He does. Gets to ten, then slams the bar back with a grunt that’s half pain, half satisfaction.
“Beat you again,” he says, grinning.
“Form doesn’t count if you arch your back,” I say, but he knows I’m lying.
We finish the workout. We don’t towel off. We don’t stretch. We leave the sweat to dry on our skin, proof that we’re still here, still breathing, still in the fight.
The coffee shop is three blocks away.
It’s a micro-roaster in Capitol Hill, run by a guy who wears more eyeliner than my sister and has the hands of a concert pianist.
I like the place because nobody there gives a shit about hockey, or us, or the fact that six weeks ago we were on the front page of every major paper in the state.
Ash orders for both of us. “Two blacks, one with two sugars, one with one. And a cheddar-chive scone,” he says.
The barista nods, barely glances up. I watch Ash’s hands as he pays. He fumbles the change, a dime skidding across the counter. The tremor is less than it was a month ago, but it’s still there, a residual aftershock in the nervous system.
“Take the window?” I ask.
He shrugs, but heads that way. We always do.
He sips his coffee, stares at the people walking by in the rain. It’s classic Seattle, gray on gray, but there’s a weird kind of peace in it. The city feels smaller, like a snow globe that only shakes if you make it.
“You sleep?” he asks, eventually.
“Four hours,” I say. “Better than average.”
He nods. “Dreams?”
“Nothing memorable.”
He grins, “Liar.”
I want to say, “You’re in them,” but I don’t.
He tears off a piece of scone, chews, and says, “You see the group text?”
I shake my head. “Muted it.”
He pulls his phone. “Apparently, O’Doul and Raz are doing a poker night. Team only. Coach said ‘no media, no hangers-on, no drama.’ You in?”
“Yeah,” I say, even though I hate poker and hate O’Doul’s apartment more. “You?”
He shrugs. “It’s something to do.”
We sit like that for a while, watching the world be normal. Every so often, Ash glances at me, like he’s waiting for me to say something.
I want to ask him if he thinks about the shower incident, if it was just a fluke or if it meant something.
Instead, I break off a chunk of his scone, dip it in my coffee, and make a face at him. He rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling.
Eventually, we walk.
It’s part of the routine now.
We don’t go anywhere in particular, just make a loop around the waterfront, down to the edge of Elliott Bay, where the wind slaps salt spray in your face and the seagulls look like they’re plotting a coup.
Ash walks with his hands jammed in the pocket of his hoodie, head down.
