Chasing Stanley (43 page)

“I think they must be other hockey players,” Delilah offered nervously. All these people she didn't know . . . all these people, period . . . she could feel her anxiety level starting to climb.

“Where's my main man?” Eric called out, his eyes scouring the box. They lit on Stanley, and he ambled over with a good-looking blond man in tow.

“Hey, Delilah. This is Paul van Dorn. Used to play for the Blades. He wanted to meet Stanley.”

“Nice to meet you,” Paul said to Delilah.

“Nice to meet you, too,” Delilah murmured, struck by the man's mesmerizing blue eyes. The urge to blurt out, “My God you're gorgeous!” was strong.

“Hey, Tuck!” Paul called to a dark-haired, lanky boy on the cusp of adolescence. “Come check out this dog!”

The boy shambled over, his mouth falling open. “Holy moly! What kind of dog is that?”

“A Newf,” Delilah replied with a smile. She loved it when Stanley caused a sensation.

“Wow! Aunt Katie, look at this dog!”

A reed-thin, blonde woman turned from talking to another woman to join the admiring circle around Stanley. “Wow!” Katie echoed Tuck. “That is one big dog.”

“Can I get one?” the boy asked eagerly.

“Sure,” said Paul van Dorn.

Katie shot him a look before smiling at Delilah. “As you can see, my husband has a very active imagination.” She playfully tugged on his arm. “Step away from the nice dog now, honey.”

Paul chuckled, and together he, Katie, and the little boy went to get some food.

“Chow seems like a good idea,” said Eric, following in their wake. Delilah was once again left alone with Jason's mother.

“Jason told me you saved Stanley's life,” said Mrs. Mitchell.

Delilah blushed. “Kind of.”

Mrs. Mitchell glanced affectionately at Stanley. “You know, when Jason moved to the city, I was worried about how Stanley would adapt. But he's done beautifully, thanks to you.”

“I . . .” Delilah didn't know what to say. If the shoe were on the other foot—if, say, Mitzi was dealing with Jason—there would be no pretense at all of cordiality. Jason would be the ex-boyfriend, worthy only of contempt. That Jason's mother was so gracious to her amazed Delilah.

“So, I was talking to Jason,” Mrs. Mitchell continued chattily, “and I mentioned that it might be nice if the two of you could come out to the farm for a few weeks this summer. He agreed. It'd be fun, don't you think?”

“It would.” Delilah's mind was cycling rapidly. The cordiality, the compliments, the invitation: the woman had no idea she and Jason had broken up. None at all. Delilah nearly blurted out the truth but got hold of herself. What would be the point? It would only cause confusion and discomfort. But why hadn't Jason told his mother they were no longer together?

 

 

Jason sat on
the players' bench at Met Gar, his gut in knots. After defeating Detroit on home ice in games three and four, they'd gone on to win game five in Detroit in overtime. But now it was balls to the wall time. If the Blades won tonight, he'd be part of history, his name etched on the Cup along with all those other players down through the years who knew the guts and determination required to win the most difficult championship in sports. Never again would Eric be able to pull rank on him.

His gaze flicked quickly to the scoreboard—which showed the two teams deadlocked 1-1 midway through the third period—before coming to rest a moment on the team's skybox. Everyone he cared about was up there watching: Eric, his parents, friends, Stanley, even Delilah. Former Blades from around the country had come in for the game, including Paul van Dorn and even Kevin Gill, who had been Ty Gallagher's right wing for years. Their presence made Jason feel he was part of something bigger than himself, a brotherhood who knew the value of grit and loyalty.

Jason's heart hammered in his chest as Ty sent the first line back out on the ice for a face-off in the Blades' zone. Detroit won the draw, sending the puck back to Detroit center Larry “Legs” Doherty, whose slap shot seemed targeted for the top left corner. Were it not for David Hewson's lightning-fast glove, Detroit would have put another one on the board. The crowd went crazy over David's save, the air electrified with their shouts and applause. Jason wondered how close David was to puking at this very moment.

