Page 9 of In the Crease

“Griffin does too. I can hear it when he talks about it.”

“We’ve been here four years. It gets into you.”

“Is it hard?” she asked quietly.

“More than one thing is true at the same time when it comes to the end of college and college hockey—I’m ready for what comes next and yeah, I’m going to miss this. But I’ve learned to hold both.”

She watched me over her cup, and something about the directness of it made it hard to think clearly, which was new and inconvenient. “Griffin says you’re going to go early in the draft.”

“Griffin is biased.”

“He says it like it’s a fact, not a prediction.” Her tone was teasing but held something serious at the same time. She tilted her head slightly. “He’s usually right about people.”

“He’s right about hockey,” I said. “People are different.”

She considered my words. “I don’t think he thinks they are.”

“And what do you think?” I asked, because I was curious about everything she had an opinion on.

She pressed her lips together and tapped her chin dramatically like she was thinking hard on the topic. “Well, I know a lot about playing hockey, or the sport, I mean. But I can honestly say I don’t really know shit about the draft.”

I let out a laugh, genuine and from my core.

“But I do know about Griffin, and something tells me you don’t give yourself the credit you deserve.”

I sat with what she’d said, turned it over, and didn’t respond. She read the silence and didn’t push it. That made her more interesting, which was not helpful.

The door opened at 6:20, and Griffin came through it the way he always did, which was loudly and all at once—lit up, loud, gear bag first, already talking. He crossed the kitchen in four steps and picked Maren up off the floor in the hug he’d clearly been saving since the last time he saw her, which had to be Christmas. She held very still and let it happen, which was clearly a practiced skill.

“You’re here.” He set her down and looked her over. His eyes went straight to the boots. “Maren.”

“They’re functional.”

“Those are not Minnesota boots.”

“They have a rubber sole.”

“You don’t own anything warmer, do you?”

She rolled her eyes at her brother. “Obviously not. And sorry, but I’m a poor, starving college student. I’m not buying Minnesota Winter boots I’ll never wear again.” She said it with such sass I had to stifle a laugh. She’s fun.

“Eh, that’s valid.”

“Dinner,” Maren said flatly. “I haven’t eaten since whatever the airline called a snack, and I’ve been cold for three hours.”

“Sal’s, seven.” Griffin was already down the hall. “Let me change.”

Maren turned back to the kitchen. The quiet between us settled into something almost easy.

“Does he always come in like that?” she said.

“Four years. Every time.”

She looked at the gear bag. “And you move it.”

“Every time.”

“And he puts it back.”