Page 17 of Changing the Playbook
Pine Barren’s hockey arena rises ahead like a chrome and glass monument to everything I’ve been avoiding. The building screams money and priorities, both things this university apparently reserves for men with sticks. But it’s also Dad’s new kingdom, his Division I coaching dream materialized in steel beams.
I park, and inside, the familiar scent of what I’ve scientifically identified as ‘concentrated testosterone’ hits like a sensory assault. I’ve been breathing this particular brand since childhood, following Dad from rink to rink, so you’d think I’d be immune by now.
You’d be wrong, so I try to breathe as shallowly as possible as I head for his office.
His office door stands ajar, “COACH PEARSON” gleaming on a placard so new it still has protective film on the corners. Pride tangles with resentment in my chest—pride that he’sachieved this, resentment that finishing his previous contract took priority over being here when Mom started treatment.
But that’s a conversation for therapy, not a Tuesday morning.
I knock, and he looks up, delight flashing across his face. “Sophie!”
“Nice digs,” I offer, surveying the half-unpacked chaos.
I see championship photos from Michigan and framed jerseys gifted by his players who’ve made the NHL, competing for wall space with tactical boards. And, front and center on his desk, I see the family photo from Christmas two years ago, when we still thought Mom’s symptoms were just stress.
“The team’s incredible.” His enthusiasm radiates like a kid showing off trading cards. “Real potential. You should see?—”
“I dropped Hazel at swim camp.” I cut him off before he can launch into hockey poetry. I don’t care, and he knows it. “Pick-up’s at three.”
His face shifts to logistics mode. We’re good at this dance, compartmentalizing into scheduling spreadsheets. “Your mom’s MRI is at one. I’ll grab her after that.”
I pull up our shared calendar and start to rattle off where I need to be and what I can handle with Hazel and Mom, and he does the same. I do it, knowing he’ll transfer everything to his paper diary the moment I leave, because some people trust the cloud and some people trust pen and ink, and never the twain shall meet.
“Physical therapy tomorrow at eleven a.m.,” I recite. “I can drop her on my way to campus, but I have class at one.”
“Got it. Team workout’s not until three.” He nods. “I can pick her up and take her home.”
We trade responsibilities like batting practice, each obligation a ball to field, making concessions where we have to and moving stuff where we can’t find a solution. The weight of itpresses between my shoulder blades, a familiar ache that’s taken up permanent residence next to my spine.
“You look exhausted, Soph,” he says, suddenly, in between scheduling Hazel’s third and fourth activity for Thursday afternoon.
I glance up from my phone to find him studying me with that concerned-parent expression he’s perfected. Ironic, considering I’m basically co-piloting the family with him while Mom is out of action and while Hazel is… well… eight years old. And that’s after solo driving it for six months while he was still in Michigan.
“Define ‘exhausted.’” I deflect. “Because if you mean ‘functioning on caffeine and spite,’ then yes.”
His frown deepens, concern clear on his face. “You know I’m here now, right? You don’t have to?—”
“Someone has to.” The words snap out before I can catch them, and I regret them. “Sorry. I just… there are a lot of details.”
Details like Mom sobbing in the hospital bathroom. Details like Hazel asking if people die from what Mommy has. Details like managing it all for six months while you fulfilled your precious contract five states away. Details, details, details, always the fucking details.
But I swallow those words because anger and fear are exhausting, and I’m already operating on fumes. Thankfully, a knock saves us from exploring further emotional territory, and a middle-aged man with a beer gut and salt-and-pepper hair peers in.
“Sorry, Coach,” the new arrival says, clearly sensing he’s interrupted a sensitive moment. “The team’s ready.”
“Thanks, Pete.” Dad brightens, grateful for the escape route from the parenting minefield, then waits while Pete departs. “He’s my assistant coach.”
“I should go.” I’m already gathering my bag. “Lots to do.”
“Actually…” He gets that hopeful expression that usually precedes requests I’ll regret. “Come meet the team? I’ve been telling them about my brilliant daughter.”
Every muscle in my body locks, and the word “no” forms in my mouth.
Hockey players.
The species I’ve successfully avoided since high school, when I learned the hard way that jocks trying to date the coach’s daughter was just another sport. Ryan Hutchins, captain of Dad’s team, who’d pursued me with flowers and promises until I’d finally believed him.
The morning after we’d slept together, his voice had carried through the quad: “Mission accomplished, boys,” he’d said. “Coach’s daughter? Check!” And the laughter that had followed from every other asshole on the team had drained something out of me I’ve never quite refilled.
