I miss the Grizzly Grind.
I miss the little string lights tangled across the ceiling, twinkling like homemade constellations. I miss the community bulletin board layered in out-of-date flyers, their pull-tabs long vanished into pockets and wallets and lint traps of laundromat dryers. I miss the slow jazz trickling from the gramophone in the corner, and the chipped bookshelves stuffed with used textbooks and copies ofWuthering Heights.
But mostly, I miss the coffee.
When I first moved to Minnesota, I told myself the only thing I’d ever miss about Seattle was my parents. But now, standing in a hotel hallway in Salem, Oregon, clutching arepulsivecup of Keurig sadness, I realize how I might’ve underestimated how many pieces of it are worth missing. And that, maybe, calling Seattle “home” again isn’t the worst thing in the world.
I shift the hot cup from hand to hand, letting the warmth of it absorb into my gloves. This coffee is too bitter, this hallway too beige, and I am much too awake for someone who isn’t being paid for this.
Though, I suppose pitching my nonsensical concept of autoimmune hockey to someone who might actually make it real is a pretty solid form of payment in itself.
I check my phone.
3:44AM.
This is criminal. Actually criminal. I should be dreaming about The Walter Cup or better coffee or kissing someone I shouldn’t. Not standing outside Peyton’s hotel room. But a deal’s a deal. And as I found out yesterday morning, before the win against the Copper Coast Cobras, Peyton’s early morning practices do not stop. Not even in Salem, Oregon.
She’s exhausting.
And unfortunately, I might be into it.
Not a minute later, Peyton’s door swings open. Despite her usual sleek black early-morning practice clothes, and the heart-attack inducing bubblegum energy drink gripped in her hands, she looks beat. Her dark hair hangs limp and oily, the bags under her eyes purple puffs, and her eyelids look like they’ve forgotten how to be eyelids.
“Morning,” she yawns, arms stretching out as her duffel bag slips down her shoulder. I blink.
“Morning,” I echo hesitantly. My eyes scan her body, brow quirking in concern. “You sure you’re up for this?”
She hoists the bag back over her shoulder and steps into the hallway, the door clicking shut behind her.
“Yes, why?”
“You just look…” I trail off, scrunching my nose as the smell hits. It’s equally familiar and disgusting; the rotten funk of sweaty gear and worn-out skates. There’s no lavender to balanceit out this time. Just pure, unfiltered hockey stench. “Tired.Hey, umh—did youshowerafter the game last night?”
Peyton shakes her head. “No.” She pauses, catching my recoiled expression. “Is it that bad?”
I think for a moment how to gently say she smells like fermented jill shorts marinated in dumpster juice and sea brine and decide to go with: “Yes.”
She lifts her arm, sniffs her pit, and reacts with an indifference only a lifelong athlete could manage. Her mouth opens, probably to argue that it’s “not that bad”, but I pluck the keycard from her fingers, swipe it, and push the door back open.
Peyton sighs, but shuffles in without a fight.
Seven minutes later, the door swings open again. Her skin is dewy, hair damp and detangled, and the stench is replaced by that soft, powdery lavender.
“Better?” she asks.
I nod and hand her the sad paper cup of lobby coffee I retrieved while she showered. She pounds the last ounce of her energy drink, tosses the can into the trash, and accepts it with a grateful nod.
“Better,” I say, then point to her duffel. “You won’t be needing that, though.”
Peyton’s brows pinch. “What do you mean?”
I shrug. “I mean you don’t need it.”
Her warm golden eyes, now slightly more awake, study me like she’s waiting for the punchline.
I don’t give her one.
“Right. Okay,” she says slowly. “So, I don’t know howcold-hearted bitchespractice hockey—”
