Page 61 of Changing the Playbook
“I think about you during practice when I should be focused on plays. During class, I’m doodling your initials in my margins like I’m thirteen years old.” He smirks. “I check my phone constantly like some kind of lovesick teenager, hoping you’ve texted.”
When he pauses, I know I should say something, but all I can do is stare at him, mouth slightly agape.
He continues. “I lie awake at night replaying our conversations like game tape, analyzing every smile, every laugh, every time you touched my arm, wondering if you feel the same as I do. I wonder if you think about that night at your apartment even half as much as I do, because I think about it constantly.”
“Mike…” His name comes out breathless, like I’ve been running full speed, trying to keep up with my mom.
“I think about you—aboutit—at extremely inappropriate times. During team meetings. During class. During—” He cutshimself off, color rising in his cheeks like a tide. “Sorry, that’s probably way too much information, because I’m basically admitting to being a creep.”
“No,” I whisper, my voice barely audible over the thundering of my pulse. “It’s not too much. It’s…”
Perfect. Terrifying. It’s everything I want and everything I know I can’t have wrapped up in six feet of muscle and terrible jokes and surprising emotional intelligence.
Mike releases a short, embarrassed laugh. “Look at me with the word vomit. Smooth move that drives women wild.”
I can’t stop the smile that spreads across my face, even though my chest feels like someone’s sitting on it. “It’s kind of endearing, actually.”
“Endearing?” He looks physically pained. “Just what every guy dreams of hearing. Right there with ‘you’re like a brother’ and ‘you have a great personality.’”
“Would you prefer ‘devastatingly-sexy’?” The words slip out before my brain can intercept them, apparently my mouth has decided to go rogue.
His eyes darken to the color of deep forest shadows. “I wouldn’t object, to be honest.”
The joke doesn’t seem to lift the heaviness of the moment as we stand there, breathing the same air and trying to navigate this minefield. I’m still holding his hand and his thumb traces patterns on my skin like he’s writing secrets only my nerves understand.
My heart hammers against my ribs. “Mike?—”
“I know I should keep my distance. You’re Coach’s daughter, I need to focus on hockey this year, and I’m leaving after this year.” He squeezes my hand gently. “But I don’t just want you, Icareabout you, so I need toknowwe’re both all in. Because I can’t do casual with you, Sophie. Not with you.”
Euphoria crashes over me first. It’s intoxicating, being wanted like this by someone who cares about me like nobody has before, and who asks what I need and actually listens. But then anxiety floods in, cold and overwhelming, because this is exactly what I swore I wouldn’t do.
Not with Mom’s health.
Not with grad school devouring my sanity.
Not with Hazel needing rides to fourteen activities.
And Mike just said it wouldn’t work for him, either. He’s got NHL scouts watching him weekly. At the end of the year, he’ll be leaving for some city that won’t be driving distance. More than likely, we’d have an expiration date from day one.
Mike is chaos in hockey skates. The guy who took up karaoke on a whim. Who modeled nude for art class because it “might be interesting.” And I know, no matter how good the packaging and how well-built the engine, that dating him would be like strapping myself to a rocket.
The idea of falling in love with Mike Altman is like deciding to go skydiving without a parachute when I haven’t even mastered tying my shoes. Terrifying, reckless and probably exhilarating, but guaranteed to end with me in pieces on the ground.
And there’s too much resting on my shoulders—too many people counting on me—for that. So I step back and drop his hand, creating physical distance to match the emotional walls I need to rebuild. My stomach twists with something that feels suspiciously like regret.
“You’re right,” I say, the words tasting bitter. “This isn’t… I’m not ready for anything but friendship with you.”
The words hang between us like a physical barrier. I brace myself for disappointment, for argument, for the hurt that would confirm how much he cares. Instead, his expression shifts into something calm and accepting, which shocks me most of all.
“That’s OK,” he says simply.
I blink, thrown by his easy acquiescence. If he wants me as badly as he just claimed, why isn’t he fighting harder? Why isn’t he trying to change my mind? The complete lack of visible disappointment is both a relief and strangely deflating.
“It is?”
“Of course.” His voice is soft but steady. “Sophie, I meant what I said. I care about you. That means I respect what you want.”
I swallow hard, uncertain how to respond to this mature acceptance. Jimmy would have pushed, would have made me feel guilty, would have pointed out how much better our relationship could be than our friendship. I’m not used to a guy—friend or otherwise—who simply accepts my choice without question.
