war rug

it’s been months, by the dead of June the rest have all been forgotten. Lurking through the woods, 29 NHL teams watch the Penguins, waiting. No one’s seen teams like the Canadiens, the Bruins, The Canucks, since April. In their absence flowers grew, the trees got their leaves back, the Stanley Cup was awarded. 

On top of the mountain, The Pens have all the attention. The sun is shining right down on them, and all of their championship glory.

And then, a rumble.

Noise from the forests below, it’s not just about the pens anymore. Patrice Bergeron emerges, war-torn and rugged, making his way up the mountain, a determined look on his face and a bow in his hand. But no time to be alarmed by him, PK Subban and Brent Burns, carrying makeshift swords exit the forest from the opposite direction, making their own way up the mountain. Conor McDavid peers through the branches before waving on Ghostisbehere. 

“What is this?” Matt Murray asks, stepping forward and looking out as more and more NHL players make their way up the mountains. 

“They’re here.” Sidney Crosby says, unsheathing his own sword, “the NHL awards, they’re coming, it’s not about us anymore.”

There’s a shrill cry. Conor Sheary has spotted Patrice Bergeron.

“Omg,” he whispers to Kuhnhackl “I love him.”