Page 72 of Pucking the Grump

“Keep pushing!” Coach bellows from the bench. “They’re cracking!”

He’s right. The Storm is starting to break, taking stupid penalties, getting frustrated. With just under five minutes left, their defenseman coughs up the puck at his own blue line, and Grammercy pounces.

“Go, Louisiana, go!” I scream, watching him turn on the jets.

He’s gone, pure lightning as he splits their D. The crowd’s on their feet as he dekes left, then right, before roofing it backhand over the goalie’s glove.

When the puck hits, his celebration is pure joy, a loose-hipped, blatantly sexual shimmy that has the ladies squealing in the stands.

“Keep it in your pants,” Cruise teases as we mob him, but Grammercy just laughs like the shameless, puck-bunny favorite he is as we head back to the line.

Then, with ninety seconds left in regulation, magic happens.

Tank makes a ridiculous save, stacking the pads old-school style to deny their sniper on a two-on-one. The rebound kicks out to center ice, where Justin snatches it up. He carries it into their zone, drawing both defenders before dropping it back to me.

“Behind you!” he calls, and I know exactly what he means.

I fake a shot, pulling their goalie out of position as I hear Grammercy’s stick tap the ice behind me. Without looking, I slide it between my legs, right into place for the easiest goal of his career.

And…it’s in. It’s good.

We’re up by one!

The arena goes dead silent for a beat before exploding into chaos as the scoreboard buzzes and we take the lead.

Those last ninety seconds are the longest of my life. Every cleared puck feels like a battle won; every save Tank makes has my heart jerking in my chest. Seattle pulls their goalie, throwing everything they have at us. A shot deflects off my shin pad, but I barely feel it, too focused on protecting our lead.

“Clear it!” Tank screams as the loose puck bounces in front of me.

Justin dives, sweeping it away with his stick as the seconds tick down.

Five, four, three...

When the final horn sounds, I’m the first one to reach Tank, tackling him in a bear hug that sends us both sprawling onto the ice.

“Took the Cup at our rookie home rink, old man,” I scream in his ear, my voice raw with emotion. “We fucking did it!”

The rest of the team piles on, a mess of limbs, sticks, and pure, unfiltered elation. We’re champions. We’re bringing the Cup home to Portland. Everything I dreamed for my final season has come true, and then some.

But somehow the win gets even sweeter.

After we’ve passed the Cup around, after we’ve all had our moment skating with it held high above our heads, Justin glides to center ice, microphone in hand.

“Before we wrap this up,” he says, his voice echoing through the arena, “we need to send a legend off the ice in style. Stone, get your ass over here.”

Confused but grinning, I skate over. The team gathers around as Justin pulls something from behind his back. It takes a beat for me to recognize my first jersey, the tiny orange Seattle Flamethrowers one from my first season in Pee Wee hockey.

My jaw drops as emotion clogs my throat. “What the fuck? How did you?—”

“A little birdie told us your mom never met a keepsake she wouldn’t pack up and store in her garage,” Justin says with a wink as he hands it over. “We all signed it. Even Coach.”

I hold it up, seeing the signatures of all my final teammates there on my six-year-old self’s jersey, tears stinging in my eyes as I think about how happy that kid would be right now.

We did it, Little Me. We made our dreams come true.

And we’ve found an amazing person to make new dreams with…

I look up toward the box where Remy’s watching, thrusting the jersey into the air as the crowd cheers. A beat later, the sound guy plays “Rolling Stone,” by Bob Dylan, my old song from when I played for the Storm, truly bringing me full circle.

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