The Finals that Broke Us

Stephanie McDowell knew the assignment was going to be important before she opened the email. Afterall, she became a legend after her last profile–an expose about the cheating scandal concocted by New York Islanders goalie Sami Listlande 18 months ago that ended up damaging the Gambino crime family and made her a target by organized crime for a couple of weeks–went viral in a matter of weeks. That story made her one of the most respected, feared, and consistent writers for Sports Illustrated at the time. And yet, she had a feeling this story was going to be much different, for much different reasons. The subject line alone was enough. It read: STANLEY CUP FINAL COVERAGE TEAM. Stephanie had grown up around hockey. Her father David had a cup of coffee with the St. Louis Blues–which he had described as, “the best 37 days of my life before you came along,” for as long as she could remember–and her mother, Delilah, had been a trainer for St. Louis’ AHL affiliate for 30 years. Not so coincidentally, that is how her parents had become so close, so quickly. And yet, David and Delilah were determined to make sure that Stephanie knew that there was more to life than hockey. Sure, hockey was an omnipresent being that was everywhere in the house. All of David’s trophies were in display cases in his office, and some commemorative pucks–such as the one he got from the Rockford Ice Hogs when he became the all-time leading goal scorer in franchise history–were in display cases on the mantle of the fireplace. As a result, Stephanie absolutely enjoyed the game that had become her birth right in many ways. But David and Delilah just wanted Stephanie to be a good person. If that meant she became a hockey player, awesome. If that meant she did something else with her life, wonderful. It literally didn’t matter in any way, shape, or fashion to the McDowell’s. They just wanted Stephanie to live her life in whatever way she wanted, regardless of what that looked like. That probably explained why a copy of Stephanie’s diploma from Loyola University in journalism–that she earned with high honors 6 years ago–was in a place of esteem over the dining room table. Then came the call from Sports Illustrated, the place she had interned under Jeff Pearlman covering baseball. They were offering her a position on the hockey beat. It was grueling work, but she gradually rose up the ranks to become a solid journalist. Then the Listlande story broke. The story that won her two Peabodies. That story had made Stephanie McDowell a living legend. She became as respected as her mentor Jeff was in baseball and Pierre LeBrun had been in his time as a hockey journalist. In short, if she printed it, it happened. Period. Stephanie leaned back in her chair at the Sports Illustrated offices, rubbing tired eyes after a fourteen-hour workday. The playoffs always generated chaos, but the Stanley Cup Final was different. Careers were made in June. Legacies were built in June. And stories that lasted forever were written in June. The Stanley Cup playoffs had been insane thus far, and she had traveled from Montrael, to Denver, to Detroit, to Carolina, and all over the place. There was one city she hadn’t made an appearance in yet, though, for deeply personal reasons. And yet, that one city was home to the team that made a run many analysts thought was a couple of years away. Against all odds, as the 6 seed in the West and for the first time since the days of Patrick Kane, Jonathan Toews, Marian Hossa, Niklas Hjalmarsson, Duncan Keith, and Corey Crawford in 2015, the Chicago Blackhawks were back in the finals. She clicked the email. A list of names appeared beneath the editor's introduction. Photographers. Analysts. Beat reporters. The general list of who was all going to be needed in Chicago when everything was all said and done. Then her assignment. Player Feature: David Hawkins, Chicago Blackhawks For a moment, the office noise disappeared. The ringing phones. The conversations. The clatter of keyboards. All of it faded beneath the pounding of her own heartbeat. David Hawkins. The Hawk. League MVP finalist. Conn Smythe favorite. An incredible 15 goals prior to the finals, only four away from Jari Kurri and Reggie Leach’s shared record. The hottest player in hockey, in more ways than one. And the reason she had not been in Chicago for so long. David Hawkins was the man she hadn't spoken to in nearly eighteen months. Stephanie stared at the screen as if the name might somehow change. It didn't. All the memories came back. She remembered late-night bus rides in Rockford. Cheap takeout dinners after games. The impossible grin on David's face when he talked about reaching the NHL. The night he brought home his first number 27 jersey and how he felt about his preferred digits–91–being used by the backup goalie. And she remembered the night she left. The phone call. The opportunity. The choice. A choice that had changed both of their lives. David had been anxious all day and was wanting to go to dinner at Steak 48 that night, but this was the Sami Listlande story. It was not something she could pass up. The breakup text when she landed hit her harder than it should have. She fell to pieces at her hotel. “We’re done. I’m sending your stuff to your parents right now. Take care of yourself.” That text had been saved in her phone ever since. Stephanie pulled it out and read it for what had to be the 743,839th time. A single tear fell down her face and onto her signature yellow legal pad. "Please tell me that's not the look of someone about to quit." Stephanie looked up to find her editor standing in the doorway. He folded his arms and smiled. "You just saw your assignment, didn't you?" She swallowed and took a breath. "Yeah." His smile widened. "Good." Then he delivered the words she had been dreading. "You're covering David Hawkins."