Page 112 of From Ice to Home
“You head’s good?” he asks, his gaze flicking toward my temple. As a goalie, he knows better than most what a knock to the head can mean. He’s taken a lot of pucks to the head, some so hard his mask pops off, and still he walks away focused and clear.
“Yeah,” I nod. “Cleared for celebration it seems.”
He holds out the Cup toward me. “You’ve earned this,” he says, his russian accent thick. “You helped us get here.”
I grip the silver, humbled by his words. “Thank you, Niko.”
I hoist the Cup above my head. The moment is unreal and I’m flooded with so much gratitude it nearly knocks the air from my lungs.
It’s heavy, not only because of the metal and sheer size, but because of the legacy, the dreams and sacrifices, the late hours, the prayers and relentless training. Lifting it over my head, I give thanks to the One who brought me here, to the One who made all this happen, to the One who’s bigger than the Stanley Cup.
“To God be all the glory!” I shout, my voice hoarse but sure.
I lower the Cup slowly, my arms shaking a bit. Lindgren steps up. His hands are trembling, his face lit up with adrenaline and excitement as he takes in the trophy.
“You did good out there, Rookie,” I say, slowly handing him the Cup. “Not bad for a first season hey?”
He grins widely, taking it from me, his eyes roving over every name engraved on there. “Not at all. Although now we’ll have to make sure to win this every year.”
“I’m in if you are,” I say, slapping him on the shoulder and watching as he hoists the Cup over his head.
Then something crashes into me, harder than the weight of silver and history.
It’s Noah.
“You did it bro!” he yells, wrapping me in a full-on body wrap of a hug. “You’re a Stanley Cup champion! And we were here to see all of it.”
He pulls back, eyes sweeping my face, his expression suddenly sobering as he sees the butterfly bandage on my temple.
“Wait, you’re good right? Your head—“ he looks to the side of my head where it connected with the goalpost. “You scared the living daylights out of us.”
I nod, the pounding headache from before has subsided significantly, but I’m sure it’ll come crashing back as soon as the dopamine and endorphins leave my system. “I’m fine. Just need to stay off the ice for twenty-four hours.”
Noah raises a skeptical brown. “So, not something you’ll be able to do then?”
A laugh catches in my throat. I punch his shoulder lightly, but with brotherly emphasis. “I’m beat. I’ll stay off for a full forty-eight. Doctor’s orders.”
His mouth curves into a grin, but the concern in his eyes doesn’t completely go away. Before he says anything else, another presence fills the space beside us.
My dad.
He doesn’t say anything right away, his gaze locked on me like he is trying to figure out the full extent of my injuries and what to make of the situation.
“You’re alright, son?” he asks quietly, not wanting to make a scene. But his hand is on my arm, steady and strong.
I meet his gaze. “Yeah, Dad. I am now.”
He nods before pulling me in for an embrace, slapping meon the back, in a way that shows his quiet pride. It’s not a big gesture, but to me it means the world.
When he steps back, his eyes are wet. He clears his throat, trying for composure. “Your mom would’ve been—“ his voice cracks and he leaves the rest of the sentence.
My chest tightens. My mom has always been the one who supported my hockey dreams. She drove me to early morning practices and prayed over me before every game. I used to think my dad resented her a bit for feeding into my dream when he wanted something different for my life. But for him to be here, and to say that she would’ve been proud of me shows how wrong I’ve been.
He misses her. Maybe more than either me or Noah.
I place a hand on his shoulder. “I know. Thank you, Dad.”
He nods, quickly swiping at the tears before anyone can see. But I saw. And I’ll remember.
