Chapter Twenty-One

THEY WIN ROUND three against the Jets in six games.

And hoisting the conference cup on opponent ice doesn’t make the victory any less sweet. The Hell Hounds are going to the Stanley Cup final.

For the first time in franchise history.

Alex manages to make it back home from the airport, to his own apartment, to his own bathroom before having one of the worst panic attacks of his life.

Eli is gone when Alex finally stumbles inside, shedding his coat and bags on the way to the medicine cabinet.

A Xanax takes the edge off. But then he feels awful and lost and like he should be struggling to breathe but can’t, which is nearly as bad as not being able to breathe in the first place. And then, since his brain can’t focus on the static of panic, it focuses on all of the mistakes he’s made in the last series—the kind of mistakes that could cost them the championship if repeated.

So instead of struggling to breathe on the bathroom floor, he’s suddenly crying on the bathroom floor.

For no particular reason that he can determine.

He also can’t seem to stop.

Fantastic, he thinks absently, pressing his eye sockets into his knees. I’ve finally lost it.

Bells comes to sit with him, which is nice, but what he needs—

Well. He needs to call Anika. He should call Anika.

But what he wants—

He checks his phone.

Eli’s last final exam was an hour earlier. He should be finished by now. But then he had a meeting with his advisor to talk about his schedule next semester.

Can you come home? Alex texts him.

And then:

Now.

And then:

Please.

Less than two minutes later, Eli calls him.

“Hey,” Alex says, and it’s rough and a little desperate, something he would be embarrassed about if he wasn’t so—whatever he is right now.

“Hey,” Eli says. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“No. I had a panic attack. Took a Xanax. Now I’m just—” He breathes, and it doesn’t rattle in his chest, but it doesn’t feel right either. “I don’t know. Something is wrong.”

“Okay. Okay, I’m walking out to the parking lot right now. Are you at home?”

“Yeah.”

“Where are you at home?”

“Bathroom. Bells is with me.”

He doesn’t know why he adds the last part. It seems important.

“Okay, that’s good. We’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Can you do something for me?”

Anything.

“Yeah.”

“Call Anika. Tell her what’s going on and see if she has any advice. If she doesn’t answer, call me right back, though, okay? And I’ll keep you company while I ride home.”

“Okay.”

“I love you,” Eli says. “I’ll see you in just a few minutes. We’ll figure this out.”

“Love you,” Alex agrees.

He hangs up and calls Anika.

*

IT’S GOOD THE Hell Hounds have a week off while they wait for their final opponent to be determined.

For five days, Alex wakes up in his own bed to Eli’s soft hands, soft voice, soft mouth.

“How’s your brain today?” Eli asks every morning, and Alex answers “better,” and it’s the truth.

He eats. He sleeps. He does light workouts and attends practice and talks to Anika almost daily.

Eli starts a six-week online summer-school course to make up for the one class he dropped during the semester. He hates it, and he’s vocal about it.

“Trouble in paradise?” Jeff asks one day, sitting at the kitchen island and eating guacamole in a way that means the counter will be covered in chip debris later.

Eli sits on one side of Jeff, decidedly ignoring Alex, who’s on his other side.

“Alex is being homophobic,” Eli mutters.

“Oh?” Jeff says.

“I won’t kiss him until he’s done with this paper,” Alex explains.

“Ah,” Jeff says. “You should call HR, Eli. The NHL is very serious about homophobia now; I’m not sure if you’ve heard.”

“Shut up,” Alex says, and then, to Eli, “I’m just trying to provide incentive. It’s for your own good. Don’t sulk.”

“I’m not sulking,” Eli says sulkily.

Later, when Alex is lying on the couch, not napping, but not really awake either, Eli drops down onto the cushion beside his head, jostling him.

“Hey, Alex. I want to try something.”

“If it’s a sex thing, can it wait until after playoffs?” Alex says, not opening his eyes.

“If it’s a sex thing, can it wait until I’M NOT HERE?” Jeff yells from the kitchen.

They ignore him.

“What?” Alex asks, squinting up at Eli.

“Encouragement kisses. That’s incentive too.”

“Oh my god,” he says, closing his eyes again. “Just go finish the stupid paper.”

“I’ve got eight out of ten pages. I think that deserves a reward. Something to bolster me through the last two.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re lucky I want to kiss you at all considering the way your face looks right now.”

“He has a point,” Jeff says.

He does.

