Page 69 of Changing the Playbook
“Give Mike a chance. Or at least, give yourself a chance with Mike. Stop assuming it’s doomed.”
I stare at the framed photo on my bookshelf—Mom, Dad, Hazel, and me at my cousin’s wedding, before the diagnosis. We’re all laughing at something Dad said. When was the last time we all laughed together? Or how long since I laughed when Mike wasn’t around?
“I’ll think about it,” I say finally.
“That’s you-speak for ‘I’ll overthink it until I’ve created ten disaster scenarios.’”
“It’s called being thorough.”
“It’s called being chicken.”
“I prefer cautious.”
“Bawk, bawk, bawk.” Ally’s chicken noises continue until I laugh.
“Goodbye, Ally.”
“Love you, chicken.”
“Love you too.”
The line goes dead. I sit there, phone still pressed to my ear, her words echoing.
Someone who lifts you up instead of someone to lean on.
twenty
MIKE
The cacophonyof Thursday night hockey hits me before I even settle into the booth—pucks cracking against boards on three different screens, classic rock bleeding through tinny speakers, the sharp bite of spilled beer and fried food hanging thick enough to taste. And across from me, Rook’s on a mission.
Mission name:pickup attempt number three.
Target acquired: petite junior with a laugh that carries.
Mission status: somehow, against all logic and good taste, succeeding.
“Did he seriously just drop the parking ticket line?” Maine’s voice carries that particular tone of disbelief reserved for watching train-wrecks in slow motion, even as he slouches deeper into cracked vinyl, making the booth protest.
“Third time’s the charm, apparently.” The foam on my beer tastes bitter, or maybe that’s just my mood. “But I guess he never gets to take any shots on the ice, so he has to compensate.”
“Two rejections and he bounces back like this?” Maine’s knee bounces under the table, a restless rhythm that hasn’t stopped since we sat down. “Gotta respect the complete lack of self-preservation.”
On the screen above us, a Bruins forward splits the D and goes bar-down. Beautiful goal. Would’ve had the whole bar on its feet five years ago. Now? Nothing. When half your drinking buddies could make that shot blindfolded, the magic dims a little.
“Twenty says she shoots him down.” Maine’s eyes track Rook like a sniper, then he grins. “Actually, make it ten.”
The girl’s twirling her hair now, leaning into whatever garbage Rook’s selling. Her hand lands on his forearm—the universal signal foryou’re doing something right.
“Twenty or bust, asshole,” I say.
“Fine.”
I laugh. “Look at her body language. Better get your wallet out, because he’s about to seal the deal.”
Maine squints, and I can practically hear the gears grinding. “What happened to ‘Rook couldn’t close if the door had an automatic sensor’?”
“Kid’s funnier this year.” My finger traces condensation patterns on my glass. “Should be captain next year after you graduate and I’m… gone.”
