Page 81 of Taking It To Overtime
Not that Robbie was unhappy with the win. Definitely not.
This hadn’t been just game five in the Stanley Cup finals. The Arctic had been leading the series three-to-one before puck drop. Two of those wins had been in a row, even on the other team’s home ice. This was their chance to win it all. To walk away with the cup.
He’d assumed it would be more challenging. That it wouldn’t be as simple as Spags dumping the puck into the back of Rocky Mountain’s goal. Not even a tricky or gorgeous shot. Just up and over the goalie’s blocker, guaranteeing the win and Lord Stanley’s Cup would go to the Arctic. Unless, of course, the Rush had managed the impossible and scored four goals inthe remaining twenty-two seconds. A scenario even less likely than Elvis respawning to life at the blue-line and giving an impromptu concert.
So yes, Robbie expected more of a fight in the last game of the season, but there was also something rather poetic about Rags standing on his head and handing the Rush their asses. Especially when Rocky Mountain had been the team to flatten Rags in the crease just the season before, destroying the Arctic’s playoff chances. Everyone knows revenge is best served ice cold, aka giving Ragnar Ólaffson a shutout win on home ice, during the last game of the playoffs.
The noise from the crowd is deafening. Flowers, hats, stuffed animals, litter the ice, the home crowd pelting down anything they can grab. Rocky Mountain has already left for the locker rooms. Getting out of the way of the celebration.
He wraps his hands around the shaft of his stick. Most of the team has discarded theirs, too busy falling into a dog pile at center ice as the organ belts out their victory song and their captain hoists the giant silver cup over his head. Vic’s showing off for his wife, sending her sideways glances as she snaps pictures of the team.
He wants to show off for his girl, too.
Time is moving in bursts. Wasn’t he just back home in Kimmelwick? Kissing Vera goodbye in the line for TSA at the Genosa Airport? Hadn’t he just tucked a pair of noise-canceling headphones over her ears before pressing a kiss to her upturned mouth? Wasn’t it just Christmas? Coming home after a grueling loss to find her suitcase in his living room and her snoring on his couch? His television was still running game highlights in the light from the Christmas tree he put up just because she asked. Wasn’t it just March? Coach letting him take a healthy scratch so he could fly out to Paris and surprise her at the start of Fashion Week?
He doesn’t know if the weird memory jumps have to do with the adrenaline coursing through his body at his first Stanley Cup win, or with the fact that he knows she’s in this arena. He hasn’t seen her in almost a month and now she’s in this damn rink. She’s here for him.
The year is over. He’s done. The house is going up for sale, the U-Haul is booked, and the twins—and their wives, Quinn and Tristan—are taking time off to help him pack up the last five years of his life and go back home.
“Oakes,” a voice calls out and there’s a reporter holding a microphone in his face. “We’ve heard rumors you have an announcement for us?” He smiles, mouth guard still in place, helmet askew, sweat dripping down his forehead, nodding as he orients himself in front of the camera. “You just won your first Stanley Cup. What are you going to do next?”
Robbie looks from the reporter to the camera.
“I’m retiring.” He has to almost yell to be heard.
“Thatisbig news.” the reporter shuffles closer, eyes almost bugging out of his flushed face. “Any hints as to what we can expect from you in the future?”
“Nope,” Robbie’s grin gets even wider. “For a long time hockey was my only priority, but I’m ready to settle down. Not have to travel fifty times a year. Spend time with my family.” He and the reporter both laugh.
“Any comment on a possible relationship between you and a certain L.A.-based model?”
Nope. Neither of them has confirmed or denied anything since that photo in the Airport last summer. Not that they get asked a ton, just when she’s spotted at LA v Arctic games, or he posted that picture of the Eiffel Tower the same day that Paris Fashion Week kicked off. Andmaybehe'd been listed as a healthy scratch for the game the night before.
“Come on man,” the reporter grins, “Biggest night of your career? Drop us a bone. Are you dating Vera Novak?”
He smiles at the reporter and holds out his arm as her weight settles in against his side. Her rose and lemon scent fills his nose, blocking out the frigid metallic stink of the rink. The other man’s eyes go wide in shock, and he steps even closer.
Robbie looks down at the woman tucked under his arm. He’s sweaty and still wearing the bulk of his pads. She’s red-faced, his jersey slipping off the curve of her shoulder, and she’s smiling up at him like he’s her entire world. He understands the feeling well. She’s his.
“What do you think?” He asks her, “Should we tell them?”
“You decide,” she says.
They aren’t hiding, but they also have nothing to prove. For seventeen years, he told them every single game. It’s not his fault they weren’t listening. Now, he thinks, they’ve both earned their privacy. For seventeen years, all of her relationships were carefully crafted for show. For publicity. This time it’s only for them.
“No comment,” Robbie says to the reporter, even as he hoists Vera up on her toes and lays his mouth over hers.
Now they get to go home.
