They cling to each other for a few minutes until Alex’s breathing has evened out. The hallway slowly gets louder, and then Matts opens the door to peek inside. “You guys,” he yells to the assembled group outside, “they’re not even fucking. They’re just crying all over each other.” “Fuck you,” Alex says, smearing his sweaty, tear-streaked face against Eli’s. “We just won the Stanley Cup. I’m allowed to have feelings about it.”
