Page 6 of In the Crease

Griffin’s text came in at two-fifteen.

Griffin: Coach kept us for extra work, can’t get out. You still good to get my sister?

Ryan: Already heading out

Griffin: Her number’s already in your phone

Griffin: Tell her 7 for dinner. Sal’s. Guys are meeting us

Ryan: Got it

I pulled on the Carhartt and went down to the lot. The Silverado had four inches of overnight accumulation. I cleared the windshield, let the engine run, pulled out of the lot and headed south.

I drove south on 35W with the heat on and the radio low.

Airport pickup. I did this kind of thing for teammates all the time, got people from flights, dropped people off, drove people to and from whatever. It was a normal thing teammates did. Griffin would do the same for me without a second thought.

This was exactly that.

The Christmas photo surfaced briefly in my mind, and I shoved it away.

This was fine.

She came through the sliding doors at 4:12.

I knew her immediately, which I hadn’t expected. Two years was a long time, and I’d met her once at a game where I hadn’t exactly been paying attention. But I knew her.

Dark hair loose around her shoulders, an oversized green fleece over what looked like a sweater, dark jeans, boots with some fur around the top of them that had no business being in Minnesota in February. She moved through the exit without hesitation, carry-on in one hand, tote over her shoulder, no wasted motion in any of it as she looked around, presumably for me. She moved like someone who had never once second-guessed a direction in her life.

She was —

The wind off the open roadway hit her like a wall.

Her chin tucked hard, both shoulders came up to her ears, her eyes went wide—her whole body receiving information it had absolutely no prior framework for. She stood there for a full second, blinking into it, and it was so completely unguarded and honest that my lips pressed together and I got out of the truck before I did something stupid like smile at Griffin Callahan’s little sister from the pickup lane.

By the time I came around to the passenger side of the truck, she’d squared her shoulders back up, though the cold had put color high in her cheeks that wasn’t going anywhere. She saw me coming and she gave me an easy and warm smile, like she’d had it ready the whole time.

My chest went tight in a way I had no intention of examining.

The photo had not covered what the woman in front of me looked like in real life. The Christmas group shot she’d been in the background of, that I’d scrolled past and absolutely not thought about it twice. Or more. Both of those things were lies, and I was aware of that in high definition standing in a pickup lane in the cold.

Griffin’s little sister was objectively, inconveniently, completely beautiful, and I was going to file that information in the category of things that were true and irrelevant. I took a breath, picked up her bag, and went to meet her.

“Hey,” she said. “I’m Maren.”

She was cute.

“Hey. I know who you are.” I laughed and reached past her for the carry-on handle.

“I wasn’t sure you’d remember me or not,” she said, a little shy.

You’re unforgettable. Instead I asked, “Good flight?” and did my damned best not to stare.

“Not bad. Uneventful.” She let me take it. “Is it always like this?”

“Like what?”

She moved her hand to indicate the wind, the sky, all of it.