Page 55 of Changing the Playbook
“Sometimes it feels like no one else remembers she’s sick.” The words tumble out before I can stop them. “You never ask how she’s feeling. Hazel acts like nothing’s changed. I’m the only one who cares she has a degenerative disease.”
Dad straightens, humor vanishing from his face. “That’s not fair, Sophie.”
“Isn’t it?”
“No.” His coach voice emerges—the one that makes grown men sprint until they puke. “But we’ve chosen not to let MS become the center of our lives. Your mother, especially, doesn’t want to be defined by her diagnosis.”
“But—”
“No buts.” He holds up a hand. “If something important happens with your mom’s health, we’ll tell you. Otherwise, treat her like you did before. Like your mother, not a patient you’re monitoring.”
The logic of it burns. They’re right. I know they’re right. But accepting it means acknowledging that I can’t control this,can’t ward off the future through vigilant observation. The helplessness tastes bitter.
“Fee.” Dad notices the moisture gathering in my eyes. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“I’m not upset.” The lie wobbles as the first tear escapes. I swipe at it angrily. “Message received. I’ll back off.”
“That’s not what I meant?—”
“I have to go.” I grab my bag, needing to escape before I completely fall apart. “I’m late for… something.”
I’m out the door before he can respond, walking fast enough that the hockey players lingering by the locker room blur into meaningless shapes. Heavy footsteps follow me into the hallway, but I don’t slow down. Can’t slow down. If I stop moving, I’ll start sobbing in the middle of the athletics complex.
The exit doors loom ahead. Just need to make it outside and get home, where I can ugly-cry in peace?—
Oof.
The sound punches out of me as I collide with something solid and warm.
Strong hands steady me as I stumble backward.
“Whoa there.” Mike’s voice washes over me as my eyes travel up to his face. His expression shifts when he takes in my wet cheeks. “Hey, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” I try to sidestep him,desperateto escape. “Sorry. Wasn’t watching where I was going.”
He moves with me, blocking my escape without making it obvious. “Right. And I’m trying out for the Ice Capades.”
A laugh bubbles up despite everything, wet and slightly hysterical. “Your triple axel needs work.”
“Harsh but fair.” He adjusts the hockey bag sliding off his shoulder. “Look, whatever made you cry, I’m not gonna force you to talk about it. But I was heading to the batting cages to hit things very hard with metal sticks, which is highly therapeutic.”
“Batting cages?” My brain struggles to switch gears. “Baseball?”
“Actually, it’s for my sports medicine paper on repetitive stress injuries. Gotta experience the shoulder rotation firsthand.”
“Another new thing?”
“Exactly. Though I’m starting to think I need a spreadsheet to track them all.” He pauses. “Too soon for spreadsheet jokes?”
My eyes narrow. “How did you?—”
“Lucky guess.” He studies my face. “So, do you want to come hit things? Maybe you can pretend the ball is whoever made you cry?”
“I wasn’t crying.”
“Course not.” He shrugs. “Just aggressive face-watering.”
I should go home and process the emotional pile-up of Dad’s confrontation in private, maybe eat ice cream directly from the container. Instead, I study Mike’s face—the genuine concern, the patience, the way he’s letting me decide.
