Page 58 of Changing the Playbook
“Stop.” Sophie’s hand touches my arm, brief but warm. “It’s not a competition. Different doesn’t mean less valid.”
Her touch lingers for a moment before she pulls back, and I have to focus on not chasing the contact. Because, right now, in this moment, I know I wantthisas much as I want Sophie’s body and her laughter and her dancing and her everything. I want this emotional connection, to help her and be helped.
“Can I suggest something?” I ask. “About the worry spiral it sounds like you get into?”
Her expression turns wary. “I’m not going to stop checking on her, Mike, so don’t?—”
“Not asking you to. But what if… next time you’re waiting for her to text back and your brain starts composing worst-case scenarios, you text me instead?”
“What would that accomplish?”
“Distraction. Redirection. My therapist called it ‘disrupting the loop.’” I lean back against the fence, metal cool through my shirt. “When I was spiraling about recovery, convinced I’d never play again, I’d text Andy a hockey puck emoji so she’d know I needed help getting out of my own head.”
“Did it work?”
“Better than I expected. She’d send me the weirdest shit she could find online. About a woman who trained squirrels to water-ski, or a guy who built a functional computer inside Minecraft.” I shrug. “It’s hard to catastrophize when you’re watching tiny rodents navigate an obstacle course.”
Sophie’s laughing now, real and unguarded. “Your sister sent you squirrel videos?”
“Among other things. The point is, sometimes you need someone to pull you out when you’re drowning in what-ifs. So the offer stands. Text me. I’ll find you the internet’s finest distractions.” I smile at her. “And it gives your mom the break it sounds like she needs.”
She studies me, gray eyes searching for something. “I’ll think about it.” A pause. “You talk about your therapist a lot.”
The subject change is about as subtle as a brick to the head, but I go with it. “Changed my life. Literally. Without therapy, I’d probably still be doing two-a-day workouts and pretending my ankle wasn’t screaming. And I’ve got no doubt, now, that that would have left me on the bench, broken, with no future.”
“So now you spend your time helping wayward nursing students assault baseballs and trying new things,” she adds.
“Exactly. My therapist’s whole thing was that I’d built my entire identity around hockey. When that got threatened…” I gesture vaguely at my ankle, the traitorous bastard that’d almost ruined me. “Well, I’d had a complete system failure, so now I try things I’m terrible at on purpose.”
“Doesn’t it scare you?” she says, voice quiet. “Or feel like a waste of time?”
“No.”
Her breath catches slightly. “No?”
“No.” The word hangs between us, weighted. “If I hadn’t started this whole experiment, hadn’t been willing to make an ass of myself in new ways, I might have just fallen back into old habits, obsessing about hockey. And I wouldn’t have…” I pause, suddenly unsure how much to reveal.
“Wouldn’t have what?”
“Wouldn’t have met you.” I shrug. “Sitting alone at that bar was a new thing to try. Focusing on your pleasure was a new thing to try.” The honesty feels risky, but her expression softens, making it worth it. “Sure, eventually we’d have crossed paths, but I wouldn’t have gotten to know you. The real you.”
Sophie shifts her weight, unconsciously moving closer. “The real me is kind of a mess right now.”
“Bullshit.”
“I’m serious.” She sighs. “I’m constantly one text away from a panic attack, I’m barely keeping up with grad school?—”
“You’re juggling a master’s program, family crisis management, and whatever complicated thing is happening between us with more grace than most people could manage on their best day.” I turn to face her fully, needing her to see the truth in my expression. “Trust me, I’ve been an actual mess. You’re just human.”
The space between us has somehow shrunk to inches. I can see each individual freckle across her nose, the way her pupils dilate as she looks up at me, and the way her lips are pursed together while she thinks. The air between us feels flammable, and all it needs is a single spark to ignite.
“You’re good at this,” she says softly.
“At what?”
“Making me feel less crazy.”
“You’re not crazy. You’re just—” I search for the right words. “Feeling everything at full volume. I get that.”
