Page 93 of Second Shot

Five minutes in, we get our chance. Ryan and I catch their defense changing, creating a two-on-one that should result in a goal. But Martinez reads the play perfectly, forcing Ryan to shoot from a bad angle and making the save look routine.

Eight minutes in, exhaustion starts to show. Guys are double-shifting, playing through pain and fatigue that would be crippling in any other context. Even Petrov, who rarely double-shifts, hasn’t come off the ice in ages. But this is the Stanley Cup Finals, and adrenaline covers a multitude of physical limitations.

Ten minutes in, the break finally comes.

Their defenseman tries to clear the puck around the boards, but Foster pressures him into a mistake. The puck squirts loose, and suddenly Ryan’s there, collecting it with that quick first step that’s gotten him past defenders his entire career.

I break toward the net, reading the play before it develops, and Ryan’s pass finds me exactly where I need to be. Their defense collapses too deep, trying to take away the shot, and they lose track of Ryan drifting behind them.But instead of shooting, I see something better: Ryan breaking late to the back post, completely uncovered.

The pass is instinctive, a no-look feed that relies on months of building trust and understanding. Ryan’s stick is waiting exactly where it needs to be, and his shot beats Martinez before the goalie can even react. The red light flashes and the look on Martinez’s face is pure devastation.

Goal. Game over. Stanley Cup Champions.

The celebration is instant chaos. Sticks and gloves flying, players piling on top of each other, the kind of pure joy that only comes from achieving something you’ve dreamed about your entire life. But through it all, I’m focused on Ryan, who’s at the bottom of the pile with tears streaming down his face.

“We did it,” he’s saying over and over. “We fucking did it.”

The next hour passes in a blur of emotions and traditions. The handshake line with Savannah, where even Thompson manages a respectful nod. The presentation of the Stanley Cup, that moment when the most famous trophy in sports appears on the ice and suddenly becomes real instead of just a dream.

When they call Petrov forward to accept the Cup, our captain’s composure finally cracks.Tears stream down his face as he hoists it over his head, and the image of our leader, calm, analytical Andrej Petrov, crying with pure joy will be burned into my memory forever.

The Cup makes its way around our team, each player getting their moment with hockey immortality. When it reaches me, the weight is surprising. Not just physical, but emotional. This represents everything we’ve worked for, everything we’ve sacrificed, everything we’ve overcome.

But when Ryan gets his turn, when he lifts the Cup over his head and the arena fills with camera flashes, that’s when the magnitude really hits me. Mere months ago, he was the new guy trying to prove he belonged. Now he’s a Stanley Cup champion, the player who scored the goal that brought the first championship in franchise history to Sierra Point.

The locker room celebration afterward is everything you’d expect and more. Champagne everywhere, music blasting, guys who’ve played their entire careers for this moment finally able to let loose completely. Marlowe, our stoic alternate captain, is dancing toWhatever It Takes, by Imagine Dragons as Foster rides on his back like a bucking bronco. The scene is insanity, but it feels so right.

I have my arm around Ryan’s waist and he’s giggling a little as he watches the lockerroom antics. I suspect he’s already tipsy. I look around the locker room, at our teammates celebrating the culmination of their dreams, at the Stanley Cup sitting in the center of it all, a silver monument to everything we’ve achieved, and realize that this moment is about more than just hockey.

It’s about trust. In order to get here, we all had to trust each other to do our jobs. The minute we did that, we became unstoppable. There’s a lesson in there for me and Ryan too. Trust is what almost destroyed us, but also what ultimately brought us back together. It’s what will keep us together too.

****

Twenty-four hours later, I’m standing in a conference room at the Seadragon Center, wearing a suit and trying to smile naturally while photographers snap pictures of us with the Cup for what feels like the thousandth time.

“Ryan, can you lean in a little closer to the trophy?” The photographer, a woman with purple hair and enough camera equipment to stock a Best Buy, gestures with her hands. “Perfect. Now Gabriel, look toward Ryan instead of the Cup.”

This is the part of winning nobody talks about, the endless media obligations, the photo shoots, the interviews where everyone asks the same questions about “how it feels” and “whatthis means for the franchise.” My face hurts from smiling, and we’ve got three more appearances scheduled before lunch.

But watching Ryan handle it all with that natural charisma that made him perfect for this trade, I can’t help but think about how far we’ve come. Six months ago, he was the new guy trying to prove he belonged. He didn’t like media attention, and always tried to duck out of photos, now he smiles at the camera and fakes it like the rest of us.

The media circus continues for three more hours, individual interviews, group shots, promotional videos for the league. By the time we’re done, the sun is setting over Sierra Point, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink that match the championship banners hanging in the arena.

“Dinner?” Ryan asks as we finally escape to the parking garage. “Somewhere quiet where nobody will recognize us?”

“Good luck with that,” I laugh. “We’re going to be on the cover of every sports magazine in North America for the next month.”

He groans dramatically. “Don’t remind me. We’ve got a photo shoot with Sports Illustrated tomorrow, then that talk show appearance on Thursday.”

“The price of being a Stanley Cup champion,” I say. But I’m not complaining. This is what we wanted, not just the Cup, but everything that comes with it.

We end up at a small Italian place in Ocean Cliff, tucked away in a corner booth where the dim lighting and low murmur of conversation create a pocket of privacy. Ryan’s wearing a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes, but even in disguise, he’s getting second looks from other diners.

“Think it’ll ever go back to normal?” he asks, twirling pasta around his fork.

“Do you want it to?”

He considers this, chewing thoughtfully. “Yes and no. I love that we won, love what we accomplished. But I miss being able to go to the grocery store without getting asked about my feelings every five minutes.”

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