Page 41 of Goalie Secrets
The snow crunches under our boots as we trudge forward, practically walking sideways into the wind. The downtown streets, normally packed with people and cars, are ghostly quiet save for the distant hum of snowplows and the occasional brave soul darting past us. There are no cabs in sight, and we’ll freeze to death if we wait for one.
“We can call once we know where we’ll stay for the night,” I decide for us. “Let’s hunker down somewhere warm.”
Twinkling lights hang between the buildings. Enormous red bows cling to streetlights, though barely visible through the blizzard. Under different circumstances, it might even be pretty. Right now, the holiday decorations hardly register. My cheeks are pricked by snowflakes as sharp as needles.
The lights of a restaurant window beckon from down the block. Most of the restaurant’s name is covered in snow but the word PANCAKES peeks out like a holiday miracle. We shuffle as fast as we can without slipping. I pull the door so hard, the decorative wreath bangs back against the glass.
Warmth seeps to defrost my face the second we step inside. It smells like coffee and carbohydrates in here. Heaven. Cheerful holiday music plays in the background. We find seats by the window and peel off our snow-covered layers, finally able to fill our lungs without freezing from the inside. The blizzard is still raging, but watching the snow swirl from our cozy booth gives it a picturesque feel.
“Will you order for us? I’ll start making calls,” she states while scrolling on her phone.
I nod and call the server over. After ordering three different breakfast meals—each with a stack of pancakes—I turn my attention to Vanya.
“Can you recommend somewhere else? Even if it’s outside the city?” she whispers into the phone. She listens to the answer with her eyes closed. Her thick lashes quiver, revealing the restlessness she’s holding back. When her eyes find mine, they are wide with something like disbelief.
“Thank you for trying,” she mutters and hangs up. She delivers the news with furrowed brows. “That’s the Hyatt’s reservation line. They’ve got nothing available tonight. Can you open a hotel booking app while I call other hotels close by?”
I’m on it, although the app doesn’t look normal. The prices of the hotels are shown down on the screen, but each one is grayed out, with a banner:No rooms available.Where I would normally find the “Book” Button, there’s a message that reads:These hotels may have availability on different dates.
I glare at the screen as if it will yield a different answer. Our coffees come, but Vanya barely notices as she stares out the window and calmly asks the person at the other end of the line to “check again.” Her stress propels me to keep looking, this time on short-term stays.
“I’m going into Airbnb,” she says after hanging up.
“Me too.”
Glued to our phones, we mutter “fuck” at the same time. That is the unanimous revelation that we are, indeed, fucked. The banner at the top of the screen announcesLimited availability for your selected dates.
The map has no icons that indicate availability until I scroll out and see the “Last One” tag. Without hesitation, I click it. The listing features a low quality, grainy picture of an old Victorian home. The description is sparse:Two room private basement. Near train station.
“Would you rather sleep at the airport or book a haunted house?” I lift my screen to show her the single option that I can find.
She winces at the picture before releasing a resigned sigh. “At least it’s near a train station.”
I secure the reservation just as the pancakes arrive.
Like Toronto’s public railway system, Chicago’s subway seems well prepared for winter weather. There was a delay at the station, but the overhang shielded us from the worst of the elements.
When we get off at the Belmont station and follow the directions, we find ourselves in front of what can only be described as a relic. Former grandeur clings to the silhouette of a tall turret. The traces of an intricate trim on the porch woodwork are almost charming. However, the peeling paint and unstable floor of the porch, as well as wood hanging and swaying in the wind like skeletal fingers, tell a different story of the old Victorian home.
“The porch looks unsteady.” I state the obvious. I’m actually a little worried about falling through the porch or impaling ourselves with jutting wood.
“As appealing as that front door looks, we’re heading downward.” Jeremy points to cement stairs that lead to a lower entrance. “After you, milady.”
“How chivalrous of you to hide behind me while I face the unknown.”
“Ah, see that’s where you’re wrong, doc. I’ve got your back,” he says lightly, but I don’t miss how he’s cocooned me within his personal space. Without touching me, Jeremy surrounds me from the back and sides.
I open the door with a key we retrieved from the lockbox. A tiny table greets us. To the right is a kitchenette. The space isn’t fancy, but the heat is on and the ground is dry.
“This is cozy,” Jeremy says, a tad sarcastically.
“Thank goodness we grabbedsomething,” I state with relief, placing my purse on the table and shrugging off my coat and blazer.
“Um, Vanya, didn’t it say two bedrooms?”
Remembering the description, I confirm, “Yes, it did.”
I stand beside him to peek into a room that you would imagine a teenager living in the basement would decorate. A too-small area rug with clashing geometric shapes barely covers the cold concrete floor. In the far corner, a queen bed sits pushed against the wall, the plaid bedspread thrown over it in a haphazard attempt at neatness. Underneath, a mess of mismatched sheets and flattened pillows peeks out. A desk is cluttered with tangled cords and a plastic organizer overflowing with random papers and a single sock. On turned over milk crates sits a television.