Body Check (40 page)

“Winning tonight will not be a matter of how talented we are as a team or what skills we as individual players bring to the ice. Winning tonight will depend on one thing: how badly we want it. If we want the Cup badly enough, then come the end of the night, it will be ours. Years from now, we'll be able to tell our kids and grandkids about this night. We'll be able to show them our names etched onto the Cup itself: permanent, lasting proof that we were, right down to the last man in this room, winners.” He picked up his helmet and strapped it on. “I don't know about you, but me? I want the Cup so damn bad I can taste it. So let's go get it. Let's make history.”

 

 

“Madonn', I can't
take this, I'm gonna have another heart attack right here, I swear to God!”

Janna shot Lou a worried look even though she knew—she hoped—he was only speaking metaphorically. It was the last period of the game, six minutes to go, and the teams were tied. New York had been the first to score three minutes into the first period, Ty's line charging into LA's defensive zone like a three-man stampede. Kevin Gill expertly deked the puck past LA's goalie in a move so smooth it seemed as if the Blades were under no pressure at all. But LA answered right back three minutes later, and the tenor of the game was set. The Blades scored a goal twenty seconds before the first period ended, only to find themselves caught off guard at the top of the second when LA came out onto the ice and fired a shot from the blue line that tied the game 2-2, where it had since remained. A sense of urgency tinged with desperation hung over the arena as both teams fought for dominance. Janna looked around the stands at the tense, hopeful faces of the fans, some clutching rabbits' feet and horseshoes, others wearing necklaces of garlic to ward off bad luck. Up in the loge seats she could see a huge banner declaring, LIGHTNING CAN STRIKE TWICE! GO BLADES! Like everyone else present, Janna fervently hoped it was true.

Beside her, Wills seemed to hold his breath every time LA skated into the Blades defensive zone. The tension in the house was unbearable, the waiting for someone to score torturous. As the final minutes of the game wound down, Janna sensed all 18,000 Blades fans were desperately hoping their team wasn't scored against—or that the game was forced into overtime. Glued to the action on the ice, she suddenly noticed Coach Matthias whisper something to Ty on the bench. Ty nodded sagely, rose, and went out onto the ice with Kevin Gill, while his line's usual right winger, Brad Frechere, remained seated. Instead of Frechere playing Ty's other wing, it was Alexei Lubov.

Janna turned to Lou. “What's going on?”

“Matthias is trying to shake things up, generate some action,” Lou explained.

One minute passed. Two. Janna's mouth felt parched, her heart rate skipping double time beneath her blazer. She watched as Ty drew a defenseman the size of an Amana upright to him, then passed the puck wide to Lubov, who stood alone in the slot not twenty feet from LA's net. Kevin Gill skated to a waiting standstill in front of the goalie, acting as a screen. It worked: Lubov snapped the puck in a low shot against LA's goalie, and the red light above the net went on. Score!! New York was in the lead with only three minutes left of play!

The crowd went crazy, but the roar didn't last half as long as Janna expected. Baffled, she again turned to Lou, whose expression was guarded.

“We still have to work that last three minutes off the clock, doll. A lot can happen in three minutes. You know that. Break out your rosary beads.”

Time suddenly seemed to unfold in extreme slow motion. Wills clutched her arm and was squeezing hard. The entire arena held its breath as LA did their best to ward off defeat. The last few seconds ticked away.

Then the final buzzer sounded, and Met Gar erupted with a deafening roar. The New York Blades had won the Stanley Cup for the second year in row!

“Yeess!!” Janna and Wills were on their feet, hugging, screaming, and clapping along with the rest of the jubilant crowd. Tears streamed down Lou's face as he grabbed her into a fervent embrace.

“That's my girl! I knew you'd tell him!” he cried.

“What?!”

“I knew there was no way you'd let him go down if you knew Kidco was thinking of axing him,” Lou shouted in her ear, over the deafening cheers of the crowd.

“You set me up?!”

Lou tweaked her nose. “Bingo.”

“You're unbelievable!”

Lou jerked his head in the direction of the ice. “Look down there and tell me it wasn't worth it,” he yelled, his voice getting hoarse.