Alex can’t grow a playoff beard to save his life. All he has right now is horrible itchy blond stubble that gets wispy around his chin and jaw and the corners of his mouth, and it’s a miracle Eli will even look at him right now much less want to get anywhere near him.

Alex sits up, considering his boyfriend. His beautiful boyfriend, who does not have terrible facial hair but does need to finish his paper. “Are you trying to take advantage of me because I’m exhausted and ugly and my defenses are down?”

“Yes,” Eli says.

“Okay,” Alex agrees magnanimously. “Come take advantage of me, then.”

Eli grins, climbing into his lap.

“All right, well, goodbye,” Jeff says.

*

WHEN THE CAPS win their conference and the final series schedule is announced, Alex asks Eli if they can have a midmonth relationship meeting.

“I need you there,” Alex says, picking at the jagged edge of one of his fingernails. “At all of the games. Home and away. And maybe that isn’t healthy and maybe it isn’t actually true that I need you there, but my brain is saying I do, and it’s the Stanley Cup finals, so.”

“Okay,” Eli agrees.

“Okay?”

Maybe Eli doesn’t understand.

“And you have to let me pay for it,” Alex clarifies. “Flights and hotels and food and everything.”

“Okay,” Eli repeats.

“I don’t understand. I thought this would be an argument. I made notecards.”

“Well, you can read them to me if you want. But Alex. This isn’t a vacation or a pair of shoes. It’s the Stanley Cup finals. It’s—you. Your health. If you say you need me there, I’m there.”

Alex should probably start looking for rings.

It’s been six months. Eight, if you count their original not-dates.

That’s enough time, right?

They had a conversation about getting engaged at the end of April. Well. Sort of. The conversation mostly consisted of Alex saying, “You’re it for me, and I’d like to marry you at some point, cool?” and Eli saying, “Cool.” And then they’d moved on to arguing about whether or not Eli would let Alex pay for a two-week trip to the Dominican Republic over the summer.

“But think how happy it would make Abuela!” he’d argued. “I need sun and beaches and no stress as part of my recovery, and if you don’t come with me, I’ll be stressed the whole time. Also, if you don’t come with me, I’ll spend two weeks with Aba, and I’ll have her tell me every embarrassing story from your childhood. Do you think she has pictures?”

Eli eventually agreed that Alex could pay for their trip provided that they, A. stayed in Abuela’s guest room, not at some horrible resort, B. Alex didn’t buy him any gifts until their departure date.

He agreed.

They shook on it.

And since then, Alex has been so preoccupied with hockey and planning their vacation that he hasn’t done much thinking about the marriage situation. He starts covert internet research the weekend before the first final game, primarily while using the bathroom.

Eli casually inquires about Alex’s bowel health.

“You know, you could just say you’re planning something secret, and I’d leave you alone in the bedroom or the living room or something,” he says. “At this rate, you’re going to get a permanent toilet seat indent on your butt, and I’ll be very sad. I like your butt the way it is.”

Apparently, Alex is not very covert after all.

Apparently, his boyfriend is also the worst.

Alex decides to set aside his research until the summer anyway.

He needs to focus on hockey now.

*

THE HELL HOUNDS win the first game of the series at home against the Caps.

They lose the second.

Lose the third in DC.

Lose the fourth.

Win the fifth.

Win the sixth.

The final goes to seven games because, of course, it does.

At least that means they’re on home ice.

It’s not really a consolation.

The night before game seven, Alex is in the bathtub, soaking aching muscles in Epsom salts, when Eli gets home from the library.

“Hey,” he says, kneeling beside the tub, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt. “How’s it going?”

“Everything hurts. And I’m afraid I won’t be able to sleep tonight. But I have to sleep tonight to play well tomorrow, and I have to play well tomorrow, but if I can’t sleep—”

“I know,” Eli says lowly. “Shhh. It’s okay.” He somehow manages to shush Alex without sounding condescending.

Alex isn’t sure how he feels about that.

Eli kisses the corner of Alex’s mouth, then wets a washcloth to rub along the line of his collarbone.

Alex closes his eyes again.

“Do you want me to wash your hair?” Eli asks a few minutes later because he’s the best and Alex can never hope to deserve him.

“Yes, please.”

“Okay. Do you want me to make pancakes and omelets again tomorrow?” Eli murmurs, fingers working against Alex’s scalp in a vanilla-scented lather.

“Yeah,” Alex says. “With—”

“Blueberries,” Eli agrees. “And I picked up more spinach for the omelets on the way home too.”

