Page 73 of Changing the Playbook
The silence that follows could be measured in epochs. Maine and Rook exchange the kind of look that usually precedes interventions, and I know where this is headed.
“Amber,” Maine clarifies slowly. “Legs that could stop traffic. Tits that could start religions. Does that thing with her?—”
“I know who Amber is.”
“And you’re not interested?” Rook looks genuinely concerned for my health. “You dying? Should we call someone?”
“He’s hung up on Coach’s daughter,” Maine explains with the subtlety of a slap-shot.
Rook’s eyes go wide. “Sophie Pearson?Dude. That’s…”
“I know.”
“Like, spectacularly stupid.”
“I’m aware.”
“Career-endingly stupid.”
“Got it, thanks.”
“But worth it?” His voice drops the jokes, goes serious.
The question hangs there, demanding truth. Worth risking Coach’s wrath? Worth complicating everything? Worth upending the careful balance I’ve built between who I was and who I’m becoming?
“Yeah,” I say, meaning it down to my bones. “Worth it.”
The bar noise swells around us—laughter, arguments, the eternal soundtrack of almost-adults pretending we have answers. But all I can think about is Sophie, somewhere else, maybe thinking about me too, maybe typing and deleting her own messages.
“Another round?” Maine asks.
I check the time. 11:47. “I’m out,” I say. “Early practice.”
“It’s Thursday night,” Rook protests. “Live a little.”
I think about Sophie’s poem. About living like you’re not afraid of the landing.
“Maybe next time,” I lie, already moving toward the door.
Because the truth is, I’m already living.
Just not in any way these two would recognize.
twenty-one
SOPHIE
The PowerPoint slideclicks over to reveal today’s class agenda, and an unfamiliar spark of anticipation shoots through me.
Advanced Physiology and Pathophysiology isn’t usually the highlight of my week—it’s three hours of dense medical terminology that makes even the most dedicated nursing students contemplate dropping out. But today’s agenda changes everything.
Professor Mahoney clears her throat. “Today, you’ll be working in groups to assess a fictional patient’s care needs based solely on their medical record.”
A collective groan ripples through the room, but I straighten in my seat, pulse quickening. This isexactlythe kind of practical application I’ve been craving—the reason I dragged myself through endless lectures on cellular pathology and biochemical interactions.
Mahoney continues, unaffected by the room’s lack of enthusiasm. “You’ll have forty-five minutes to review the case and develop a comprehensive care plan. I expect detailed assessment of physical needs, psychological considerations, and long-term management strategies.”
I pull my laptop closer, already mentally organizing how I’d approach this. Even before Mom’s diagnosis, this was what attracted me to nursing. Not just treating symptoms, but seeing the whole person and understanding how to advocate for them when they’re at their most vulnerable.