“Second line, get out there,” Ty commanded as the first line circled back to the bench. Feeding off the energy in the arena, Jason took his place on the left wing, poised in position as he waited for the puck to drop. New York won the face-off, and Ulf chipped the puck out to center ice. Jason hustled after it, a man on fire. The blade of his stick had just made contact when
bam!
Jason felt someone knee him low, and he fell down onto the ice. He could hear the fans screaming their outrage; could hear Ty cursing at the refs to call it. Furious, Jason lifted his head to try to figure out what the hell had just happened. The whistle blew. That's when Jason saw Detroit defenseman Bobby Delacroix smirking down at him.

“You fuck,” Jason growled, springing to his feet. The decibel level at Met Gar rose as the crowd roared its desire for vengeance.

“Whatcha gonna do, faggot?” Bobby taunted as he dropped his gloves.

Panting, Jason almost threw down his stick and gloves, ready to retaliate. Instead, he forced himself to take a deep breath. Quelling his own yen for revenge, and with the impassioned howls of the crowd ringing in his ears, Jason turned and skated away.

“Way to go,” Ty said, slapping him on the back as he returned to the bench. Jason paused to listen to the penalty handed out: the refs gave Delacroix a double minor for interfering. Muttering a stream of curses under his breath, the Detroit defenseman skated off to the penalty box, and New York went out on the power play. Three minutes in, Michael Dante scored on a deflection, bringing the score to 2-1, where it remained until the final buzzer sounded.

The Blades had won the Cup.

 

 

“ So, what do
you think, dipshit? Is this the greatest moment of your life or what?”

Jason could barely hear his brother over the din in the locker room, which was bursting with family, friends, and the media. Everyone wanted to share in the joy of the Blades once again bringing the Cup to the city. Immediately following the game there had been unbridled rejoicing out on the ice, with players laughing, shouting, and hugging, many with tears running down their faces. Once the hysteria subsided a bit, Michael Dante told each of the players to make one lap around the ice, holding the Cup aloft. When Tully Webster handed off the Cup to Jason for his turn, Jason found himself choking back tears. He'd been dreaming of this moment ever since he was a little boy. Now it was here, and it was every bit as intoxicating as he'd imagined. Making his circuit around the ice, he felt immortal, untouchable. He made sure to pause in front of the skybox, holding the Cup high for those he loved to see.

He turned to Eric, wiping running sweat—or was it champagne?—from his face. “Where are Mom and Dad?” he asked loudly.

“They went back to their hotel. Mom didn't want to deal with this.” Eric swept his arm to indicate the chaos surrounding them.

Jason nodded knowingly. “I understand.” He smiled happily as he gave an approaching photographer a thumbs-up.

“How about a shot of the two Stanley Cup-winning brothers together?” the photographer asked.

Eric shook his head. “No way. This is his night, not mine. No sibling shots.” The photographer shrugged and walked away.

“Thanks,” said Jason.

“Hey, anything for my little brother,” said Eric, grabbing him in a headlock. “You did good out there.”

“I know.”

“Egotistical asshole.” Eric let him go.

“Where are Delilah and Stanley?”

“They left midway through the third the way they always do.”

Disappointment whispered in Jason's ear. “You mean she—they—didn't see us win?”

Eric frowned. “She stuck to your plan, man. What do you want?”

Jason was silent as he took the champagne bottle that had just been handed to him by God knows who.

“You smell rank,” Eric observed.

“I'm sure we all do.”

“When's the party?”

“Tomorrow night. Dante's.”

Eric's eyes bored into his. “I'm invited, right?”

“Of course you are. You, Mom and Dad.” He felt a tugging on his arm and turned.

“Team picture,” Doogie Malone shouted in his face.

“For fun, not official,” said Doogie. “C'mon.”

Jason turned to Eric. “Look—”

“Go,” Eric urged. “I'll talk to you in the morning. Enjoy yourself tonight.” He patted Jason's shoulder and disappeared into the sea of jostling bodies.

“Where's the dog, Mitchell?” David Hewson asked as the giddy players arranged themselves for an unofficial group shot.

“Yeah, where's Stanley?” Michael Dante asked, holding the Cup front and center.

