Page 2 of In the Crease

“She’ll also ask twenty questions in the first ten minutes. Just so you’re prepared.”

“It’s fine.” I was curious to spend the car ride with her. Griffin talked about her a lot; they were close.

“Precious cargo.” He pointed a fry at me. “But I owe you one. She’ll like you. She reads people fast.”

“It’s just an airport pickup.”

“I know,” he said, like that wasn’t quite what he meant. “We’re taking her to Jensen’s Saturday.”

“Obviously. Will she want to play?”

Griffin laughed, the real one—a roar that came from his chest. He was cackling. “She doesn’t skate.”

“She grew up going to your games and she doesn’t skate?”

“Uh, no. She watches. She’s been watching since she was old enough to sit still, maybe before then, and she’s better at reading the plays than half the guys on the ice. But she doesn’t skate. Never wanted to. It’s not like Arizona is swimming in frozen ponds. There weren’t even that many rinks back then. Why do you think I came all the way up here for college?” He said it the way he said most things about his sister—with fond certainty. “She’ll stand at the edge and have opinions about everyone’s positioning; probably tell us all about injuries she thinks people are hiding. She’s in pre-PT, she’s got a thing for reading bodies and movement. Jensen’s crew is going to love her.”

“So she’ll fit right in.”

“Exactly.” His face softened as he talked about her, and his smile got wider. “She’s never seen a real Minnesota winter. She thinks she knows what cold is because she looked it up. She doesn’t.”

“Have you ever tried teaching her to skate?” I was baffled that they were both into sports, and Griffin would be making hockey his career just like me, and she didn’t skate. Maybe it wasn’t weird. My sister skated. But she grew up in Minnesota too.

Griffin laughed again. “I mean, yeah, but no.”

I gave him the keep going gesture with my hand.

“She doesn’t want to learn. You’ll see on Saturday.”

“Has your family always lived in Phoenix?”

“Born and raised. I’ll be interested to see what shoes she shows up in. The girl owns more sandals than winter days.” He shook his head, affectionate about it. “It’ll be an educational weekend.”

I’d been getting stories about Maren Callahan for four years—Griffin talked about her freely and with his whole chest, no editing. She was sharp, stubborn in the good way, someone who would argue a point until she won it or found a better one. Someone who showed up to every home game Griffin ever played in the juniors and high school, and spent the whole time actually watching, not scrolling her phone.

I also had one actual memory of her, from a game in Minneapolis about two years back. Griffin’s parents and sister had made the trip, and after the game a group of us ended up at a sports bar a few blocks from the arena—the kind of place with too many TVs and baskets of fries and everyone still buzzing from the win.

I ended up across the table from Griffin’s dad, Tom Callahan, and Maren. I wasn’t paying close attention until her voice cut through the noise—certain, direct, telling her father the holding call in the third was wrong and “here is exactly why.” Tom was nodding, getting a word in where he could. She wasn’t asking his opinion. She was correcting the record, like she’d been watching the rulebook as closely as the puck and had notes.

I laughed. I caught it before it got all the way out and went back to my food but I laughed.

That was the only real memory. One conversation, ten seconds of it, two years ago.

I also had a photo. A Callahan family Christmas group shot Griffin had texted around when his parents got a new dog, two winters ago. Maren had been in the background, mid-laugh at something outside the frame, hair loose. I’d registered it and scrolled on.

I thought about the photo now and put the reminder away and finished my beer.

“Sal’s for dinner tomorrow?” I asked.

“Already texted Jensen. He’s in.”

I set down my empty glass.

Another round came. The neutral zone debate escalated to the point where the table next to us looked over twice. Davo put something on the jukebox nobody asked for—Springsteen, which sparked an argument from Petey that lasted until someone changed it. Hartley got pulled into a conversation with the older guys and held his own with careful competence that meant he’d been paying attention all year. I caught Griffin’s eye across the table. He gave me the smallest nod. The kid was going to be fine.

I thought about the after. What would happen to our little group after graduation. Griffin and I were both four months from a draft that was going to scatter all of this routine I’d grown accustomed to—the Tap Room on Thursdays, the pond on Saturdays, the apartment and its rhythms and the comfort of four years in the same building. Four years becoming phone calls and reunions on road trips. That was the right progression. I hadn’t let myself sit with it yet.

My mind kept drifting to the airport tomorrow.