3. Ryan
RYAN
Griffin texted how he always did, like our conversation was already in progress and I was catching up.
Griffin: Also… Maren will be there. You remember my sister?
I read his second message for a moment longer than it required. Oh I remembered her all right.
Ryan: Yeah? How’s she settling in?
Griffin: Ask her yourself. She talks about work constantly. You probably have more context than I do at this point since you’re at all the same meetings
Griffin: Thank God I can’t be captain even if I wanted to. Too many meetings. And too much sister time.
That was probably true. In the weeks since Maren had joined the organization, I’d seen her at the arena every day.
In the training room, in the corridor, at the Tuesday morning staff meetings Calloway ran.
She was good at her job. She knew injury prevention better than any trainer I’d worked with professionally, and for someone so young, it was impressive.
The protocols she’d implemented in the first week, the way the younger players sought her out without being told to, the authority she carried through a building full of men twice her size were all a testament to her skill.
I had been paying attention because I was the captain and knowing the support staff was part of the job.
That was the entire reason.
Ryan: Tell your parents thank you. I’ll be there
I put my phone down and went back to the film I’d been watching, which held my attention for about two more minutes.
Linda had insisted I not bring anything the last time I came over, so I brought wine anyway, because I was from Minnesota and Swedish, and had a mother who’d trained me, and showing up empty-handed to someone’s home wasn’t something she had raised me to do.
I arrived five minutes early. From the driveway I could smell the meat cooking in the smoker and hear the baseball game through the window, two things I had started to recognize as a regular Sunday.
I knocked. I never walked into someone’s house without knocking. Never would.
Linda opened the door and glanced at the wine, then at me.
“You didn’t have to—”
“I know,” I said.
She took it with an expression that was equal parts exasperated and pleased and pulled me into a brief but genuine hug that made me think of my own mother back in Eden Prairie. Linda was a full foot shorter than me and hugged like she meant it, both arms, no hesitation.
Tom was in his spot in front of the game and gesturing at me to sit before I’d fully made it through the doorway. “Good timing. I need a second opinion on this bullpen and Griffin’s useless.”
“He needs someone to agree with him,” Griffin said, appearing from the back of the house smelling like woodsmoke. “You made it.”
“You texted me four days ago and every day since to remind me.” I looked around for Maren, but she was nowhere to be found. A streak of disappointment hit me and I turned my attention back to Griffin to avoid acknowledging what I already knew.
“Just making sure.” Griffin dropped onto the couch. “Brisket’s almost ready. Dad’s been up since six.”
“It’s gonna be some of my best,” Tom said, without turning from the game.
“Griff, get your friend a beer,” Linda called from the kitchen.
“May I offer you a beverage?” Griffin asked, doing a terrible impression of a sommelier.
“I can get my own.” I knew where the cooler was. That was what being here meant now. They were like a second family.
I fell into the rhythm of the house. Tom’s running commentary on the Diamondbacks’ bullpen, Griffin’s counterarguments, Linda appearing periodically from the kitchen to tell them both they were wrong.
I’d been to enough Sunday dinners the last couple of weeks to know the arguing was affectionate and the wrongness was beside the point.
I drank my beer and let the week drain out of me.
Even though she wasn’t there yet, I noticed, with the part of my brain I was actively discouraging, there were five plates at the table.
I was watching the game. I was absolutely watching the game, just caught the table setting by accident.
The brisket came out on a cutting board the size of a small table, dark-barked and pulling apart at the touch, and Tom carried it carefully, both hands.
I, who had eaten well in a lot of cities, was unprepared for how good it was every single time.
Tom had been making this brisket for thirty years. It showed in every bite.
“Tom,” I said. “Every week.”
Tom waved a hand like it was nothing, which meant it was everything. “Low and slow. You can’t rush it.”
“He says that every time,” Griffin said. “Every time it’s still true.”
Linda set a green chile sauce on the table alongside the brisket, and I regarded it with the wariness I’d earned through a breakfast burrito, a burger, and a queso that had looked completely innocent from first glance.
I heard the front door.
I reached for the serving fork. Completely casual. Nothing to notice or make a big deal of.
She came in with her huge sunglasses pushed up into her hair which was piled on top of her head, and a six-pack under her arm, and a flush on her cheeks from the heat outside.
She said, “Sorry, traffic was insane,” to the room in general, and they all acknowledged her like the life of the party had just arrived.