“He went home.”

A collective groan of disapproval went up. “He's our mascot. He should be here, man,” said Thad Meyers. “To bask in the glory.”

“Fuckin' A,” said Ulf Torkelson. “Do
not
forget to bring him to the party tomorrow tonight.”

The photographer snapped the picture, and the team began breaking up.

“Whatcha gonna do with the Cup tonight, Cap?” Barry Fontaine asked Michael, since tradition held that the team captain had possession of the Cup for the first night.

“Rebaptize the baby in it,” Michael joked. He looked exhausted as he headed off the ice.

“Poor married bastard,” murmured Ulf Torkelson.

“Speaking of not being married,” Thad Meyers began slyly. “A bunch of us are going to Snatcher's tonight for some R & R. You in?” he asked Jason.

Snatcher's was the most popular strip club in the city. The first year Ty Gallagher played for the Blades, there had been a minor scandal surrounding the fact he and a number of other players had brought the Cup there, as well as some other establishments of questionable repute.

“Who else is going?” Jason wanted to know.

“Anyone without a ball and chain,” said Thad. “You comin'?”

“Sure, what the hell.” Jason knew Denny would be coming, too, but that wasn't a big deal. Tonight all differences were put aside.

“Great. There's just one hitch.”

“What?”

“You gotta bring the dog,” said Ulf.

“They're not going to let Stanley in to Snatcher's!”

“That's where you're wrong,” said Thad. “Tonight, we own the city. We can do as we please.”

Doogie Malone started a chant. “Stan-ley! Stan-ley! Stan-ley!” It grew louder as the other players joined in.

“I get the hint,” Jason said loudly, chuckling with amusement. “Just let me shower, then I'll shoot home to pick him up and meet you guys there.”

Barry Fontaine pointed at him. “You da man, Jace. See you and Stan at Snatcher's.”

Over the years,
Jason had imagined countless scenarios of what he would do the night he won the Cup, but dragging Stanley to a titty bar hadn't been one of them. Ah, well. If his teammates wanted to celebrate by going to Snatcher's for few hours, who was he to argue? He just hoped they weren't there all night. He'd much prefer hanging out at the Chapter House.

New York was indeed the Blades' oyster tonight. The city streets were clogged with exuberant fans roaming in large, joyous packs or else hanging out of car windows, yelling and blowing their horns. Flying on adrenaline, Jason hopped into a waiting cab, giving directions to Delilah's. He assumed the lively crowds would dissipate once he got out of the general vicinity of Met Gar. He was wrong; no matter where he looked, the streets were thick with high-spirited pedestrians, many of them in Blades jerseys. The whole city was wide-awake and celebrating.

“Are you one of the hockey players?” the cab driver asked in a thick Caribbean accent.

Jason nodded, loosening his tie before rolling the back window down halfway. Met Gar PR was adamant players arrive for and depart from games looking like professionals, meaning they wear a suit and tie. Everyone, including Ty Gallagher, hated it. “You a Blades fan?”

The cabdriver laughed. “Not really, sir. But you have made the city very, very happy tonight.”

“Thank you.”

Restless, Jason settled back in his seat. Holding the Cup out on the ice, he'd been “very, very happy,” to quote the driver. But now, even though he was still stoked, it felt like something was missing. Maybe he shouldn't have let Eric leave. It felt strange to be celebrating without his brother in tow, even though he'd be at the party tomorrow night. Maybe it was his folks. He wished they'd braved the postgame insanity in the locker room, though he understood completely their taking a pass: his mother, fond of wide open spaces, would have had a major anxiety attack were she to find herself in a crush of people like that. In that regard she was like Delilah.

He couldn't believe Delilah had missed the Blades' triumph. He knew footage of the final seconds of the game would run endlessly on TV over the next few days, but he wished Delilah had actually
been
there to see him win. It was the proudest moment of his life, and she'd played a part in it by being willing to bring Stanley to Met Gar, not to mention taking care of him over the course of the season. It was hard to admit, but there was also a part of him that wanted her to be impressed by what he'd achieved.