They’ve been eating the same thing for breakfast for the last several days. It’s what Alex had to eat the morning before game one, and then again before game five, and then game six. And now it’s part of his routine.

“My superstitious weirdo,” Eli says affectionately, tugging at the shell of one of his ears. “You’re lucky I love you.”

“So lucky,” Alex agrees. “But I’m not that superstitious. There are a lot of guys who are worse than me.”

Eli snorts, scratching at the nape of Alex’s neck in a way that makes him feel wobbly and limp. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed you’ve been wearing the same pair of underwear every day since game three of the second round.”

Alex was, actually, hoping Eli hadn’t noticed that. “I’ve been washing them,” he says defensively.

“Thank god for small mercies. Did you know you’ve become a meme?” Eli asks conversationally, tipping Alex’s head back to rinse the suds out of his hair.

“A meme?”

“Mmm. That screencap I posted on Instagram of you sitting in the sin bin looking all grumpy from the last game. Someone paired it up with a picture of Bells sitting in a box from your Instagram, and now everyone is making ‘if I fits, I sits’ jokes.”

That actually sounds pretty great. “Can you show me?”

“Mm-hmm. Got it pulled up on my laptop. It’s waiting on the bed.”

“Is that where we’re going next?” Alex says hopefully, trying not to groan out loud as Eli starts to work conditioner into his hair.

“Yessir, I’m going to rub you down with your fancy version of VapoRub because it seems that’s a service I provide now, and then tuck you in and make sure you get to sleep.”

Alex pouts. “You know, I’ve read,” Alex says, “from very official scientific sources, that orgasms make people sleepy.”

“Alexander,” Eli says sternly. “I am not going to encourage you risking a sex injury the night before game seven in the Stanley Cup final.”

“We could be really careful.”

Eli rolls his eyes. “Tilt your head back,” he says, turning on the water to rinse Alex’s hair again.

“Is that a yes?”

“It’s a maybe.”

That means it’s a yes.

Alex grins and ends up choking on a mouthful of water.

*

ALEX HONESTLY DOESN’T remember much of the final game.

He remembers taping his stick. Retaping his stick. Taping it a third time because it has to be perfect.

He remembers sweating in the Hell Hounds’ mirrored tunnel, the itch of anxiety at the back of his throat and clenched around his stomach, waiting for the announcer to shout, loud and at last over the PA system, And now, your captain: Alexander Priiiiiiiiice.

And then his skates hit the ice and things go a little blurry.

He remembers chewing on the front of his jersey during the anthem.

He remembers assisting Kuzy on a goal in the first.

He remembers fury when the Caps turn right back around and score less than a minute later.

He remembers taking a hard check in the second.

Screaming Rushy’s name over a fantastic block in the third.

Getting slashed.

Two broken fingers.

Getting treated on the bench and shoving them back in his glove.

Scoring on a breakaway even though his hand feels cumbersome with pain.

He’s not on the ice when the clock runs out.

He’s just finished a shift, and he’s leaned onto his elbows over the boards, breathing hard, shaking sweat out of his eyes, watching the puck, which is uncomfortably close to their net. The Caps are on the power play, and the Caps only need one goal to tie, to go into overtime. Alex doesn’t know if he’ll survive that if it happens; he’s so damn tired, and his hand hurts and his head hurts and—

Please, he thinks.

Please.

Please.

Please.

The horn sounds and for a moment, he closes his eyes—relief rather than ecstasy—until he remembers:

He did it.

They did.

They’re Stanley Cup champions.

Holy shit.

He doesn’t remember most of what comes next, either, but he does remember holding the cup. He remembers kissing the cup—cold against his chapped mouth.

He remembers passing the cup to Rads, who’s probably skating on a broken ankle.

Who isn’t coming back next year.

Who’s definitely crying when he lifts the cup out of Alex’s hands and pushes it straight up into the air, yelling.

The cup is both heavier and lighter than Alex expected.

There are a lot of pictures and hugging and the tacky residue of spilled champagne everywhere and Eli throwing himself into Alex’s arms.

It’s probably good he doesn’t have a ring yet. If he did, he’d be on one knee right now, and even if Eli didn’t kill him for proposing in front of approximately a billion cameras after less than a year of knowing each other, Eli’s mother definitely would.

He manages to make it to the locker room, to say a sound bite for some reporters, and strip mostly out of his gear before the adrenaline wears off enough that he realizes he’s breathing harder than he should be, and his hands are shaking.

