Page 132 of Changing the Playbook
Because I was too scared to love without guarantees.
The puck drops, and Mike explodes into motion. On ice, robotic compliance vanishes. He becomes power and grace, more alive than he’s been all week in my apartment. This is the real Mike, the one I’ve been suffocating with my fear.
My phone buzzes. Mom:
Dad said you stopped by. Everything OK?
I type back:
Watching Mike’s game.
The three dots appear and disappear several times before:
Good. About time.
The truth stings. About time I showed up for him the way he’s been showing up for me. About time I witnessed his world instead of treating it like an inconvenience. About time I loved him freely instead of conditionally.
The arena lights blaze down on the ice, crowd energy pulsing through the building, and one thought crystallizes with painful clarity. That if I love him, I have to let him fly.
And trust he’ll choose to come home and help me fly as well.
thirty-seven
MIKE
The ice iswrong beneath my blades.
I’ve been playing hockey since not long after I could walk, but tonight the rink feels alien. The crowd’s roar hits me as I step onto the ice for warm-ups, twenty thousand voices that used to be my drug of choice. But now they’re just noise bleeding together, unable to drown out the echo of my words from a week ago.
If that’s what you need… OK.
My own voice.
My own goddamn surrender.
I fire a puck at the net harder than necessary, watching it ping off the crossbar with a satisfying crack. The sound used to mean something. Precision, control, the perfect angle. Now it’s just physics. This is the first time I’ve picked up a stick since agreeing to hang up my skates, and everything feels backward and wrong.
Maine skates up beside me, his stick tapping against his leg in that nervous rhythm he gets before big games, three quick taps, then pause, then three more. He can clearly feel that something is off, because he’s been lurking around me withoutsaying much since we arrived at the arena, but I don’t want to talk.
“Scouts here in force tonight,” he says, jerking his chin toward the press box.
I follow his gaze and count them. Six men with clipboards and connections who could change my life with a phone call. Six opportunities I’m about to flush because I can’t bear to see Sophie cry. At the same time it feels like a worthy sacrifice and a terrible loss, but the decision is made.
“Fantastic,” I manage, grabbing another puck.
Maine’s watching me with a look. We’ve been friends long enough that he can read my moods with precision, but this is uncharted territory. How do I tell one of my best friends that I’m about to torch everything we’ve worked for, and give up on dreams that any one of the guys on this ice would do almost anything for.
Luckily, Coach blows his whistle, the shrill sound slicing through my thoughts and any need to engage. I skate over on autopilot, muscle memory piloting my body while my mind stays trapped in Sophie’s apartment. The tremor in her hands when she asked. The relief flooding her face when I caved immediately.
“Altman!” Coach’s voice cracks. “You with us?”
Twenty pairs of eyes swivel my way. My teammates. My brothers. The guys who’ve bled with me, celebrated with me, held me up when my ankle gave out and my whole world went dark. The guys I’m about to walk out on halfway through a season.
“Yeah, Coach,” I lie. “I’m here.”
The national anthem plays, and I stand at the blue line with my hand over my heart, staring at the flag while my thoughts drift. Around me, guys bounce on their skates. Schmidt’smouthing the words—he always does—while Kellerman picks at his stick tape.
I’m a statue wearing Mike Altman’s jersey, wondering who’ll wear my number next year.
