What matters is they take care of me on the ice, and I take care of them. A team. At least for a few more games. And then comes the part I don’t want to think about because I’m not ready for anything to change.

…

I live in the crazy house off the corner near the river.

This is Alaskan direction speak. My Gramps and Gramma lived in a trailer, and then they built around that. And then they added on to that, and then they added on again. Gramps lives in the trailer part that’s now shielded by our house, but it still looks like a trailer parked in the basement when you’re inside.

At last count, we had five different kinds of siding on our three and a half story house, in five different colors of brown and blue, and a half junkyard’s worth of cars off the left side for Gramps’s hobby. To the right are the perfect, tidy little log cabins and manicured yard (now buried under several feet of snow) that Mom and I rent out in the summer. Two of our small cabins have lights on, and I remember we have guys up from California.

Hopefully, the renters won’t stick around for long. It’s annoying having to worry about guests during hockey season—especially rich ones who expect special treatment just because they’ve rented out the whole place during winter. It’s our off-season. Who else is going to be here?

I put my truck in park and see Gramps line-dancing in the second story kitchen. Gramps in the kitchen usually means he’s not all present, but he’s happy. It’s his normal. Mild dementia, and what the doctor says might turn to Alzheimer’s, hit two years ago when Gramma died. In his lucid moments, he tells me it’s better this way. He doesn’t miss her as much as he would if he always knew what was going on. It both breaks my heart and relieves me.

In his spots of drastic confusion—anything goes. Fortunately, those don’t happen often. It’s another reason I wish Dad was still around because maybe if Gramps hadn’t lost both his son and his wife, his mind would still work.

I kick off my winter boots in our large entry and jog up the wooden stairs to the second story where we live. Other than the hole I call my room, downstairs houses a bunch of freezers, Gramps’s food storage, and a big rack for all my hockey, snow-machining, and motocross gear. Gramps is big into “preparedness” even though it’s borderline paranoid. I’d blame the dementia, but he’s had this little quirk for as long as I can remember.

“Hey, Gramps.”

He stops mid-dance step with a fresh pie in his hand. His long beard touches the top of Gramma’s old white and red checked apron with frilled lace on the edges. He says the apron brings him luck in the kitchen. I’m not about to argue since I don’t know how to cook, and most of what he makes is delicious.

“Lucky Penny! How are ya, my girl!” He grins wide, wrinkling the skin around his eyes.

“I’m good.” He sets the pie on the counter with a flourish, and I wrap my arms around him for a quick hug.

“What’cha got there?” I ask as my stomach starts to grumble. I have no idea how many calories I burn in a game because I’ve never been a calorie-counting kind of girl, but I do know I’m always starving when we finish.

“Steak and strawberry pie.” He smiles proudly.

My stomach turns—first because no one should put a piece of steak in their mouth at the same time as a strawberry, and second, it means he’s not doing as well as I want him to—at least not tonight. Definitely not good enough for me to feel okay about ditching him for a party.

He picks up the faded, red hot-pads and does a few dancing steps to the god-awful country music he’s listened to since I can remember. His gray ponytail hangs halfway down his back and swings a bit as he two-steps to the other side of the plywood-floored kitchen.

“You want a slice?” he asks.

“Nah. I ate after the game.” I swallow the lump that formed in my throat, and tears spring to my eyes. I know Gramps says he doesn’t care he’s like this, but I know better. I’m wondering if it’ll hit him before or after he takes a bite of the stupid pie.

I pull out my phone and text Mitch.

WON’T MAKE IT. NOT HAVING A GOOD NIGHT HERE.

Mitch answers in less than a minute like he always does.

SAY THE WORD AND A FEW OF US WILL BRING THE PARTY TO YOU.

Maybe I haven’t lost Mitch to Rebecca. At least not totally. I lean against the large wooden picnic table set in the middle of the kitchen. I know the guys would come here, and Gramps might love it, but if Mom ends up home at a decent hour tonight, that’s not going to work. I never seem to know what her schedule at the hospital is—mostly because she picks up whatever nursing shifts she can get. And now that I’m thinking about it…it’s been probably two weeks since Mom and I spent any real time together. She must really be pushing for extra hours.

THANKS ANYWAY. C U MON AT SCHL.

SORRY PEN

I start to write back and tell him not to worry but don’t bother. He’ll worry no matter what, because he’s a good guy that way.

REBECCA SAYS SHE’LL KEEP THE KEYS

Irritation rushes through me. I’m sure she’s doing it so Mitch will be given another chance to tell me how she’s trying to get along with the team, and how I might be overreacting to the stupid stuff she does, like pressing her boobs against the Plexiglass that surrounds our rink.

THX I write back only because I can’t be a bitch and say nothing.

I slump lower in my seat and realize the music’s stopped. Gramps is staring at the untouched pie.

“Kinda weird, isn’t it?” he asks. “To put both steak and strawberries in the same place.”

I want to lie. I want to tell him that everyone makes steak and strawberry pie, but I swore to him I’d tell him the truth—even when I really don’t want to. “A little.”

He sighs and pulls off Gramma’s apron, hanging it on the hook next to the window.

“Dessert instead?” he asks, trying hard to lighten his voice.

I cock a brow. “Depends on what we’re having?”

“Ice cream.” He chuckles as he pulls open the freezer door. “It’s too bad. I think I really nailed the crust.”

I have to laugh, even though I’m blotting tears away again. Nobody as good as Gramps should ever have to deal with losing his mind.

“Don’t worry, Penny. I know how to get two bowls. I think we’re safe.” He’s trying to tease as he sets the bowls on the counter, but his hands shake as he does it. He’s not so far gone that he doesn’t realize when he does something weird, and it makes me hate again that this is happening to him. He hits the power on the radio and the horrid country oldies station blares through the house. As much as I hate the twang, it means that things are about as right as they’re going to be. There’s definitely comfort to be gained from that.

…

Mom’s at the table in the morning looking out over what’s probably two feet of fresh snow. Her blond hair isn’t as bright as mine, but she keeps it long and wrapped up in a braided bun most days. Mine hangs perfectly straight to my shoulders—long enough for a very small ponytail. I shuffle into the room, huddled in my sweatshirt.

The February sun reflects off the wood walls, making the house feel warmer, even though the frost on the edges of the windows says it’s probably well below zero.

“Morning, Penny. Heard you helped win the game last night.” She smiles over her cup of coffee.

“We all played well.” I nod. “Haven’t seen you in forever.”

“Brandy said you passed to Mitch for the winning goal.” Her brows go up, and the corners of her mouth twitch. Brandy is Chomps’s mom.

“Yeah, I did.” I replay the pass in my head. Perfection. But my whole left side is still a bit sore. Nothing a hot tub and some Advil won’t fix.

“I got another letter from the sports director at Minnesota. It’s big, Penny.” Her smile is wide and full of pride. “They’ve been national champions more often than not in the past five years.”