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“You not finished yet?”
Steven looks up and smiles at Victor’s beaming grin. It takes him a moment to realise that his face doesn’t look right.
“Did you shave?” he asks incredulously.
Victor rubs his chin.
“Might have.”
“You actually shaved, oh my god.” Steven jumps up from where he’s signing a pile of shirts. Normally it’s a job he only does because the fans benefit, but today, the shirts have the Cup logo on.
Again.
He drops the sharpie on the table and makes grabby hands in Victor’s direction.
“What?” Victor asks, mock defensive.
“Gotta feel that,” Steven grins.
~
The parade is over. The fans have finally given up and gone home. His boys have partied, they’ve drunk way more than any human should ever drink, and now, the summer can start for real.
It’s been a weird season, Steven thinks. He sits on the jetty, looking out over the water with a cold beer in hand. Beside him, the Cup gleams brightly in the late afternoon sun. There are a few dents in it here and there, and someone has used white-out on the Blackhawks’ names. The Keeper of the Cup is going to have fun getting that off, he thinks. At least it’s not as bad as when the Caps had it.
He doesn’t like what comes next, though. Never has.
Half the team have left Florida already. Pointer and Killer and Cirelli to Canada, Ondrej and Rutta booked to the Czech republic that evening. They’ll be back though, Steven sighs and drains the bottle. He’s waiting for what every other player in the league is probably waiting for.
His phone pings.
Does he look, Steven wonders. Or does he try to ignore the fact that winning two Cups can only tear a team apart?
He looks.
~
The tap on his door isn’t unexpected. It’s a relief, in a way.
Victor doesn’t speak when Steven opens the door, just holds up the two sixes of beer. Steven waves him inside.
They sprawl on the plush leather sectional in his den. The big screen, window onto their victories, remains black. The blinds half drawn against the low evening sun, they sit in the dim room and the first beer is almost gone before Steven speaks.
“Coleman to the Flames. Goodrow to the Rangers. Johnson to the fucking Blackhawks. And Yanni, fuck, in the expansion draft of all fucking things.”
“Don’t.” Victor’s voice is thick. “We knew, all of us, this would happen.”
“Yeah, I know.” Steven draws his hand over his face. “I guess we still have Vassy and Pointer.”
“It is the normal thing, after a Cup.”
“We didn’t do it last year.”
“Covid,” Victor points out. He tosses another beer to Steven, cracks open a fresh one himself. “Nothing has been normal lately.”
He’s right there. Steven puts the can down, unopened.
“I guess we’re both still here, eh?”
Victor just about gets his beer on the table before Steven is in his space, sliding along the couch to all but climb into his lap.
“Still here,” Victor agrees, long arms wrapping around Steven’s solid torso. “We have four years more, remember. Four years.”
“I know, I know.” Steven presses his face into the warmth of Victor’s neck and sighs. He doesn’t miss the way Victor shivers. “Just, Yanni, man.”
“We meet him in the playoffs next year, hm?”
“Don’t say that!” In spite of himself, Steven laughs. He’ll be okay, he knows that. They’ll be okay. It’s the nature of the hockey. “Dumb fucker,” he grumbles with a grin, and leans in for a kiss.