Janna looked down at the ice. Ty was jumping up and down like a little boy, pumping his fist in the air while around him, his teammates wept, laughed, hugged. Their elation was contagious: Janna felt exultant, especially when the Cup was finally brought on to the ice. It was handed to Ty, who promptly passed it on to each of his teammates before taking it back to begin a slow skate around the arena, holding it aloft so the fans could share in the moment of glory as well.

“I want to touch the Cup!” Wills begged.

Janna playfully bumped her shoulder against his. “So get your butt down there, then.”

Her eyes followed him as he hurried down to the lowest level of the arena, fighting his way toward the front of the surging crowd. Ty approached, grinning broadly as hands eagerly shot out, a sea of fluttering fingers desperate for contact with the holy of holies. He patiently accommodated them all, a look of warm recognition spreading across his face when he encountered Wills. One minute Ty was saying something to her brother; the next he was lifting his eyes to the press box, seeking her out. They looked at one another; looked into one another. Then Ty continued down the ice.

Smirking, Lou opened his mouth but Janna froze him with a look.

“Don't,” she mouthed.

Further commentary was shelved when Lou was tapped on the shoulder by one of the faithful New York beat writers, wanting to know where the victory party was being held.

“The official party for us working stiffs and the team is being held right here at the in-house restaurant, The Grill,” Lou replied. “But where the Blades choose to go partying with the Cup afterward is anyone's guess, and nobody's business.”

 

 

Ty wouldn't have
believed it possible, but winning a second Stanley Cup for New York felt even sweeter than winning the first. The repeat performance cemented the team's reputation as a great hockey club. It also all but guaranteed him a place in the Hockey Hall of Fame—not that he was ever really in doubt. He was proud of what the team had accomplished out there on the ice, but even more, he was proud of the men they had become: men who knew the value of loyalty, brotherhood, and perseverance. Even if none of them ever won another Cup in their lives, these traits would always be part of them now, for better or worse. They would always share a special bond.

He and the guys were beyond wiped out by the time they finally made it back into the locker room, but that didn't stop the champagne and beer from flowing, as endless toasts were made. Family and friends all crowded into the small space, while TV cameras and journalists stuck microphones in the players' sweaty faces, asking the same questions repeatedly: How does it feel to win a second Stanley Cup? Were you ever in doubt? How does it feel, how does it feel, how does it feel . . .

Ty, drenched in champagne and close to punch drunk with elation as he headed off to the showers, couldn't resist the obvious reply: “How do you think it feels?! It feels great!”

Because it did. But it would have felt even greater had he been able to share the feeling with the one person who really helped secure the Blades' victory by inspiring him. He tried to catch a minute with her at the “official” party at The Grill, but it was next to impossible. Every time he tried to talk to Janna, someone came up and slapped him on the back, or asked him to pose for a picture, or plied him with a drink, congratulating him. Admittedly, he basked in the attention. Hell, he even shared a few tender moments with the stiffs from Kidco, going so far as posing with them holding the Cup—not because he wanted to, but because he knew it would make Janna's life just a little bit easier. And making her life easier, making it happier, was something he'd spent a great deal of time thinking about lately.

It was close to 3 A.M. before he, Kevin and Abby ducked into the back of the stretch limo that was to take them to the team's private party at Dante's, the restaurant owned by Michael Dante's parents. All of New York seemed to be awake and celebrating, the city's long avenues lined with delirious fans.

“You know, Ty, you could have brought a date to this party,” Abby Gill pointed out lightly.

Ty reached forward, patting the Stanley Cup where it sat in the front passenger seat beside the chauffeur. “Got my date right here,” he said, hoping Abby took the hint and let it go. He loved her like a sister, but not her meddling.
I know what I'm doing
, he wanted to tell her,
even if you think I don't
.

