Page 1 of In the Crease

Chapter One

Ryan

Thursday practice ended at five, and by five forty-five we were all at the Tap Room, which was how most Thursdays ended. It was the kind of place that had been around long enough to stop trying—sticky tables, a jukebox that still took quarters, a bartender named Carl who knew our orders and poured them without being asked. I had a beer and half a basket of fries and watched Griffin hold court at the big table like he’d been doing since freshman year, which wasn’t far from the truth.

The story he was currently telling happened in October and had not improved with time so much as expanded. Petey Marsh—our second-line winger and the most credulous person I’d ever shared a locker room with—was laughing too hard to drink. Griffin’s real measure of success.

“Lindy.” Griffin pointed at me across the table without breaking stride. “Tell them what Kowalski said after.”

“I wasn’t listening.”

“You were absolutely listening.”

“I was thinking about the power play.”

“He was listening,” Griffin told the table. “He just doesn’t want to be involved.”

“Correct,” I said, and drank my beer.

Petey wheezed. Davo Hartström shook his head. He was the kind of guy who’d heard every version of this story and still listened to all of them, which said something about either his loyalty or his threshold for repetition. Hartley, the freshman D-man we’d picked up in November, was trying very hard to look like he was keeping up. He wasn’t. But that was the thing about first-years—they came in performing confidence and somewhere around February the performance dropped and the real thing started growing underneath it. I’d been that kid. It passed, and what came after was better.

Griffin dropped into the seat beside me when the table broke into its own arguments.

“Good practice today,” he said.

“Petey’s gap coverage is still a problem.”

“I know. He’s leaving the weak side open every time the play goes behind the net. If we’re up against anyone with a decent backdoor option, they’re going to make him pay for it.”

I looked at him.

“I’ll handle it,” he said. He stole a fry. “Tomorrow.” Another fry.

I let it go. Four years had taught me the one thing worth knowing about Griffin Callahan—he wasn’t careless, he just ran on a different timeline than everyone else. He was a goalie, which meant he processed everything from the back of the play looking forward, and it made him look like patience one day and delay the next and was always eventually right. That last part had taken me longest to accept.

Outside the windows, the last gray light had gone, and the street was dark and wet with snowmelt, the kind of February night that reminded you the cold wasn’t leaving anytime soon. Such was life in Minnesota. I had film to review and a call with my agent, Audrey, in the morning I needed to be sharp for. Three teams were interested, one she was still negotiating, and the fourth possibility she’d mentioned once and declined to elaborate on, which meant either it was a long shot or she was managing me. Probably both.

I also had a beer, and my best friend was stealing my fries, and there was no reason to rush any of it. Life was good.

“Maren gets in tomorrow,” Griffin said.

“I remember. You mentioned it Tuesday.”

“Did I?” He seemed surprised. “I mentioned a lot of things on Tuesday.”

“You mention a lot of things every day.” I grinned at him and met his eyes. His sister was coming to visit for the weekend, just to get away for a couple of days and catch up with Griffin.

He acknowledged me with a shrug. “She flies in around four. I was going to get her, but Hendricks added a goalie session, and I can’t get out of it.”

“I can get her.”

“Yeah? Are you sure? Airport pickups are a pain in the ass.”

“Yeah. Of course.”

He looked at me for a moment and I watched his face transform with a huge shit-eating grin. “She’s going to walk out of that terminal, get hit by the cold, and be personally offended by it. Like Minnesota did it on purpose.” He almost smiled. “I’m sorry I’m going to miss that.”

I laughed. “I’ll describe it for you.”