Page 174 of Full Contact

He sent it and put his phone down. I smiled into my coffee. For months, I’d been the one asking for footage, arranging visits, and finding something he’d be comfortable sharing. He’d decided to join in.

Leah posted the clip at ten. By noon, it had more views than our Game Four highlights.

Half the comments said Peaches wasn’t worried, so nobody else should be. The other half insisted she was saving her energy for overtime. Someone pointed out that she’d already slept enough for three overtimes.

She’s fifteen. Let her rest, another person wrote.

Eleven thousand people agreed.

At the arena, I put my phone away and checked the list of family members who would come onto the ice if we won. It ran three pages. Pratt had written FIANCÉ in the relationship box, underlined twice. Rook’s family needed a page to themselves. Varga had added a nephew’s name in the margin.

The Cup was in a room near the loading dock, with a guard outside. I passed the door on my way to check the family entrance and kept walking.

Through the open door of the video room, I saw Rook and Trier leaning over an assistant coach’s tablet. Rook stopped the clip, pointed behind the goal line, and played it again. Trier nodded and reached to drag it back.

I left them to it and went to find Leah.

***

By puck drop, I'd stationed myself where the media corridor met the tunnel. From there, I could direct crews without having them wander into the players’ route to the locker room. I could also see a narrow stretch of ice through the tunnel entrance and the rest of the game on a monitor mounted above me.

My headset pinched behind one ear, and my feet already hurt.

“Mark, it’s Tasha. Camera’s in position by the bench.”

“Thank you.”

Boston came at us from the first shift. Every time Pratt stopped a shot, another forward drove toward him, trying to reach the rebound.

Seven minutes in, a Boston defenseman held the puck at the blue line while two players crowded Pratt’s view. Rook pushed one away from the crease. Trier moved toward the shooter.

The shot came through low, changed direction in the traffic, and went in.

I looked up at the monitor for the replay. The puck had struck something on its way through, but even slowed down, I couldn’t tell whether it was a stick or a shin pad.

One–nothing, Boston.

A few people near the tunnel started shouting advice. Pratt took a drink, put his mask back in place, and waited for the next face-off.

Four minutes later, Trier chased a puck into the corner I could see from my post. A Boston forward hit him against the boards hard enough to shake the glass. I heard it, then saw it again a moment later on the delayed feed.

Trier stayed on his feet. With the route up the boards blocked, he sent the puck behind the net to Rook. Another forward closed on Rook, and Varga came back to help. Cross skated into the open, and finally they got it out.

“Mark,” Devin said in my ear. “French-language crew wants to broadcast from the passage behind 105.”

That was the passage we needed clear for families.

“Put them on the concourse by 104. They can have the space beside the merchandise stand.”

I looked down at the corridor map on my clipboard to confirm the location. By the time I looked up again, Trier was skating toward the bench. I’d missed the end of his shift.

He sat normally, took a drink, and said something to Rook.

Heath pressured a defenseman along the boards until his pass went straight to Larsson. Larsson sent it across to Kieran, who was waiting near the face-off circle. By then, Heath had planted himself in front of the goalie.

A defender shoved him. Heath stayed there.

Kieran shot past them both, and the goalie reacted too late.