Page 21 of Changing the Playbook
“So,” I finally break the silence. “Your dad seems like a good coach.”
She nods, keys clutched like brass knuckles. “He is.”
“Was he telling the truth back there? About you hating hockey?”
“Yes.” No elaboration. “You didn’t tell me you played.”
“Never came up.” I shrug. “I’m glad, because you might’ve told me to beat it.”
I laugh, waiting for her stone-faced resolve to crack, for the joke to reveal itself, for her to give me something. But herexpression stays deadly serious, jaw set like she’d rather be getting a root canal than talking about it, and it settles on me that maybe thereisa problem here.
“Wait, really?” My laughter dies. “Youactuallyhate hockey?”
“Yes.” She shifts. “And hockey players.”
The words land like a cross-check to the sternum. I search her face for any sign she’s exaggerating, but there’s nothing. Just careful distance that makes my chest constrict. I know we’d agreed to only one night, but I’d been hoping we might score a friendship out of it, andmaybemore…
“Wow. That’s… direct.” I try to keep it light even as something defensive rises in me. “What, some puck bunny drama in high school?”
“No,” she says quietly, her voice going brittle as old ice. “But I learned early that athletes come with complications I can’t afford.”
“That’s a pretty big generalization.” I step closer without meaning to. “We’re not all interchangeable, you know. Some of us can even read multi-syllable words.”
She studies me steadily, but something hardens around her eyes like armor clicking into place. “I know that. But I can’t risk it.”
“What if I wasn’t an athlete?” The question escapes before I can stop it, laying my cards face-up on the table. “Would you give me a shot then?”
Something flickers in her eyes—hesitation, possibility, maybe even want—before she shakes her head. “No.”
“Why not?” I press, even though I should shut the fuck up, because I’d agreed to one night only.
She looks at me for a long moment, and I feel flayed open. Like she can see straight through to every insecurity, every doubt I’ve buried since my ankle went to shit.
“Because you’re complicated, Mike, hockey or no hockey.” She says it simply, like stating gravity exists. “And complicated is too much for me right now.”
The word hits like a slap shot to the throat.
Complicated.
Sophie climbs into her car without another word, the door closing with a soft thud that somehow sounds final. I stand there like a statue while she starts the engine and pulls away, her taillights disappearing around the arena’s corner like punctuation at the end of a sentence I never wanted to finish.
Complicated.
What the hell does that even mean? She doesn’t know me. One night of admittedly spectacular sex doesn’t make her a psychological profiler.
Except… fuck. Maybe it does.
Last yearwascomplicated. My ankle, the depression everyone insisted on calling a “funk,” the identity crisis that came with realizing I didn’t know who Mike Altman was without the Devils jersey. I’m still untangling that mess, still figuring out who I am when I’m not just a defenseman.
But now, I’m finally feeling solid again—ankle healed, head clearer, skills sharp, developing interests outside of hockey—and I’m staring down the biggest opportunity of my life. Three NHL scouts are confirmed for next week’s opener alone, to bear witness to my last shot to prove my injury wasn’t a career-ender.
To show I’m worth drafting despite missing crucial development time.
The smart play is obvious. Sophie needs distance, which aligns perfectly with the fact that I should focus on hockey and that the coach’s daughter should be completely off-limits anyway. No matter how good that night was. No matter how her eyes had gone soft and unguarded in the morning light.
No matter how my body apparently memorized every sound she made.
I shake my head hard, like I can physically dislodge the thoughts, because Sophie Pearson is officially forbidden territory. Case closed. So now I just need to convince my brain to stop replaying every moment of that night on an endless, torturous loop, and stop wanting more than is sensible or more than she can give.
