Page 75 of Changing the Playbook
“Hey,” he says softly as we sit, his voice dropping to that register that probably makes hockey opponents want to confess their sins. “Talk to me.”
“Just a bad moment in class,” I finally manage, hating how small my voice sounds. “We’re doing patient assessment case studies.”
Mike waits. Like always, he doesn’t rush me or fill the silence with platitudes. He just exists there beside me, solid and patient, and somehow that makes it easier to continue.
“My group got assigned a patient with MS,” I whisper. “And, well, let’s just say everyone thinks I’m weird now.”
Understanding floods his eyes immediately. No confusion, no need for explanation. Just recognition. “Shit,” he says quietly. “That’s rough.”
Something about his complete lack of empty reassurances loosens the knot in my chest. He doesn’t sayit’ll be fineordon’t worry so muchor any of the useless phrases people usually deploy when faced with someone else’s anxiety.
“I completely lost it,” I admit, the words tumbling out now. “Couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. All I could see was Mom getting worse, needing a wheelchair, losing her independence, maybe her job…” My voice catches. “All the things I try not to think about every single day just came crashing down at once.”
“So you had a panic attack,” Mike says simply. “It happens.”
“Not to future nurses who are supposed to handle medical situations.”
“Pretty sure even nurses are allowed to have feelings about their own families.” He shifts slightly, and his knee brushes mine. The contact sends an unexpected jolt through me. “Having emotions about your mom doesn’t make you weak. It makes you human.”
I drop my hands and look at him, taking in the earnest expression on his stupidly handsome face. “How are you always so… reasonable?”
“It’s a new feature I’m testing out,” he says with that crooked smile that does unfortunate things to my ability to think clearly. “Limited warranty.”
Despite everything—despite the panic attack and the public humiliation and the fact that my mascara is probably somewhere around my chin—a small laugh escapes me.
“So,” he asks after a moment, his voice gentle, “how do you usually handle it? The anxiety about your mom?”
A sharp-edged laugh escapes this time. “Handle it? I don’thandleit. I just… coexist with it.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It is.” I focus on my hands, on the chipped clear polish that I keep meaning to redo. “And when something like this happens, and I realize I haven’t gotten better at all. I’ve just gotten better at hiding it. And all I want to do is call Mom right now and work through every possible scenario.”
Mike’s hand finds mine on the bench between us. His fingers are warm, calloused in places that speak of hockey sticks and weight rooms and a life lived in motion. He doesn’t interlock our fingers, just covers my hand with his, and somehow that makes it even more intimate.
“When I got injured,” he says, his voice taking on a different quality—deeper, more raw—“I drove my physiotherapist absolutely insane.”
“Really?” I turn my hand palm-up without thinking about it, and his thumb traces a light pattern on my wrist that makes concentrating difficult.
He nods, his eyes focused on some middle distance. “I became this complete control-freak. Wanted her to map out every possible timeline, every potential outcome. I had spreadsheets, Sophie. Actual spreadsheets with color-coded recovery scenarios.” His laugh is self-deprecating. “I was ridiculous and terrified.”
“Terrified of what?” I ask softly.
“That everything I’d worked for was gone. That I was going to be just another cautionary tale—you know, ‘promising player whose career ended before it began.’” He looks down at our joined hands. “I couldn’t handle the uncertainty, so I tried to plan for every possible future.”
“What happened?”
“She told me something that pissed me off at the time.” His thumb keeps moving on my wrist, and I wonder if he realizes he’s doing it. “She said planning for every possible problem islike packing for a trip to everywhere at once. You end up with a suitcase so heavy you can’t even carry it out the door.”
The analogy hits home with unexpected force. That’s exactly how I feel—weighted down by preparations for disasters that exist only in my imagination.
“She said it’s better to deal with things as they come,” Mike continues. “Because you can’t actually predict how you’ll handle something until you’re in it. The treatments might improve. Your support system might surprise you. You might be stronger than you think.” He finally meets my eyes. “Planning for the worst-case scenario just steals energy from dealing with right now.”
“That’s… annoyingly wise.”
“I know, right? I hated her for about a week.” His smile fades into something more serious. “But she was right. Took me months to even start believing it, another six to actually try living it. Still working on it, honestly, but it’s been a game-changer for me.”
I consider this, rolling the concept around in my mind. “So you’re saying I should just… stop worrying?”
