Page 33 of Changing the Playbook
She says “fine” the way I told my old coach my ankle was “fine” while mentally calculating how many Advil I could take before organ failure. But before I can dig deeper, Maya andthree other women descend on our table, and the dynamics shift instantly.
Maine becomes the gravitational center, like always, and Sophie retreats into herself, present but quiet while conversations flow around her. I’m trying to figure out how to draw her back out when disaster strikes in the form of a petite blonde with lash extensions that could qualify as weapons.
She slides into my other side, close enough that I can smell her perfume. “So you’re on the hockey team?”
“Yeah, defenseman.” I keep my tone friendly but flat, the verbal equivalent of a “No Vacancy” sign. “I’m Mike.”
“Mike? Captain, right?” Her hand lands on my forearm. “That must mean you’re incredibly good with your… stick.”
Christ. Did she seriously just?—
“I’m adequate,” I say, deliberately dense.
“I seriously doubt that.” Her fingers trail up my arm.
Across the table Sophie’s entire body goes rigid, her knuckles white around her drink. As I watch her, the blonde—who hasn’t bothered introducing herself—keeps talking, and Sophie’s jaw gets tighter with each giggle from the blonde. She’s nodding at whatever Cooper’s saying, but her smile looks fake and painful.
This is going downhill faster than Maine’s singing prospects.
I’m twenty-two, supposedly mature, about to graduate, and probably headed to the NHL. And yet I’m sitting here watching the one girl I actually want to talk to pretend I don’t exist while someone else treats me like a piece of equipment to be tested out.
“So do you guys have, like, groupies?” The blonde leans closer, displaying cleavage that’s trying very hard to escape her top.
“We’re Division I hockey, not Metallica,” I say. “Though some people follow the team, if that counts.”
“I could see myself as a hockey fan.” Her hand migrates from my arm to my thigh, and I shift away so fast I nearly fall off my chair.
Across the table, Sophie takes a long pull from her drink, staring at the karaoke stage with laser focus. I need to fix this. Now. So, as the middle-aged woman on stage finishes up “Love is a Battlefield” to scattered applause, suddenly I know exactly what to do.
“Excuse me.” I stand abruptly enough that the blonde has to catch herself on the table. “I have to go make a fool of myself.”
“Now?”
“Can’t wait. Time-sensitive foolishness.”
I’m already walking away when Kellerman’s snort follows me, but I don’t care. I scroll through the song list until I find the perfect choice: “Happy” by Pharrell. It’s impossible to look cool singing it, which is exactly the point, and it might be the antidote to the poison the blonde injected into Sophie and my… whatever it is.
The opening beats start and I grab the mic with confidence that’s ninety percent fake and ten percent desperation. My singing voice is what you’d generously call “shower quality,” but I launch into it with all the enthusiasm I can muster.
By the chorus, I’m bouncing around the stage having what can only be described as a full-body seizure, throwing in moves I definitely didn’t learn in dance class because Kevin would never endorse whatever the hell my legs are doing right now. The crowd gets into it, but I only care about one reaction.
Sophie’s.
She’s at our table with her hand pressed over her mouth, eyes huge.
But that’s not enough for me.
So I attempt something that might charitably be called a moonwalk but probably looks more like I’m trying to scrape gumoff my shoe, and she breaks. Doubles over, shoulders shaking, not the polite laughter from before but the real thing, helpless and gorgeous.
Victory burns hot in my veins.I did that. I made her laugh like that.
The song ends with me attempting a spin that nearly sends me into the speakers. The bar explodes in applause—pity applause, but I’ll take it—and when I get back to the table, I discover the blonde has migrated to Kellerman, who looks both thrilled and terrified.
“That was the most pathetic thing I’ve ever witnessed,” Maine announces cheerfully.
“Where did you learn to dance like that?” Sophie asks, still wiping tears from her eyes, and God, she’s beautiful when she’s not trying to be careful.
“That masterpiece was courtesy of six weeks of freeform dance classes.”