Outside the restaurant, police barricades kept a few thousand waiting fans at bay. Word had traveled fast that the Blades were in Brooklyn, and the entire block was closed off to traffic—unless you happened to be the driver for the team captain, in which case an exception was made. As the limo pulled up to the restaurant, and Ty and the Gills emerged, the crowd went crazy. Adrenaline surged through Ty as he collected the Cup and held it up for all to see.
This
, he thought, brimming with pride and accomplishment,
is one of those moments you never forget
. The Gills quickly slipped inside, but Ty walked up and down the barricade, allowing the fans their moment with the Cup. He felt it was the least he could do to reward them for their dedication to the team, not to mention the fact they'd waited outside Dante's for hours just for this one moment.

Inside, the Cup was the guest of honor, making the rounds as everyone present took a turn drinking from it. No sooner would it be empty than someone would bring it back to the bar to be refilled. Over the course of the evening, guests broke out into spontaneous song, and the entire restaurant seemed to shake from the pounding of happy feet on the makeshift dance floor. Yet through it all, Ty's pulse beat out one word and one word only.

As the festivities continued, he waited until there was a lull in the partying, and then called for everyone's attention. The room fell still. He took one more sip of Guinness to fortify himself, and then he began to speak. He started by complimenting each of the players by name, as well as everyone else whom he thought had helped contribute to the team's victory, from their crack team of trainers to the lowliest stick boy. He expressed his gratitude and pride. He reminded them of what a rough year it had been, and how they'd weathered the storm together by setting a goal and sticking to it.

And then he stunned them.

“I want to thank every guy I've ever played with in the NHL. I'm a firm believer in going out while you're still on top. For this reason, tonight was the last professional hockey game I'll ever play, and this is the last Stanley Cup I'll ever win. I've decided to retire.”

Gasps of disbelief echoed around the room. “Why?” some of his players demanded, their faces pale with astonishment as they tried in vain to hold back tears.

“I've had a great run, but it's time for me to move on and pursue some other dreams I've back-burnered because of ”—he shot a quick glance at Kevin—“my fanatical devotion to winning. You know the expression, ‘Get a life'? Well, that's what I'm finally going to do, guys. I'm going to get a life.”

He reached for his beer, relieved to be finished. The crowd surged toward him, those closest crushing him in a loving embrace. A hundred voices were talking at him at once, but the only one he could make out clearly was in his own head.
There
. He'd done it. He'd said what he needed to say without breaking down. He knew Kidco would be on their knees begging him to stay. He didn't care. He knew that media coverage of him would be especially intense now, but that was okay, too. He would do what needed to be done and say what needed to be said—anything to ensure that his intended departure in no way marred the perfection of what his team had achieved on the ice tonight.

The handshaking, backslapping, and hugging seemed to go on endlessly. Ty felt buoyed up, as if a large burden had been lifted from him. He checked his watch. Six A.M
.,
and the party was still going strong, both inside Dante's and out on the streets. He decided to stay up. There was one more thing he needed to take care of before bringing the Cup home and falling into the deepest, most satisfying sleep of his life. Patient as ever, he waited for the rest of the world's working day to begin.

“My, what glamorous
lives we publicists lead.”

Janna didn't bother to respond to Jack Cowley's comment, watching instead in horrified fascination as the phones in the PR office continued to light up and ring incessantly. It was the day after the Blades' victory, and while the players and other personnel had the day off to recover from the reverie of the night before, the PR team had no such luck. Their day would be spent in telephone hell, fielding a mind-boggling amount of media requests, questions and offers. Lou had hired two young interns to help out with the deluge, but it seemed to Janna they only made things worse. Each time the phone rang, they asked her whether they should take a message or run it by Lou. She noticed neither of them ever bothered Jack Cowley. Perhaps they knew intuitively that he was an unhelpful creep.

She sighed, trying to clear space on her desk. She'd only been in for fifteen minutes and already the Post-its were piling up.
Good Morning America
wanted Ty.
Live with Regis and Kelly
wanted Lubov. The Mayor's office had called, needing to go over plans for the ticker-tape parade planned for Friday, two days hence. In just two hours the entire team, as well as the coaching staff and GM, were due back at Met Gar to pose on the ice with the Cup for the official team picture. Mild alarm seized Janna as she wondered what to do if some of the players showed up drunk for the photo shoot, or not at all.
That won't happen
, she told herself.
They'll be there
.