Page 26 of Changing the Playbook
Andy’s hand drifts to the screen, fingertips grazing glass like she believes in the physics of love transcending space-time. The gesture is so unconsciously intimate that I have to look away, but not before catching her expression, unguarded and open.
Their goodbye ritual involves three separate “no, you hang up first” exchanges, blown kisses that would earn legendary chirping in any locker room, and Andy making these tiny humming sounds I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear becausegross. And, when she finally disconnects, she catches me staring.
“What?” she says.
“Nothing.” I select an olive with surgical precision. “You guys are good together.”
“Yeah,” she says simply, like it’s that easy.
The pizzas arrive in a cloud of steam, and I watch Andy start on her first slice while that soft smile keeps haunting the corners of her mouth. It’s the same sort of smile that I caught on my face in Sophie’s bathroom mirror the morning after. Before she called me complicated like it was a terminal diagnosis.
“Michael Scott Altman.” Andy wields my full name like a scalpel. “What’s happening in that overtaxed brain of yours?”
“Nothing.”
“Right. That’s why you’re creating meat sculptures.” She points at my plate, where I’ve apparently constructed apepperoni Tower of Pisa, complete with structural lean. “You only do that when a girl’s got you twisted into emotional origami.”
The pizza turns to sawdust in my mouth. “That’s not?—”
“Summer before senior year. Ashley Maddox. You built a pepperoni Stonehenge that fell onto my plate and covered my garlic knots.” She leans back in the booth with the satisfaction of someone who’s just solved cold fusion. “So who is she?”
I could lie. Should lie. Instead, words tumble out like they’ve been waiting at the starting blocks. “I met someone a few weeks ago.”
“And?”
“And nothing. She made it crystal clear that she didn’t want anything ongoing and that I’m too complicated to date. Apparently, I’m the human equivalent of IKEA furniture—looks good in the showroom but comes with impossible instructions and missing pieces.”
Andy liberates a pepperoni from my architectural disaster, chewing thoughtfully. “I mean, she’s not wrong.”
“Really feeling the family support here.”
“Listen.” She aims her pizza slice at me like a precision instrument. “Youarecomplicated. You overthink everything, you’re weirdly intense about random stuff, and you’ve got this whole brooding athlete thing that screams early-season teen drama.”
“This pep talk is really?—”
“But,” she steamrolls forward, “you’re also stupidly loyal and actually funny when you’re not marinating in your angst. Plus, you give a shit about people in ways that matter, not just for show. If she can’t see past the complicated to get to the good stuff, that’s on her.”
“She hates hockey players.” I take a bite, taking out my frustration on the pizza. “Like, actively despises us as a species.”
“So did I until Declan proved they could be housetrained.” Andy’s chewing halts abruptly. “Wait. Is she hot?”
“Andy.”
“It’s valid. If you’re going to pine over someone who fundamentally objects to your existence, she better be worth the emotional labor.”
Sophie’s laugh ambushes my memory. That surprised, delighted sound when I said something that caught her off guard. The?—
“Your face just did something disturbing.” Andy launches her napkin at my head. “But also kind of sweet. Dude, you’re actually gone for this girl.”
“Doesn’t matter. She said no.”
“Did she, though?” Andy steals another pepperoni, building her case like evidence. “What were her exact words?”
“That she doesn’t do complicated.” I take another bite. “That athletes aren’t her type.”
Andy scoffs. “Hardly a unique statement. But did she specifically ban you from her life forever?”
“She got in her car and left me standing there, Andy. The subtext had its own zip code.”
