AllFreeNovel
Share Us
After I push the button for the lobby, another email lands on my phone from Ian.Last minute, but I had this idea! We do this segment on Five Fun Places to Go in the PNW. Would Max do that? It’s not even hockey talk. I promise I won’t ask about that game.
Hope really does spring eternal. And maybe it does in me too. My boss would be thrilled if Max started talking to the media more, especially in a feature-style piece. It’s a low-risk way for him to get back out there, and the powers that be have been telling me for months to keep asking him to chat with the press now and then, especially in safe forums like this. I send Max a cheery text. I don’t even sass him. I opt only for directness.
Everly: This would be such a great chance to make a rare appearance in a controlled environment. He’s not going to ask about that game—just about your favorite places here. We’ll do it at the Pick Me Up coffee shop right across from the arena. You can join in at the end, and you can even talk about your favorite cat café in Seattle. C’mon, you know you have one.
His reply comes quickly.
Max: I do. I’m there right now. There’s a calico rescue cat draped around my neck, and she refuses to budge. Which means I won’t be able to make it over to the coffee shop in time. Shame.
I roll my eyes, then drop the upbeat attitude for a few seconds as the elevator chugs down.
Everly: If I had a dollar for every excuse of yours…
Max: What would you do with all that dough?
Everly: I’d have enough for a lifetime supply of blowouts from my stylist Aubrey.
I wish I could say I don’t understand his reasons but the thing is—I do. I get that we all have secrets and scars we don’t want anyone to see.
The coffee shop is massive, even by Seattle standards, and this city worships its beans. Pick Me Up started as a college radio station several years ago, then expanded into podcasts recently, and now has a state-of-the-art studio, a dais with comfy chairs for interviews, and, of course, coffee by the IV drip. As Miles grabs an espresso, the fans filter in, some of them wearing gear for the Seattle team, some for the Sea Dogs, and most just in hoodies and jeans. I’m by Miles’s side the whole time, and as he downs his drink, Joe emerges from behind the counter. He’s in his late thirties, sports a goatee, and has warm brown eyes. He looks like he never sees the sun, which is probably true here in this city.
He smiles a little awkwardly when he sees me. “Good to see you again, Everly. Would love to show you the setup if you have time. We’ve done some cool stuff with the space.”
“Sure. That would be great,” I say, since it can’t hurt to be nice to the guy who hosts so many sports shows from here.
“Come find me when you’re done. I’ll be ready.”
“I will,” I say.
He returns to the counter. As the fans fill the seats in front of the dais, I snag a chair off to the side. Miles and Ian take the seats on the stage in front of two standing mics set on a table. Once the interview begins, I answeremails quietly on my tablet but keep my ears trained on the conversation as Ian chats affably with Miles about playing in his hometown. It’s an easy conversation and after twenty minutes, Ian asks him his five fun places to go in the area—the question he also wanted to ask Max. I grit my teeth. Would it be that hard to answer those?
After a thoughtful pause, Miles rattles off a hiking trail he likes, the Hello Robin cookie shop in Capitol Hill, anywhere at all in the entire region but The Gum Wall in Pike Place Market, Snoqualmie Falls, and then, with a happy sigh, he says, “And Dick’s.”
I sit up straighter, my ears pricked.
Ian nods, a friendly grin coasting across his weathered ebony complexion. “Right on. Love that place. You all do too, don’t you?” he asks the audience, and they hoot in agreement, nodding heads, shoutinghell yeah.
Oh, right. Dick’s is the drive-in fast-food chain here that the locals love to drop into casual convo. From the stage, Miles looks to me, sliding a hand through his floppy hair to push it off his forehead. “Everly, you ever had them? Their fries are next level. Back me up here, Ian.”
A stocky guy in a ball cap jerks his gaze to me, then shouts at me from the front row. “Falcon is right. You gotta eat a bag of dicks, lady.”
Lady.It’s such an annoying thing men can say, but I fasten on a brighter smile. “I will take that under advisement.”
Miles turns back to Ian, intensity in his eyes. “When they opened one up in Bellevue, the local paper said,The town welcomes Dick’s with open mouths.”
Another guy, this one with a Seattle jersey, barks out, “Fact: dick jokes never go out of style.”
I might beg to differ. But since Ian has the crowd under control, I keep my head down as they wrap up with zero heckles. I seriously don’t get why Max can’t do this. It was…painless. Miles and Ian chat briefly, then Miles hops off the dais, shakes some hands, signs some autographs, and finds me a few minutes later. He points his thumb toward the door. “Thanks for setting that up. I should hit the weight room for some cardio before morning skate.”
“I’ll stick around to talk to Ian and Joe, but thank you again for doing this,” I say.
“Thank you again for the opportunity,” Miles says, then takes off, and I join Ian at the dais as he breaks down his podcast gear, folding up the legs of the mic stands.
“I’ll post that interview before the game. We get the best traction then,” Ian says as the crowd thins, most of them filtering out.
“Awesome. I appreciate that.”
“Nah, I appreciate you making this happen. Shame we couldn’t get Max, but maybe next time,” he says, as he tucks the mics into a sturdy silver case.
