Page 119 of Hockey Bois
There’s still the celebrating, he pointed out.Maybe that’ll make it feel more final, like the championship’s real.
True enough; as soon as the last person completed their sportsmanly duty, the Jagr Bombs loudly charged into the locker room.
It waschaos.
Gear came off piece by piece, mixed together hopelessly all the way from the rink to the locker room, and none of it made it into a gear bag before cans and bottles of beer started appearing. No one had said a word of it pre-game—no one had wanted to jinx things with an assurance of celebration after a win—but everyone except Young Greg had snuck in beer (or, notably, a bottle of tequila from Mags).
They shook up the cans to make them burst when they opened and sprayed the room, skate blades were used to pop off the caps of bottles, and tequila was taken by generous shots poured right into mouths. It was decadence, ridiculous to such a degree that there was no way Nick could tell this story to anyone and have them believe it actually happened.
So of course Nick had to one-up everyone. Keg stands were out—there was no keg—but there was something any good Caps fan had to do in reckless celebration.
“Give me a fucking beer!” Nick said, then pulled his jersey over his face. Immediately the room grew louder as his teammates cheered and screamed approval; they recognized what he was doing.
And yes, Nick chugged a whole beer through his jersey. He was sure Oshie would be proud—nay,honored—at the homage.
The team was still mid-cheer when a loud, forceful knock broke through the ruckus. They quieted down, and Benns hobbled over to the door, opening it enough to greet whoever was on the other side of the door but not enough to let them see inside through his bulking frame.
“We know that you are respectfully following the rink’s no-alcohol policy,” came one of the ref’s voices. It was all mock severity,becausehe knew damn well what they were doing.
“Yes, sir,” Benns said. His hand clamped around the beer can hidden behind his back, making the aluminum ring out in the confined space.
“And you’ll clean up whatever mess is in there before you leave, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you remember the rink closes in about twenty, so you and your team’ll be out of here by then, no trouble, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Great. Here’s the trophy cup. Make sure you don’t crack it like the last team, and bring it back to your next game.”
“Thank you,” Benns said politely, his free hand accepting the comically oversized coffee cup. He was about to knee the door closed but then added in a stage whisper, “You and Aida are off-duty now, technically, right?”
“Yeah—”
“Youse wanna come in for a drink?”
A pause.
“Yeah, actually. Lemme grab her.”
The next time there was a knock at the door, the cheers only grew louder. Their zebra stripes gone; they were welcomed in with open arms and given their own chance to drink lukewarm, slightly skunked beer out of the cup.
*
Nick swayed back and forth, nodding along to whatever the current topic of conversation was. He’d stopped paying attention to anything that wasn’t a mindless chant of “Ja-gr Bombs! Ja-gr Bombs” or the good ol’ “USA! USA!” or the one that Brady avidly tried to shut down whenever it sprang up: “C-A-P-S CAPS CAPS CAPS!” There also might have been a drunken, off-key rendition of “We Are the Champions” at some point. Other than that, Nick’s brain had fizzled out.
He knew that they’d scrambled to get out of the locker rooms before the lights in the rink were shut off and they were forcibly removed. He remembered the indulgent greetings they’d received in the lobby from their friends and family members who had stuck it out, nearly forgotten in the wake of their drinking. There’d been some scrambling to figure out an after-party location, and then more scrambling and musical chairs to figure out who among the faithful fans could chauffeur the drunken masses.
They were definitely at a bar now. That was obvious. He had a warm beer bottle in hand, and he eagerly tossed it back only to find it was empty save for a few drops at the bottom, so little he couldn’t even taste them.
Damn.
“Well, Nicki,” Gail’s drunken slur interrupted his mourning. “What you gotta say about that, huh?”
Nick blinked at her. “About what?”
Terry giggled beside her. “Told you.”
