from Katie Baker of Grantland,

Stamkos, who didn’t score a goal in the final, kept repeating that he’d been feeling great that night. He kept returning to all the chances that hadn’t been converted to a championship. That evening alone he’d hit a post and been stuffed on a breakaway by Corey Crawford. His coach, Jon Cooper, said he felt sick for the guy. “I know he’s going to put a bunch of weight on his shoulders of why we didn’t score,” Cooper said. “Nobody scored. It wasn’t just Stammer.”

Jonathan Drouin wept into a Gatorade towel, then balled it up and gnawed on it; he declined through tears to speak to the press. Anton Stralman took off his shirt but stopped there, stunned, his lower pads still on. Bishop put his head in his hands and stayed like that for a long time. Victor Hedman shuffled around the room embracing anyone he encountered, from teammates to lost-in-thought equipment staff. Cedric Paquette sat down on a folding chair, was quiet for a moment, then took off his hat and spiked it on the floor. Most of the Lightning players stayed in the showers, where the water might drown out the nearby sounds of Chicago’s whooping celebration, their third in six years, an embarrassment of riches that frankly seemed unfair.

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