The Cup.
And boy, did Jensen want it. With Tate being out, Jensen worked day and night, making sure he was prepared for every game. He was doing well. He could do better, though, even though everyone said he was better than great. He was his own worst critic, and because of that, he pushed himself harder to be the best. All that was in the past now; all that mattered was this game right at the moment. The game that could win the Assassins the Cup if they could beat the Capitals, and boy, did he want to. The Caps were up by one after a shitty goal that went off his back, but it counted, which meant the Assassins had to score to tie it.
With only three minutes.
He could do this.
They could do this.
The Capitals had been relentless. Being down three games to one would do that to a team. They were desperate. They wanted to take the series back to Washington, they wanted to prolong this, but that wasn’t going to happen.
Jensen wanted the Cup.
His team wanted the Cup.
It was their time.
The Cup was meant to be in Nashville.
He watched King bank the puck up the boards to a waiting Sinclair before he got off the ice, Reeves taking his spot. When he threw the puck to the net, it was batted away just as Mason came, sending it back to the blue line. But Reeves’s shot was blocked, and when the defense tried to clear it for fresh bodies, Sinclair flung himself to the ice, keeping it in before passing it, from his knees, to Johansson. Jensen held his breath as Johansson shot with his wicked wrister, right over the goalie’s shoulder in a picture-perfect moment.
Throwing his hands in the air, Jensen looked up at the ceiling as the Luther Arena went insane. It was so loud Jensen swore he wouldn’t hear for the next three days. Which was more of a reason why they needed to win, now. The period ran down in almost a blur. No shots on goal since everyone was battling against the boards and then lots of turnovers Jensen was sure Coach would be livid about.
And he was right.
When they got into the locker room, Coach reamed the team out for them. Jensen was leaned back in his locker, an ice-cold towel over his face as he inhaled deeply, letting it out slowly, almost in a meditative state. Everyone knew not to talk to him. He was busy. In his mind, he was watching the always-moving puck. He was trying to see through the bodies that almost always clouded his brain on game day, and he was trying to stay ahead of the game. It was a mental game, being a goalie, but it was a game Jensen lived for.
Ever since he was old enough to remember, he’d never wanted anything else but to be a goalie. He could still see himself in his father’s way-too-big gear. Waddling around the house as his parents laughed. He had dreams, goals, and when the time came for him to come to the States from Canada and live those dreams, his parents didn’t even bat an eye. They found the best family to take him in and sent him off to Colorado. Their only son. But thankfully, the family they sent him to was amazing, and soon they became a part of Jensen’s family. A part of his life. He met his two best friends there, he fell in love there, and above all, he became the goalie he was right now, there.
Because of that, he was going to win.
For all of them.
The fifteen-minute break was gone in a blink of an eye. Again, he was between the pipes, staring down the ice at the Capitals’ goalie, who seemed to be staring back at him. He didn’t know the guy, nor did he want to at that moment. This was war, and their goalie was the enemy. All that mattered was winning, and as the puck dropped, Jensen begged his heart to be somewhat controlled as he watched the puck and the two teams start to battle.
Because the next goal would win the game.
For the next five minutes, Jensen felt like the kid from The Mighty Ducks, waiting for the puck to come his way. But it never did. They either stayed in the Capitals’ zone, or they battled in the middle before the Capitals turned it over. The Assassins weren’t playing for fun, they were out for blood, and Jensen guessed the ass-reaming from coach had been a doozy. Not that he could recall a bit of it.
Leaning on his legs, he watched as the puck snuck out to the defense at the blue line. Karson King shot hard as Brooks screened, but it went wide. Anderson was there, sending the puck back to the point where Jordie Thomas shot. Like had been happening the whole series, Brooks was hit. The guy was taking a beating, but he never went down. Somehow the goalie blocked it, but then the rebound was right there. Jensen heard himself scream or something, he wasn’t sure. But before he could even finish whatever he was saying, Brooks top shelved it over the goalie with ease.
Jensen swore time stood still.
Gloves, sticks, and screams filled the air as he threw his stuff off before sprinting toward his brothers on the other side of the ice, who were all lying on Lucas Brooks. Jumping on the top of the pile, he heard Lucas groan, but he didn’t think anyone cared as they all hollered out in excitement. Tears and confetti started to fall within seconds as the Assassins chant filled the arena. Before he knew it, Jensen’s eyes had fallen shut, tears leaking out the sides as he squeezed someone.
They had won.
The Assassins had won the Stanley Cup.
When he stood to his feet, Vaughn Johansson, his best friend for as long as he could remember, attacked him from the left, wrapping his body around him like a koala just as Jensen did the same, both of them falling to the ice as they cried out.
The noise was deafening in the arena, but he could still hear as his best friend said, “You did it.”
“We did it,” he reiterated as they hugged tightly once more.
“Can you believe it?”
“No.” He laughed.
“This is better than sex!” Jensen really laughed at that. “No, that’s a lie.”
“I figured!”
“Oh my God, we won!”
“We won!” Jensen yelled back as they both shook each other like two schoolboys. But then, that’s what moments like these were made of. Men turned back into boys because they had achieved their dreams. Since Jensen was a small boy, he had wanted the Cup. Skating on the frozen pond back in British Columbia, Jensen used to act like he was defending the goal for the Cup. Now that dream was a reality.
The next few moments, Jensen was convinced would be a hazy memory for the rest of his life. All he would remember would be the tears and the smiles on all his brothers’ faces. How Jayden rushed to the other side of the ice where his wife stood with their little boy behind the glass. How Lucas waved to his family in the boxes. He watched as Vaughn rushed to his fiancée, kissing her hard on the lips, though she tried to get away since she was working. How everyone was screaming to their loved ones as Jensen just stood there.
