I think it is?”
“Would you be my wife?” I ask, my voice nearly cracking on that last word. If I’ve moved too fast, or if she just flat-out says no, it’s going to hurt. But as a great man once said, you miss a hundred percent of the shots you don’t take.
The beat of silence that comes next is the longest of my life.
