Page 177 of Full Contact

He skated toward his teammates with the Cup over his head, then lowered it and held it out to Rook.

Rook took it with his head lowered, and then raised both the Cup and his face.

I’d seen him angry, amused, exhausted, and delighted by something Varga had said that nobody else could get away with. I’d never seen his face like that: eyes squeezed shut, chin trembling, and laughing.

He skated slowly. His mouth opened, but whatever he tried to say disappeared in the noise.

Varga followed a few strides behind, clapping his bare hands above his head.

The Cup passed to Pratt, then Heath, then Kieran, and finally, Trier.

He took it in both hands and looked down at it for a moment. I couldn’t tell whether he was reading the names or simply basking in the moment.

He lifted it over his head and looked toward the tunnel.

I was behind a row of photographers, half hidden in the entrance. I raised my hand anyway.

Trier was grinning. His arms shook a little under the weight of the Cup, and a loose end of tape hung from his left wrist.

He turned to skate toward the bench, still holding the Cup high. I wiped my face with my fingers and kept watching.

When Callahan’s turn came, he accepted it carefully, checked his grip, and lifted it to a fresh roar. Before passing it on, he looked across the ice at Rook.

Near the tunnel, a man in a Varga jersey raised a beer-stained poster above the glass.

PEACHES KNEW.

By the time I ushered the first group of families onto the ice, some had already arrived through the other entrance. Larsson was holding a toddler whose oversized jersey covered her shoes. Players kept turning from one embrace to look for the next person.

“Mark, should I bring the second group down?” a staffer asked through my headset.

“Hold them at the top of the ramp until—“

“I’ve got it.”

Leah stood beside me with her hand out for the list. I looked at her. “Go,” she said.

I gave her the list and took off my headset. She put it on and immediately spoke to someone. Farther up the passage, Devin waved to let her know he was ready.

I stepped aside. They knew what they were doing. I’d taught them well, and I could let them do their job.

Trier spotted me from the ice. He stopped talking to Cross and skated toward the gate, steering around a kneeling photographer. His helmet was gone. A red mark ran along his jaw where the chin strap had rubbed.

He stopped in front of me and held out his hand.

“Come out here with me,” he said.

I looked down at my dress shoes. “These have no traction.”

“Hang on to my jersey.”

I took his hand and stepped through the gate. My first foot slid. He caught my forearm and drew me against his chest while I found my balance.

“See?” he said. “You’re upright.”

I gripped his jersey with my free hand.

He skated backward slowly, guiding me a few steps away from the entrance. The cold radiated up through my shoes, and the noise was much louder.