And boy, did Jensen want it. With Tate being out, Jensen worked day and night, making sure he was prepared for every game. He was doing well. He could do better, though, even though everyone said he was better than great. He was his own worst critic, and because of that, he pushed himself harder to be the best. All that was in the past now; all that mattered was this game right at the moment. The game that could win the Assassins the Cup if they could beat the Capitals, and boy, did he want to. The Caps were up by one after a shitty goal that went off his back, but it counted, which meant the Assassins had to score to tie it.
With only three minutes.
He could do this.
They could do this.
The Capitals had been relentless. Being down three games to one would do that to a team. They were desperate. They wanted to take the series back to Washington, they wanted to prolong this, but that wasn’t going to happen.
Jensen wanted the Cup.
His team wanted the Cup.
It was their time.
The Cup was meant to be in Nashville.
He watched King bank the puck up the boards to a waiting Sinclair before he got off the ice, Reeves taking his spot. When he threw the puck to the net, it was batted away just as Mason came, sending it back to the blue line. But Reeves’s shot was blocked, and when the defense tried to clear it for fresh bodies, Sinclair flung himself to the ice, keeping it in before passing it, from his knees, to Johansson. Jensen held his breath as Johansson shot with his wicked wrister, right over the goalie’s shoulder in a picture-perfect moment.
Throwing his hands in the air, Jensen looked up at the ceiling as the Luther Arena went insane. It was so loud Jensen swore he wouldn’t hear for the next three days. Which was more of a reason why they needed to win, now. The period ran down in almost a blur. No shots on goal since everyone was battling against the boards and then lots of turnovers Jensen was sure Coach would be livid about.
And he was right.
When they got into the locker room, Coach reamed the team out for them. Jensen was leaned back in his locker, an ice-cold towel over his face as he inhaled deeply, letting it out slowly, almost in a meditative state. Everyone knew not to talk to him. He was busy. In his mind, he was watching the always-moving puck. He was trying to see through the bodies that almost always clouded his brain on game day, and he was trying to stay ahead of the game. It was a mental game, being a goalie, but it was a game Jensen lived for.
Ever since he was old enough to remember, he’d never wanted anything else but to be a goalie. He could still see himself in his father’s way-too-big gear. Waddling around the house as his parents laughed. He had dreams, goals, and when the time came for him to come to the States from Canada and live those dreams, his parents didn’t even bat an eye. They found the best family to take him in and sent him off to Colorado. Their only son. But thankfully, the family they sent him to was amazing, and soon they became a part of Jensen’s family. A part of his life. He met his two best friends there, he fell in love there, and above all, he became the goalie he was right now, there.
Because of that, he was going to win.
For all of them.
The fifteen-minute break was gone in a blink of an eye. Again, he was between the pipes, staring down the ice at the Capitals’ goalie, who seemed to be staring back at him. He didn’t know the guy, nor did he want to at that moment. This was war, and their goalie was the enemy. All that mattered was winning, and as the puck dropped, Jensen begged his heart to be somewhat controlled as he watched the puck and the two teams start to battle.
Because the next goal would win the game.
For the next five minutes, Jensen felt like the kid from The Mighty Ducks, waiting for the puck to come his way. But it never did. They either stayed in the Capitals’ zone, or they battled in the middle before the Capitals turned it over. The Assassins weren’t playing for fun, they were out for blood, and Jensen guessed the ass-reaming from coach had been a doozy. Not that he could recall a bit of it.
Leaning on his legs, he watched as the puck snuck out to the defense at the blue line. Karson King shot hard as Brooks screened, but it went wide. Anderson was there, sending the puck back to the point where Jordie Thomas shot. Like had been happening the whole series, Brooks was hit. The guy was taking a beating, but he never went down. Somehow the goalie blocked it, but then the rebound was right there. Jensen heard himself scream or something, he wasn’t sure. But before he could even finish whatever he was saying, Brooks top shelved it over the goalie with ease.
Jensen swore time stood still.
Gloves, sticks, and screams filled the air as he threw his stuff off before sprinting toward his brothers on the other side of the ice, who were all lying on Lucas Brooks. Jumping on the top of the pile, he heard Lucas groan, but he didn’t think anyone cared as they all hollered out in excitement. Tears and confetti started to fall within seconds as the Assassins chant filled the arena. Before he knew it, Jensen’s eyes had fallen shut, tears leaking out the sides as he squeezed someone.
They had won.
The Assassins had won the Stanley Cup.
When he stood to his feet, Vaughn Johansson, his best friend for as long as he could remember, attacked him from the left, wrapping his body around him like a koala just as Jensen did the same, both of them falling to the ice as they cried out.
The noise was deafening in the arena, but he could still hear as his best friend said, “You did it.”
“We did it,” he reiterated as they hugged tightly once more.
“Can you believe it?”
“No.” He laughed.
“This is better than sex!” Jensen really laughed at that. “No, that’s a lie.”
“I figured!”
“Oh my God, we won!”
“We won!” Jensen yelled back as they both shook each other like two schoolboys. But then, that’s what moments like these were made of. Men turned back into boys because they had achieved their dreams. Since Jensen was a small boy, he had wanted the Cup. Skating on the frozen pond back in British Columbia, Jensen used to act like he was defending the goal for the Cup. Now that dream was a reality.
The next few moments, Jensen was convinced would be a hazy memory for the rest of his life. All he would remember would be the tears and the smiles on all his brothers’ faces. How Jayden rushed to the other side of the ice where his wife stood with their little boy behind the glass. How Lucas waved to his family in the boxes. He watched as Vaughn rushed to his fiancée, kissing her hard on the lips, though she tried to get away since she was working. How everyone was screaming to their loved ones as Jensen just stood there.
