Page 77 of Changing the Playbook
“Yeah, I’m good. Significantly less likely to hyperventilate, which will spare me any embarrassing collapses.
“That’s what I like to hear.” He shoulders his bag, takes a step away, then turns back. “Hey Sophie? For what it’s worth, I think you’re going to be an incredible nurse. The fact that you care this much about your mom is exactly what’s going to make you great at taking care of other people.”
Before I can respond, he’s striding toward the arena. I watch him go, this complicated athlete who quotes his physiotherapist and volunteers to babysit and makes my worst moments feel manageable. The guy who sees my messy, complicated life and steps toward it instead of away. The guy who doesn’t try to fix me or my anxiety, but just stands beside me while I figure it out myself.
Maybe Ally’s right.
Maybe what I need isn’t someone to help carry the baggage or make it heavier. Maybe I need someone who makes me want to put some of it down and soar a little higher. And, for the first time in weeks, the worry in my chest has competition.
It’s small and fragile and probably stupid, but it feels suspiciously like hope.
twenty-two
MIKE
The morning air has teeth—thatsharp November cold that makes your lungs ache if you breathe too deep. So I’ve got my hands buried in my pockets as I walk down the driveway, my hockey coach’s driveway, to the red front door, my hockey coach’s front door.
The suburban normalcy of his house hits me, but I’m more distracted by the fact that, somewhere behind that red door, is Sophie. She told me to pick her up from her parents’ house rather than her apartment, because, and I quote, “getting Hazel ready is a ten-step process that takes hours…”
Easy enough for me, anyway.
The hardest thing I had to do was gather the supplies in the backseat of my car, which took an hour to gather this morning. Not because I’m trying to impress her (I totally am), but because she needs someone to take care of her for once, even if she’d rather chew glass than admit it.
The front door swings open before my knuckles meet wood.
“You’re Mike, right?” A blonde whirlwind bounces on her toes, grin stretching wide. “Sophie told me not to say anything about how you look or?—”
“Hazel!” Sophie materializes behind her sister, cheeks flushing pink. “That’s not… I didn’t say it like that!”
“Yes you did.” Small hands plant on smaller hips. “You said it exactly like that, and when I asked why you or I would care how he looks, you made the face.”
My chest tightens with something dangerously close to hope. “What face would that be, Hazel?”
Hazel transforms her features into an exaggerated dreamy expression—eyes soft, lips curved in a besotted smile. “This one she gets when she likes a?—”
“I do not make that face,” Sophie protests, but her smile undermines any attempt at indignation.
“You’re literally making it right now,” I point out, cataloging the way her eyes crinkle at the corners when she’s embarrassed.
Sophie’s eyes narrow, but warmth dances in them. She’s wearing jeans that have seen better days and a Pine Barren Hockey hoodie that swallows her frame. Her hair is pulled back in a messy bun that shows the delicate curve of her neck. She looks exhausted and in desperate need of twelve hours of sleep.
She looks beautiful.
“Come in.” She steps aside, ushering me in. “Hazel can’t find her shoes, which is basically our morning tradition at this point.”
“Ineedthe sparkly ones with the unicorns!” Hazel’s already halfway up the stairs. “They have magic!”
“Check under your bed!” Sophie calls after her, then turns to me with an apologetic shrug. “This could take a while, so make yourself comfortable.”
She disappears upstairs, chasing after Hazel’s chaos and leaving me alone in Coach’s living room. Photos cover every available wall space, and I gravitate toward them, searching for clues about the daughter of the man who controls my hockey future.
The evolution of the Pearson family plays out in careful chronology. There’s Coach, younger and less weathered by seasons of breaking down game tape. Mrs. Pearson radiates energy in every shot—marathon medals around her neck, dirt on her hands from gardening, always in motion even when sitting still.
And Sophie.
I step closer to what must be her high school graduation. She’s beaming at the camera with uncomplicated joy, mortarboard slightly crooked, sandwiched between her parents. No tension pulling at her shoulders. No careful catalog of everyone else’s needs running behind her eyes. Just pure, unguarded happiness.
Another photo snags my attention—Sophie at what looks like a college party, arm slung around a blonde girl, both caught mid-laugh at something off-camera. This was before, I realize. Before her mom’s diagnosis rewired her entire nervous system to run on high-alert, before she appointed herself guardian of everyone.
