"Yeah, I'm fine." The boy reassured the voice on the other line, a smile forming on his lips. "No, no – I really am okay. Things are really tense on this end, but we still believe." He added, his voice developing a serious tone. "Okay, you sleep good. I love you too." He finished, his tone softening. "'Night mom." He put the hotel phone back on its receiver and inhaled deeply. A sigh escaped his lips and he collapsed onto the bed. His hand raked through his brown hair, his mind a million places. His eyelids fluttered open when he heard a body enter the room. He turned to his team mate, acknowledging his presence, and turned back letting his gaze fall on the ceiling above. He'd seen some ice time after a devastating injury to another team mate and felt a weight the size of Canada on his shoulders. He had to win it. He had to win it for Horton. A silence engulfed the room, not uncomfortably so, and both players were lost in their thoughts – not allowing their mind a break from the matters at hand. Seguin heard a shuffle from the other side of the room, and the lights were clicked off. "Night Marchy." He called out in a hoarse breath. "Night bud." He heard back, or thought he heard – he was back to letting his mind wander. He tossed and turned, trying to get comfortable. In what seemed like five minutes, he was abruptly awakened by the ringing of his alarm. Shit. He thought to himself. It's morning already? He swung his legs over the side of the bed and buried his face in his palms. He tried to wipe the sleep from his eyes and hobbled to the bathroom, his roommate beginning to stir. "Time?" he heard his friend call out in quiet words. "Mhm." Seguin mumbled sleepily. He turned the silver nobs of the sink and cupped his hands full of cool water. He splashed the liquid onto his face, hoping to remove all the signs of sleeplessness from his face. Both players maneuvered around each other effortlessly, playing the tried and true morning routine they'd become accustomed to. Within a couple of minutes, both were ready to head to the rink for morning skate. Marchand gave Seguin an encouraging pat on the back as he followed behind him, shutting the hotel door. "You've made it." He said.

"You've made it." The words rang in his ears, replaying like a broken record that he didn't want to stop. I'm here. He thought to himself, staring at his reflection in the mirror. I'm in Vancouver... in Vancouver for Game 7 of the Stanley Cup Finals. I might touch the Stanley Cup. I might fucking win this thing. I have to. I have to do this. A swift hand caught the back of his head, breaking his train of thought. "Let's get going." The tall Czech said to him, a grin dancing on his lips - one that was only there to mask the nerves. Upon closer inspection, Seguin noticed the bags under his eyes – under everyone's eyes. Man, did anyone get any sleep last night? He thought.

His skates touched the smooth ice, greeting the frozen surface abrasively – his legs propelling him around the rink with all of his strength. He felt strong. He felt ready. Practice had ended and he made his way back to the locker room. We're going to win. He'd seen it in his team mates' eyes. They believed. Not an inch of him wasn't covered in moist sweat as he made his way to the shower. Streams of hot water drenched his body as he lathered up soap in his hands and removed the remnants of hard work. The rest of the afternoon seemed to pass like an out of body experience – each player appealing to their rituals encompassed by their apprehensions of the night ahead.

'The following is a presentation of the National Hockey League.' The male voice announced from the TV.

"Ooh gather around everyone!" the girl squeaked, bouncing on the bed, allowing the lose ringlets in her hair to bounce happily with her. She looked around the empty hotel room, a small laugh escaping her lips. She clutched the pillow to her chest, nervously anticipating the puck to drop. Her eyes grew wide during the anthem, taking in the special moment. She noted the players shifting from side to side, like masses of energy just waiting to be unleashed. She wondered if they could even hear the words, or if they were present on their own planet – waiting to reveal every part of them to the thousands of viewers. The camera panned across the audience showing waves of blue and green rocking softly to the lone voice singing within the arena. She closed her eyes and imagined herself clad in a uniform on the ice at the moment. She opened her eyes when the singing stopped, and after a flash of movement, the small rubber object that would change her night was on the screen being devoured by two large men who wanted it very badly.

'Rogers Arena is overflowing with support for their team right now.' The male announcer noted.

'It sure is, and with good reason. Vancouver leads Boston, 2-1 and when we return, Vancouver will have go on the power play.' The other responded just as the screen cut to a commercial.

The brunette bit her lower lip nervously. She buried her head in the pillow, wanting to hide from the television. "C'mon babies!" she said in a muffled voice, her head still snuffed by her pillow. She looked at her television just as the face-off began in Boston's zone. "Ahh!" she called out in agony as the Canucks gained possession of the puck. She stuffed her face back into the pillow not wanting to watch the play unravel.

"What a save by Thomas!" the male announcer called out excitedly. Emily's face shot up, her frown replaced by a proud grin as she watched the replay. She winced as they prepared for another face-off within the Bruin's zone. She lay down dramatically onto her back, placing the back of her hand to her forehead in distress.

'The Bruins win the face-off. Marchand gains possession of the puck. Pass to Ryder. Ryder to Seguin. Seguin with the breakaway chance. Bieksa looking to deny him. Seguin dekes him, shoots the puck – SCORES. And Boston ties it up late here in third with a shorthanded goal!"

Emily's jaw drops as she registers what just happened. The pillow is released from her grasp and thrown into the air with excitement.

'Bruins only have 14 seconds left to kill in the Lucic penalty. 3 minutes left in third. Well folks, it looks like we have a hockey game.'

"Sure does!" the girl exclaimed to no one, her hands gripping at the sheets, waiting for Boston to regain even strength. She tucked a lock of her golden brown hair behind her ear, and leaned into the television closely – her green eyes flashing with anticipation.

"And Burrows with a wrister! Save by Thomas. Henrik with the rebound, shoots the puck and a glove save by Thomas! That just about does it for the Lucic penalty. Face-off in Boston's zone. Kesler greets Chara for the face-off. Chara gains possession of the puck. Passes to Bergeron. Broken up by Lappiere. Steal by Ryder who enters Vancouver zone. Releases a rocket from the point and denied by Luongo. Rebound taken by Torres who sends it to Kesler. Pass is broken up by Chara who winds a shot off at Luongo. Save made by Luongo, rebound – SCORE! Patrice Bergeron off the rebound gives Boston a one goal lead with less than a minute remaining in Game 7 of the Stanley cup finals."

"Eeeep!" she cheers, shamelessly clapping her hands and flailing wildly. "They did it! They really did it!" The camera pans to Horton and Savard clearly trying to hide their excitement. They knew they'd won. Emily watches as the clock winds down to zero – the Canucks firing shots at Timmy only to be denied by his aggressive goaltending. She brings her hand to her lips, the fingertips resting there, trying to hold back her emotions as she watches the Bruins celebrate.

'Ladies and gentlemen, your 2011 Stanley Cup Champions – The Boston Bruins!'