Page 57 of My Pucking Perfect Goalie

“What is that?”

“These,” he says, closing his fist around the object. “Are keys. To our rental.”

“To our rental,” I repeat numbly, staring at him. Around us, other travelers are moving around, talking loudly, panicking about the delays and cancellations. I’m wearing a pair of black leggings and a sweater—one of the most casual outfits I’ve worn around him.

“That’s right,” Sammy says, grinning. “Traded an autograph for priority on the last big car at the rental place. Jeep, I think. Should be good for getting through the snow. Now come on, we’ve got a long drive ahead of us.”

I’m too old to feel giddy with a sense of adventure, but that’s exactly what I feel. If I was on my own, driving from Detroit to Toronto—a four hour trip in good weather—would be a frustrating, quiet torture. But with Sammy, it’s different.

We barely get out of the Detroit metro area before Sammy’s pulling off the highway and into the brightly-lit parking lot of a supermarket.

“What are you doing?” I ask, blinking at him as he reaches over and unbuckles my seatbelt.

“It’s a road trip,” he says, like that answers my question

“Okay,” I laugh, the sound bubbling out of me like, “Oh-kay?”

He hops out of the rental and circles around to my side, opening the door and grinning at me. Snow lands softly in his hair, and I can hear the powdery crunch of it under his boots as he positions himself closer, his hands on my hips.

A huge parking lot light shines brightly just behind him, almost giving him a halo. I swallow, hard, a wave of tenderness for him washing over me. It’s not like I need help to get out, but I like the sensation of his hands on me, even through my sweater and coat.

“Come on,” he says, leaning in close, the scent of his cologne washing over me.

Then we’re in the supermarket together, and he’s insisting we getwaytoo many snacks for just four hours in the car. Candy, chips, chocolates, sandwiches in plastic, fruit in domed containers, and even a little tub of potato salad.

“I love potato salad.”

“Sammy, you’re not going to be able to eat all this in just four hours. Plus, we ate at the airport.”

“Anything we don’t eat on the road trip will be something we can bring to the cabin as a gift,” he says, a finger against his temple, like he’s the smartest man in the world. People we pass look at him, then double-take. It could be his size, it could be them recognizing him. I pull my hood up over my head self-consciously, wondering if anyone might be snapping pictures.

After we’ve loaded our pounds of food into the car and situated the cold stuff in a compostable cooler, Sammy slides back behind the driver’s seat and pulls out onto the highway.

“Wanna grab me some peach rings?”

“We just left! Why didn’t you grab them before we started driving?” I’m feigning anger, but can’t stop the laugh that rolls through me as I unbuckle and turn around in the seat, rummaging through the bag for the peach rings.

Distantly, I can register that this is dangerous—especially driving through the snow like this—but there’s this sparkling, new sense of adventure draped over the whole thing. The novelty of my first road trip with Sammy Braun.

Myonlyroad trip with Sammy Braun.

“You’re the passenger,” he says, his hand sliding over to the back of my thigh as I lean over the seat to get his food. “It’s your job to get me what I want.”

A shiver runs through my entire body, and I grab the peach rings, twisting around and dropping back into my seat. Once I’m buckled, I rip the bag open and hold it out to him, wrinkling my nose as the sweet aroma drifts through the car, pungent and summery.

“I can’t believe you like these.” I should be encouraging him to stick to approved snacks—protein chips and foods with a low glycemic index. But more and more, I’ve been forgetting to work around him. Plus, it’s fun to see what he likes outside of chicken breast and roasted broccoli.

“I…” he grabs one from the bag, his huge hand crinkling the plastic as he does. His voice chokes up, and he spares a glance away from the highway to look at me. “I don’tlovethem. But—my mom always got them for road trips. Something from her childhood, I think. They just click for me when I drive. Like peppermint for Christmas, or hot dogs on the Fourth.”

“Oh. I—” I don’t want to say I’m sorry. I already know that he lost his parents in a car crash—what else is there to say about that? If I had my professional hat on, I would use this moment to dig further into his past, to try and unearth anything holding him back on the ice.

Instead, in a moment that surprises me, I find his hand on the center console and lace my fingers through his. His entire body is a ply heavier than mine—his fingers thicker, his palm wider and stronger, but there’s something nice about it. His hand is warm, mine is cool. We balance each other out.

“Do you want to tell me more about her?” I ask, clearing my throat and glancing out the front windshield. We’re on a long stretch of highway with nothing but the dark shroud and flashing flurries of snow around us. There’s not another car for miles except the trucks slugging along, plowing and dropping salt.

There’s a long moment of silence, and I think he might just let it go. It might be for the best—I’m not exactly stoked to talk about mothers. The thought of mine—both of them, or neither of them—makes my chest tight. There’s something so difficult about parents having to be human, going through changes and morphing along with their children. I wanted the people who raised me to be monoliths.

But instead, they changed. They wanted something different. When I came back to them, they’d found a new family. I try not think about that—the fact that I was so easily replaced.

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