5. Griffin
GRIFFIN
S taring at the wooden beams crossing my cabin’s ceiling, I replay that backhand shot from tonight over and over in my mind. The puck sailed right past my blocker side, a shot I should’ve had. The red light behind the net still burns in my memory like a taunting reminder. Sleep? Not happening.
“Get it together,” I mutter into my pillow, punching it into a more comfortable shape. But comfort isn’t coming tonight.
Three-four. That’s how it ended. If I’d just caught that backhand in the third period, we might’ve pushed it to overtime. The whole sequence unfolds behind my closed eyes. I should’ve shifted left.
The sheets tangle around my legs as I toss and turn. My teammates played their hearts out tonight, and I let them down. That final score might as well be tattooed on my eyelids.
I grab my phone, pulling up the game highlights. Maybe if I watch it enough times, I’ll figure out exactly where I went wrong. The video plays in the dark room, casting blue light across my face as I scrutinize every movement.
There it is. Minute fifty-eight. I was positioned too far right, anticipating a different play. Rookie mistake.
The worst part? I saw it coming. That slight shoulder drop, the way he shifted his weight. All the telltale signs were there. Yet somehow my brain decided to take a coffee break at that exact moment.
The clock on my phone reads 12:15 AM. I need to get my mind off the game so I’ll be rested for tomorrow. I flip my pillow to the cool side for the hundredth time, but all I can think about is how I let my team down.
Too restless to sleep, I get out of bed, my feet hitting the cold wooden floor. The kitchen’s just a few steps away in this cozy cabin, but right now it feels like a mile. My throat’s dry as sandpaper.
The tap water here tastes different than back home. Cleaner, fresher, straight from the mountain springs. I down one glass, then another. What I really want is a beer, but that’s not gonna help my head or my game tomorrow.
My stomach growls, reminding me I barely touched dinner after the game. There has to be something open in the village, right?
I pull on my thermal shirt and jeans, adding my heaviest sweater, and grab my coat from the hook. The temperature’s been dropping fast this past week. Soon this whole valley will be buried in snow. The thought makes me smile despite my mood.
My boots are still muddy from earlier, but they’ll do.
Keys, wallet, phone. Check. I lock up and start down the path toward town, hands stuffed in my pockets.
The night air hits my face like a slap of cold water as I step outside.
Stars blanket the sky above the village, way more than you’d ever see in Toronto.
The village below looks like a Christmas card, all twinkling lights against the dark mountain backdrop.
There’s gotta be something open down there.
A coffee shop, a late-night café…anything to get me out of my own head.
And if not, at least the walk might tire me out enough to finally sleep.
Halfway down the hill, I realize I should’ve taken the car. The temperature must’ve dropped another ten degrees since sunset. My toes are already going numb inside my boots. Real genius plan here. Who needs a nice warm vehicle when you can stumble around in the pitch black like an idiot?
The moon’s only a thin sliver tonight, and my phone’s flashlight only illuminates a small circle at my feet. This seemed like a brilliant idea ten minutes ago. The smart thing would be to head home. But the thought of lying in bed, staring at the ceiling for another three hours…
A branch snaps somewhere in the darkness. I freeze mid-step, heart pounding.
“Just a rabbit probably,” I grumble, pulling my coat tighter. “I couldn’t just raid the kitchen like a normal person.”
The cold air bites at my exposed face, and I wish I’d grabbed my scarf. Or better yet, stayed in my warm bed with my regrets.
The village lights twinkle below, looking deceptively close. But I know better now. It’s still a good twenty-minute walk down this winding trail.
Another noise in the woods makes me pick up my pace. Could it be a bear?
I’m not sticking around to find out.
My breath comes out in quick white puffs as I half jog down the trail. The village lights seem farther away now than when I started. How is that even possible?
My nose is going numb, and I can feel the cold seeping through my jeans.
Finally, the trail gives way to paved streets. The town square opens up ahead, dominated by the old church whose spire pierces the star-filled sky. Its clock face glows faintly. 1:07 AM.
I pause in the middle of the square, hands deep in my pockets, breath clouding in front of my face. The mountains loom black against the starry sky, their peaks lost in darkness. During the day, this square bustles with locals and the occasional tourist.
I make my way through the sleeping village. Stone and timber buildings line the narrow streets, their wooden shutters closed tight against the night.
