Page 65 of Changing the Playbook
The certainty settles deep in my bones.
Maybe that makes me pathetic. Maybe Maine would stage an intervention if he knew I was turning down guaranteed action for a woman who friend-zoned me. Maybe I should be trying to move on, looking for girls who come with less complexity.
But I can’t.
I won’t.
Because here’s what I’m learning: I don’t do casual anymore. Not with my body, not with my time, and definitely not with my heart. Sophie Pearson has ruined me for anyone else, and the strangest part is that I’m totally OK with it, because I can’t imagine anyone else being worth it.
And, for just a moment, I let myself feel the weight of this choice. The weight of choosing possibility over certainty. Of choosing hope over distraction. Of choosing the maybe of Sophie over the sure thing of anyone else. It feels like growth.
It feels right.
nineteen
SOPHIE
I’m scrubbinga counter that’s already clean enough to perform surgery on.
But there’s a spot—an invisible, microscopic spot that possibly only I can see—that refuses to surrender to my assault with bleach and elbow grease. So I attack it again, the sharp chemical smell burning my nostrils as I put my entire body weight into the motion.
My kitchen hasn’t been this pristine since… well, never. The stainless-steel sink gleams under the overhead light. The stovetop has been scrubbed so thoroughly I’m pretty sure I’ve removed a layer of the actual surface.
And now I’m working on this one stubborn spot on the counter that probably doesn’t even exist, but it gives my hands something to do while my brain churns through its usual rotation.
Mike. Mom. Hazel. Dad. Mike. Mom. Hazel. Dad.
Mike.
My stomach clenches when I remember how I’d practically thrown myself at him at the batting cages, only to slam on the brakes when he asked if I was sure. His face—confused, a little hurt, but still so goddamn respectful—burns behind my eyelids.
He’d asked if I was sure because he didn’t want to be something casual. Thedreamstatement for most girls. And I’d bailed, because I didn’t—couldn’t—want that either, for too many reasons. His hockey, my commitments, and the cold terror of relying on someone again only to have them disappear.
And that’s exactly why I had to push him away.
So why does my chest feel hollow, days later?
Even watching his game online last night (purely research,obviously, since Dad coaches the team) didn’t help. Mike commanded the ice—powerful, skating with this effortless grace that shouldn’t be possible for someone his size—and did it with a grin on his face.
The commentators wouldn’t shut up about NHL scouts, about how he was a lock for the draft. Which means after this year, he’ll vanish. To Pittsburgh or Boston or Canada. Just one more reason why getting involved would be catastrophic.
Mom.
My bicep burns as I attack the counter harder. Mom had texted earlier about taking on another hospital shift this week, calling it “fun.”Fun. But everyone keeps telling me I’m the one pushing too hard and that I need to back off, while she’s treating MS like a minor annoyance.
Hazel.
My little sister with her impossible schedule that I somehow need to manage. The kid who needs to be in three places at once and considers that completely reasonable. The child who recently announced she also wants to join the school choir, which practices—surprise!—at the exact same time as soccer.
Dad.
The standoff between us hasn’t thawed since he told me to “back off” about Mom’s health. In true Pearson style, we’re waging our cold war through polite small talk and strategic avoidance, but the tension could be sliced with a butter knife?—
The phone rings, startling me so badly the sponge flies from my hand. Ally’s name and face flash across the screen. I wipe my hands on my sweatpants and answer.
“Whoa, you sound stressed,” Ally says immediately. “I can practically hear you grinding your teeth through the phone.”
I retrieve my sponge from the floor and throw it in the sink. “I’m not stressed. I’m cleaning.”
