In the end, the Phoenixes don’t make it to the second round of playoffs.
They lose in game seven, and everyone knows it’s 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 Mäkelä 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.
Jean-Pierre looks from them out across the ice, gauging the general mood of his teammates. They’re not overjoyed to have lost, of course, but there’s 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. There’s disappointment in Jean-Pierre’s chest at having come so close, but there’s triumph too.
A tap on his shoulder draws Jean-Pierre’s 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-Pierre’s eyes sweep out in the direction he’s nodding in. He finds what Blažej wants him to see almost immediately, and his breath catches in his throat.
Out on the ice, some distance from the twins, Isaac is hip to hip with Jesse, one hand curled over the rookie’s shoulder. He’s speaking, too far away for Jean-Pierre to hear, but seems to reach the end of what he’s saying quickly, after which they both stand still. This isn’t what brings Jean-Pierre up short. No, that is the look on Isaac’s face, the way he’s standing.
Isaac is looking at Jesse, mouth curled into a faint smile. His back is straight and his shoulders are back. There’s 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.
It’s some kind of impulse that sends Jean-Pierre’s hand out, searching without visual guidance until it finds Blažej’s, squeezing his captain’s fingers tightly to his palm. Blažej’s voice, drifting through the sounds of the still-cheering crowd, is warm and kind. He doesn’t sound like they just lost. Not in any way that matters.
“Has been a good year.”
Jean-Pierre gives his hand a little shake, hearing all the things behind the words that Blažej didn’t say. “Yeah, it has. We did good, B. We did really good.”
Somehow, it doesn’t feel like they’ve lost at all.