Linda’s face brightened, Griffin called something from the table, Tom didn’t pull his eyes from the game but raised one hand in greeting and pointed at his cheek, which Maren promptly kissed.
“Brisket smells amazing as always, Dad.”
“Thanks, kiddo.” Her dad gave her a quick glance then turned his attention back to the TV.
Her eyes found me at the table, and for one unguarded second she was exactly as caught as I felt. Color moving into her face, a half-breath before the smile came up and got itself in place.
“Hey.”
“Hey.” I said it like I had to choke it out, which I did.
She set the six-pack down, kissed her mother’s cheek, and took the empty chair beside me. I went back to the brisket.
Linda moved around like feeding people was love, not labor. “Maren, did you eat today?”
“I ate.” She sounded defensive.
“What did you eat?”
“Mom.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“I had lunch.”
“At what time?”
Griffin had moved to the table and pointed at Maren. “She does this to everyone. Don’t take it personally.”
“I had a late lunch,” Maren said.
Linda set the bowl down with a finality that didn’t invite argument. “Then you need to eat.”
“I was about to eat. That’s why I’m sitting at the dinner table.”
“Ryan, are you eating enough? You look like you’ve been running yourself into the ground.”
I raised my head. “I’m fine, Linda. Just a little tired today.”
“He’s fine,” Griffin confirmed. “He eats like a machine. I’ve seen it. It’s actually unsettling.”
“A machine that runs on brisket, apparently,” Maren said.
“A machine that runs on brisket,” I agreed.
Maren smiled at me and reached for the serving spoon, and I had the clear thought I was going to have a hard time pretending this dinner was just a dinner.
Tom got up, refilled everyone’s water and sat at the head of the table, satisfied. Things were running exactly as he’d set them up. “So,” he said, pointing his fork at me. “Tell me about this team. Be honest. Not the press conference version.”
I considered his question as I chewed then swallowed. “Better than I expected. The young guys want it badly. The veterans aren’t coasting.” I glanced at Griffin. “The goaltending situation is solid.”
Griffin pointed at me with a flourish. “The correct answer.”
“How’s the city treating you?” Tom asked. “You a Phoenix guy yet?”
“I’m getting there.” I picked up my water. “The heat is an adjustment.”
“You get used to it,” Linda said, from the kitchen doorway.
“Everyone keeps saying that.”
“Because it’s true,” Maren said. “And also because the alternative is leaving, and nobody wants you to do that.” My eyebrows rose and a smirk pulled at my lips.
“Not if they have any sense,” Tom agreed.
“He hasn’t tried the chile yet,” Griffin told his mom.
“I was getting there,” I said.
“He’s been looking at it for five minutes.”
I set my fork down with resignation. “Truthfully, I think Arizona is trying to kill me with green chiles.”
There was laughter around the table. Maren turned to me with an expression of patient interest, like she had all the time in the world to watch this play out.
“Do you not like spicy food?” she asked, seemingly almost affronted.
“I like spicy food fine. What I don’t understand is why it’s in everything. Why do biscuits and gravy need green chile? They don’t. And everyone says it’s not that spicy, and then it is—it’s very spicy—and I’m the only one at the table who seems to notice.”
Maren laughed, and Griffin with her. “You get used to it,” Griffin said. “Mom’s sauce isn’t even hot. It’s the guest version.”
“There’s a guest version?” I asked.
“There’s always a guest version.” Griffin pushed the bowl in my direction.
Maren propped her chin in her hand and watched me with an expression, open and slightly amused, so cute it was hard to look at her directly for too long.
I picked up the sauce, poured a careful amount alongside my brisket, and dipped the meat in it with the composure I reserved for high-pressure faceoffs.
They were all watching me intently, awaiting the verdict.
It was actually excellent. Rich and smoky with just enough heat to add flavor without burning my taste buds off. I was chewing and about to say so when it arrived. A slow, building warmth that had nothing to do with temperature. Fuck. Those god damn chiles.
I reached for my beer.
“You okay?” Maren asked. She was losing the fight with her smile.
“Fine.” My eyes were watering slightly. “It’s great.” I tried to casually clear my throat.
“It’s mild.”
“I know.”
“That’s the mild one.” Now a giggle was forming in her voice.
“Maren.”
“There’s a hotter version in the fridge if you—” Griffin started.
“I’m fine.”