Page 41 of Changing the Playbook
“Yes, Coach.”
He turns back to the game, but I catch the way his jaw works, molars grinding. The overreaction sits in my stomach like spoiled milk, because it’s not his usual style.
Did he find out about me and Sophie?
“Dude.” Maine’s elbow finds my ribs. “You look like you’re solving calculus without a calculator. What gives?”
The truth spills out before I can stop it. “I’m just nervous about tonight, that’s all.”
“Tonight?” His eyebrows climb. “Oh, the poetry thing. Mike. Tell me you’re going alone.”
“No.”
“Who’s going wi—” He stops mid-word. His mouth falls open. “No. Tell me you’re not.”
“Sophie’s coming with me.”
The name hangs between us like a live wire.
“Sophie.” He tastes the word. “Sophie Pearson. Coach’s daughter Sophie.”
“It’s not a date.” The lie tastes worse than the one about defensive strategies.
“Does she know that?”
“She’s the one who said it wasn’t a date.”
Maine stares at me with genuine concern. “Mike. Listen to me. Are you actively trying to destroy your season?”
“We’re just friends going to a poetry reading.”
“Friends.” He actually laughs, but it’s hollow, and then he glances toward Coach, who’s gesturing at Williams with sharp, angry movements. “Coach just lost his mind over one bobbled puck, so what happens when he finds out about you and his daughter?”
“There’s nothing to find out.”
Except I can still taste her. Still feel the way she trembled when I?—
“You can’t stop talking about her.”
“I mentioned her once!”
“At karaoke, you stared at her the entire night.”
“Altman! You’re up!”
Once again thankful for the reprieve from the relentless questioning, I grab my stick with enough force to test its flex rating. But Maine catches my jersey as I turn, and his face has gone serious.
“Look, I get it. She’s gorgeous, she’s smart, but man…” Another glance at Coach. “This is career suicide. You know that, right?”
“Noted,” I mutter, yanking free.
But as I hit the ice, Maine’s warning echoes in my skull. He’s right. Getting involved with Sophie—even as “just friends”—is playing with fire. One wrong move and everything I’ve worked to rebuild goes up in flames.
The scouts, the draft, the chance to prove last year was a fluke.
The problem is, I’ve already pulled the trigger. Have been pulling it since the moment she smiled and agreed to come tonight, that little crease appearing at the corner of her eyes.
And despite every logical reason to stop, despite the scouts in section 104 and the very real possibility of Coach literally murdering me with his bare hands, I can’t seem to point the gun anywhere else.