Most windows are dark, but warm light spills from between wooden shutters here and there. Someone’s probably up late watching TV or reading.
Everything’s so quiet I can hear water trickling somewhere in the darkness, probably from one of those fountains where you can drink fresh water coming directly from the mountains.
I follow the narrow alley past a closed bakery that still smells like fresh bread. My stomach growls again, reminding me why I’m out here freezing my butt off in the middle of the night.
Around the corner, a faint glow catches my eye. There’s a wooden sign hanging from wrought iron brackets that reads “S’Holzfass” in old Germanic script. It’s creaking slightly in the night breeze. The windows are dimly lit, and I can hear muffled voices inside.
I push open the door, hit by a wave of warmth and the smell of beer. 99 Luftballons plays on the overhead speakers.
Inside, the pub is all exposed stone walls, dark wooden beams, and brass fixtures. There’s a handful of locals clustered around a worn table. They all turn to stare as I enter, conversations pausing mid-sentence.
I shake off the cold and claim an empty barstool, unbuttoning my coat.
No bartender in sight. The men’s conversation drops to whispers, and I feel their eyes on my back.
Someone mutters something in Swiss German, followed by rough laughter.
I keep my eyes forward, waiting for whoever’s running this place to appear.
The locals keep chattering and laughing behind me, occasionally calling out something in English that I pretend I don’t hear.
I drum my fingers on the weathered wooden bar top as the stereo switches to “Take on Me” when one of the men calls out in accented English.
“Hey, American!”
I look over my shoulder to face their table. They’re red-faced and grinning, clearly several beers in.
“Canadian, actually.”
“Ah, Canadian!” One of them raises his beer. “Come, drink with us!”
I hesitate, glancing between their table and the empty bar.
The smart play would be waiting for the bartender, but these guys aren’t letting up. They’re waving me over like we’re old friends. Something about those smiles and snickers give me pause.
“We need one more player, Canadian guy.”
I slide off the barstool, sizing up the group as I approach their table. The oldest one, sporting a mustache, pulls out an empty chair.
“Sit, sit! We are playing Jass. Do you know it?” He shuffles a deck of cards.
“Can’t say I do.” I lower myself into the chair.
“It is a Swiss game,” another one pipes up. “Very simple. We will teach you.”
They introduce themselves in rapid-fire. Colin, Evan, Lars—their names blurring together as they deal the cards. The rules seem straightforward enough, but there’s something off about how eager they are to teach me.
“First round is just for fun, yes?” says Colin, the mustached one.
The others nod eagerly. Too eagerly.
One of them, (Evan, I think) wearing a red flannel shirt, slides a beer in front of me. I haven’t even ordered one yet.
“Lars always wins,” he says. “Maybe you can bring him bad luck, eh?” He elbows his friend, both snickering.
I pick up my cards, trying to make sense of the unfamiliar suits. They’re not like regular playing cards. There are bells and shields and acorns instead of hearts and spades.
“How about a small bet to make the game more interesting?” Colin suggests, pulling out his wallet. “Twenty francs each? For beginner’s luck?”
The others quickly agree, tossing bills into the center. Three pairs of eyes fix on me expectantly.
I’ve played enough poker to recognize when I’m being set up. These guys aren’t as drunk as they’re pretending to be, and that practiced shuffle wasn’t just showing off. They think they’ve found an easy mark. The clueless foreigner they can fleece for some cash.
“Sure,” I say, pulling out my wallet. “Twenty sounds good.”
Colin’s eyes light up as he deals the cards. They exchange looks that clearly say they think this is going to be like taking candy from a baby. They’re probably right.
Colin fires off instructions while Lars and Evan nod along, adding bits and pieces that only muddle things further.
My head is already spinning. “Wait, so the acorns are…”
“Yes, yes, highest suit,” Lars cuts in, already playing his first card. “You will catch up quite quickly.”
“This is Under, very important card.” Colin points to what looks like a medieval knight. “And here, these are your trumps.”
I stare at my hand, trying to make sense of the symbols. Before I can ask another question, Evan slaps down a card.
“Your turn,” Colin prompts, nodding at my cards.
“But I don’t know what?—”
“You will catch on, you will catch on!” Evan waves his hand dismissively. “Play anything.”
I randomly select a card with what looks like a bell on it. The others groan dramatically.
“No, no, you must follow suit!” Colin taps my discarded card. “Unless you have no bells, then you can trump.”