“A few times. When I was playing, we'd come through here once or twice a season.”
“Did you like it?”
“It was fine. Never really saw much beyond the hotel and the rink.” I took a sip of my coffee. “You?”
“First time.” He looked around, taking it in. “It's different than I expected. Quieter, somehow.”
“Give it an hour. Pike Place gets loud enough to make a penalty kill feel peaceful.”
He glanced at me. “You've been to Pike Place?”
“Once. Years ago. A teammate dragged me there at seven in the morning because he wanted to watch them throw fish.”
“Did you enjoy it?”
“I enjoyed my coffee. The fish were fine.”
Jace laughed, and I let myself listen to it. “So what you're saying is you've been to one of the most famous markets in the country and your review is the fish were fine.”
“They were throwing them at each other. I don't know what else I was supposed to feel about that.”
“Delight. Wonder. The simple joy of watching men hurl salmon.”
“I'll work on that.”
He shook his head slowly. “You know what your problem is?”
“I'm sure you're about to tell me.”
“You experience things the way you run practices. Like there's a correct outcome and everything else is inefficiency.” He took a sip of his coffee. “A man throws a fish at another man and instead of laughing, you're in there somewhere going, poor arc on that throw, needs to work on his release.”
“That's not—” I stopped. Thought about it. “That's not entirely inaccurate.”
“I know.” He grinned, pleased with himself in a way that was irritating and not irritating at all. “It's actually a little bit endearing. In a deeply concerning way.”
“Endearing.”
“Don't let it go to your head.” He side-stepped a puddle on the pavement, and his shoulder came back against mine briefly in the process. “You ever just do something because it's fun? No outcome. No optimization. Just because?”
“The cinnamon roll this morning.”
He stared at me. “That's your answer.”
“It was a good cinnamon roll.”
“Grant.” He said my name with the patient exasperation of a man dealing with a very specific kind of lost cause. “A cinnamon roll is not a personality.”
“It was from a good bakery.”
“Oh my God.” He pressed his free hand over his eyes briefly. “Okay. New project. By the end of today, I'm getting you to do one thing that has no practical purpose whatsoever. Something completely pointless.”
“Define pointless.”
“Something you can't put in a coaching report.”
“That's most things.”
“Then this should be easy.” He dropped his hand and looked at me sideways. “Don't worry. I'll think of something.”
