In the end, the Phoenixes donāt make it to the second round of playoffs.
They lose in game seven, and everyone knows itās coming. They fight hard for it, and the loss comes with heads held high. When the buzzer goes, as the other team swarms the ice to celebrate their victory, Kai MƤkelƤ is off the Phoenixes bench in seconds. Jean-Pierre watches him skate over and skid to a stop in front of Iestyn Thomas, the tops of their goalie masks pressed together as they speak quietly for several moments.Ā
Jean-Pierre looks from them out across the ice, gauging the general mood of his teammates. Theyāre not overjoyed to have lost, of course, but thereās a kind of victory in making it this far, when not long ago even Minnesota sportscasters claimed them long shots without a hope of so much as seeing round one. Thereās disappointment in Jean-Pierreās chest at having come so close, but thereās triumph too.Ā
A tap on his shoulder draws Jean-Pierreās attention away from Marcus Graham, next to his brother on the ice with his hand pressed to his jersey just below his left collarbone. He looks at Blažej, standing beside him at the bench, eyebrow raised in question. Blažej indicates with his chin, and Jean-Pierreās eyes sweep out in the direction heās nodding in. He finds what Blažej wants him to see almost immediately, and his breath catches in his throat.Ā
Out on the ice, some distance from the twins, Isaac is hip to hip with Jesse, one hand curled over the rookieās shoulder. Heās speaking, too far away for Jean-Pierre to hear, but seems to reach the end of what heās saying quickly, after which they both stand still. This isnāt what brings Jean-Pierre up short. No, that is the look on Isaacās face, the way heās standing.
Isaac is looking at Jesse, mouth curled into a faint smile. His back is straight and his shoulders are back. Thereās something to the tilt of his chin, the raise of his head that has nothing to do with the two inches of height Jesse boasts over him. Isaac looks... he looks happy.
He looks strong. Proud.
Itās some kind of impulse that sends Jean-Pierreās hand out, searching without visual guidance until it finds Blažejās, squeezing his captainās fingers tightly to his palm. Blažejās voice, drifting through the sounds of the still-cheering crowd, is warm and kind. He doesnāt sound like they just lost. Not in any way that matters.
āHas been a good year.ā
Jean-Pierre gives his hand a little shake, hearing all the things behind the words that Blažej didnāt say.Ā āYeah, it has. We did good, B. We did really good.ā
Somehow, it doesnāt feel like theyāve lost at all.
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