He looks around and can’t find Eli.

Hawk is there, a few feet away, and Jeff is telling Cookie that no he cannot give the dog beer, what the hell is wrong with you? which would be funny if Alex wasn’t—whatever he is right now.

He doesn’t even know.

He has so many emotions that he can’t even—

He is a hemorrhage.

Leaking feelings everywhere with absolutely no idea how to contain them or even if he should and—

Oh.

There he is.

Alex’s mind quiets down a little when he sees Eli talking to Jessica just outside the open door of the locker room.

Alex pushes his way through the guys, grabs Eli’s wrist, and pulls him farther down the hallway.

Past camera crews and security and a concerned-looking Jeff with his arm around Jo.

Alex doesn’t know where he’s going but—

Yes.

Perfect.

“Oh my god,” Eli says as the door closes behind them, “are we in an actual utility closet? I thought that only happened in movies. What are we doing? Are we going to make out? I really don’t think the guys will care if we do that in front of them at this point. They’re already three beers deep, and your gay ass just won them the Stanley Cup, you know?”

“Hey,” Jeff says outside, knocking on the door. “I thought your whole thing was about being out of the closet?”

“Shut up, Coops,” Alex yells back, and his voice might actually crack.

“Oh,” Eli says, serious all of the sudden. “Hey, what’s going on?”

And Alex just…wraps himself around Eli.

Tucks his face into his neck.

And maybe sobs a little.

“Okay,” Eli says. “Okay. This is good too. Hey. Whatever you need. I’m so proud of you, you know? I’m so proud of you and you worked so hard and I love you so much. More than love you. So much more than love you. Oh shit. Okay. Well, I’m crying too, now. Thanks for that.”

They cling to each other for a few minutes until Alex’s breathing has evened out.

The hallway slowly gets louder, and then Matts opens the door to peek inside. “You guys,” he yells to the assembled group outside, “they’re not even fucking. They’re just crying all over each other.”

“Fuck you,” Alex says, smearing his sweaty, tear-streaked face against Eli’s. “We just won the Stanley Cup. I’m allowed to have feelings about it.”

“That is fair,” Moose says seriously, leaning against the wall outside the closet, wearing his compression shorts and only one sock.

Moose is definitely already drunk.

Rookies.

“You want to have feelings in the locker room with everyone else, Captain?” Rads asks. He’s got a crutch under one arm and a massive grin on his face.

“Yeah,” Alex says. “Yeah, all right. Where’s the cup? I need to drink some fucking champagne out of it with my boyfriend.”

That gets a cheer.

*

ALEX WAKES UP the following day just after 11:00 a.m., his phone buzzing in his hand. It’s a text from Kuzy: Everyone is hangover.

He blinks at his phone in agreement.

He’s in his own bed, which is good.

Eli is asleep on one side of him.

Also good.

The cup is tucked under the covers on the other.

So good.

Bells is half inside the bowl of the cup, and Hawk is sprawled across their feet, cutting off Alex’s circulation.

He grins at the ceiling for a solid minute before getting up, slowly, to use the bathroom. He takes some heavy-duty painkillers because his hangover is eclipsed by the throbbing of his broken fingers, drinks an entire Gatorade that drunk-him was kind enough to leave on the nightstand, and takes a shower. By the time he’s brushing his teeth, damp and feeling a little more human, the ache in both his head and his hand have subsided enough for the euphoria to take back over.

When he returns to the bed, he has to climb over the cup to get to Eli, to press fresh minty kisses all over his scrunched-up grumpy face.

“What?” Eli mutters. He has a magnificent case of bedhead. There might be confetti in his curls.

In a few minutes, they’ll need to get up. Make sure everyone is still alive and figure out when the parade is and hash out the schedule for the whole postfinal media circus. He’s already thinking he wants to take the cup to Pride and invite all the other out players from the group chat—he’ll need to call Jessica and maybe You Can Play? And he should also probably—

But not yet.

All of that can wait.

The shades are blocking the morning sun, and the duvet is crinkly around them.

Eli is warm and soft and beautiful, and he smells like peppermint schnapps for some unholy reason, and Alex loves him so, so much.

For now, at least for the next few minutes, it’s just them.

And just them is his favorite thing.

“What?” Eli repeats, a little bemused now.

Probably because Alex is staring at him like a dope.

“Nothing. Just.” Alex kisses him one more time. “Hi.”

Eli blinks up at him. Smiles a little. Kisses him back. “Hi,” he agrees.