Thirty-nine seconds.
Come on, baby. Stand tough.
My hands are clutched together and pressed underneath my breastbone. I can almost taste this win. I can almost taste Ryker on my tongue. Both are equally sweet.
It’s hard to imagine. My first year as a general manager, winning the Stanley Cup. Talk about history making.
That’s right. I’m still the general manager of the Carolina Cold Fury. Almost three months ago, I declared to the world that I was in love with Ryker Evans and simultaneously handed in my resignation so that I could keep my reputation and the reputation of this club intact. It became breaking news and was the subject of conversation all across Twitter and in every bar that held a hockey fan. The following day, the board of directors convened and held a vote on whether or not to accept my resignation.
Surprisingly, my biggest proponent was Frank Lessier. While my father didn’t vote, he did sit in on the meeting, and said that Frank was pretty amazing. He focused the board on a solution to make it work with me retaining head management and still preserving the integrity of our negotiations with Ryker at a later date. His idea was simple. I would stay on as general manager but would have absolutely no dealings, authority, or input regarding Ryker Evans and his tenure with the team. In fact, Frank offered himself up as the person who would deal solely with Ryker in the future. A few months ago, that might have concerned me, since Frank did not like Ryker for some reason.
But I have to say Frank has shown a maturity that I didn’t think he had, and I believe he’s come to realize that if he wants to ascend to the position of GM either here or with another organization, he has to politic his way there. The other reason I’m not worried about it is because Ryker was and still is the hottest goalie in the league.
And that’s not just personal bias I’m spouting.
He’s retained the league lead for highest save percentage and he’s a shoo-in for another Vezina Trophy. The Cold Fury organization will pay good money to keep him on this team, and he will be worth every penny.
Eleven seconds.
With Chicago on the power play, the tension in the arena is thick. The puck is being passed about in Ryker’s territory, center to left winger, back to center, over to the right winger, across the crease to the left winger, who winds up and sends a blistering slap shot at Ryker. He catches it neatly in his glove with only 3.7 seconds left.
I think I may pass out from lack of oxygen.
I think they may find my unconscious body here in the tunnel when they bring the Cup through for the celebration laps.
The puck is brought back to the face-off circle, no more than twenty feet to Ryker’s left. Alex Crossman lines up for the drop. Ryker puts his massive frame squared to the net, balancing lightly on his skates to keep his lightning-fast reflexes accessible. The ref takes his position, holding the puck in the air between the two face-off contenders.
The biscuit drops, and the second it hits the ice and the players start scrabbling for possession, the clock starts its countdown. Every person save one in this arena follows the puck with hungry eyes.
Every person but me.
I watch Ryker because I want to see the moment when he gets his championship, proving to himself and the world that the Brick Wall still has it. I want to see the light in his eyes and the smile on his face, and I want to revel in his happiness.
The horn blows to signify the clock has reached zero and en masse, the Cold Fury team swarms the ice. The fans go berserk, nearly blowing off the roof of the arena with the screams, whistles, claps, and hurrahs. Ryker throws his glove and stick to the ice, skates to the center, and meets his team, where half of them go down into a pile of arms and legs.
There’s hugs, backslaps, stick slaps, helmet bumps. Three of the players pick up Pretore and carry him out onto the ice. Zack and Ryker take a moment to celebrate together with a hard hug—well, as hard as you can get with all of those pads on. They’re then joined by Alex and Garrett, and I have to smile to see that core group of guys celebrating a Cup win together.
Since we came out of the closet, we all hang out together. Me, Ryker, Alex, Sutton, Garrett, Olivia, Zack, and Kate. Add in Violet, Ruby, and Ben, and we have quite the hootenanny when we congregate. I think Alex and Garrett were a tiny bit intimidated by me the first time we all went out, but then they realized that outside the walls of that arena, when I’m out with my man, I’m just plain Gray Brannon…a woman in love and all that shit.
I have to move aside for a few moments as arena attendants roll out a huge red carpet from the tunnel onto the ice so the executives making their way down to accept the trophy stand steady. I look behind me and I see the two Hall of Fame attendants that travel with the Cup moving it into the tunnel on a rolling cart.
I feel his eyes on me, that’s how much of a connection I have to him. I turn to the ice and Ryker breaks away from his buds to skate over to me. I step to the edge of the rink, the toes of my shoes just hanging over the lip. He comes to a smooth stop right before me and holds a hand out. I step down onto the edge of the red carpet and look up at him.
Way, way up at him, because this six-foot-six man grows by about three inches in his skates. He pulls his mask off and drops it to the ice. I glance down at it, barely able to contain the smile. He had the design altered last month by adding another holographic heart to the side with my name. He added it right after he asked me to marry him and I said no.
Well, in fairness I didn’t say no. I just said “let’s not discuss it right now.” We had just way too much going on at the time. We were dealing with the fallout from Claude’s attack on me and my retaining the GM position after the board vote. Even though the executive team had approved it, some members of the public did not think I needed to stay. We were just starting the playoffs and I didn’t want there to be any distraction to Ryker. To me. To the team. Take your pick.