Page 78 of Changing the Playbook
“Found them!” Hazel’s triumph echoes from upstairs. “They were in the bathroom sink!”
“Why were your shoes in the—actually, never mind.” Sophie’s sigh is audible even from down here. “Just put them on.”
I move to more recent photos, and the difference in Sophie hits with brutal clarity. She still smiles, sure, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes anymore. Her hands are always occupied—steadying her mom’s elbow, holding Hazel’s hand. Even in candid shots, she seems vigilant for danger or work that needs doing.
Do her parents notice how she’s made herself responsible for holding their world together?
“Sorry about that.” Sophie appears at the bottom of the stairs, interrupting my thoughts before I can answer the question, Hazel bouncing beside her in unicorn-adorned glory. “She’s ready now, thankGod,so I just need to pack snacks and then we can?—”
“Actually, I brought everything we need, unless Hazel has strong negative feelings about PB&J?” I gesture toward the door, watching her closely. “And I also mapped out an easy trail with a picnic spot that allegedly has very friendly squirrels.”
Sophie freezes. “You brought food?”
“And bug spray. And enough water to hydrate a small army.” I keep my tone light, but I’m watching the way her fingers slowly uncurl from the bag strap. “Even threw in a first-aid kit because nothing says ‘responsible adult’ like being prepared for scraped knees.”
“Mike, you planned our whole day?” The words come out breathy, almost vulnerable.
Something in her tone makes me second-guess. Have I overstepped? Taken away her control when she needs it most? “We can do something else if?—”
“No.” The word escapes her lungs in a rush. “No, that sounds... that sounds perfect.”
Her shoulders rise a full inch, like I’ve just physically lifted a weight off her, and suddenly she’s smiling. Not the careful, measured smile from recent photos but something closer to that graduation girl. It’s unguarded and real, and the impact of it lands somewhere beneath my ribs.
“Come onnnn!” Hazel rockets past us toward the door, sneakers flashing with each step. “Are we gonna see bears? I want to see bears!”
“No bears,” I assure her, still watching Sophie. “But I think there might be a salamander or two if we’re lucky.”
“SALAMANDERS!” She’s out the door before either of us can respond. “YESSSSSSSS!”
Sophie shakes her head, but the smile stays. “You sure you know what you’re getting into? She’s basically a tornado in unicorn shoes.”
“Sophie.” I wait until those gray eyes meet mine, until I can see the war playing out behind them—the part that needs to control everything battling the part that’s just bone-deep tired—and then I give her the best reassuring smile I can muster. “I’ve got this. OK?”
The moment stretches between us, taut as a breakaway with an empty net. I watch her weigh the risk of letting go, and see the exact second she chooses trust over control. Something loosens in my chest when she nods, because I know that is a huge concession from her.
“OK,” she says finally, and the word sounds like a prayer. “OK.”
We head outside where Hazel’s already attempting to climb into my car. As I help her into the backseat and watch Sophie settle into the passenger side—hands empty, nothing to manage or fix or worry about—I make a silent promise to myself.
Today, she doesn’t have to be the responsible one. Today, someone else can handle the details while she just exists. Just breathes. Even if that someone is technically just her friend. Even if she never sees me as more than the guy who helped that one time.
At least I can give her this.
The fall sun catches on wet leaves, turning the trail into a glittering obstacle course of potential ankle-twisters. I test eachstep, feeling for that telltale roll that would send me back to physical therapy and snooker my hockey dreams once and for all.
But… nothing.
Just solid ground and the satisfying crunch of November beneath my feet. We’re barely twenty minutes in, but Hazel has already transformed into some kind of feral naturalist, disappearing and reappearing with breathless announcements about the local flora.
“That’s a white oak!” She points at a tree that looks exactly like every other tree to me. “And over there is a paper birch. You can write on the bark!”
I catch Sophie’s eye. “Is she always this encyclopedic about nature, or did she study specifically to impress me?”
Sophie’s laugh comes easier than I’ve heard it before. The constant tension that lives in her shoulders—that invisible weight I’ve watched her carry since we met—has loosened. For once, her phone stays buried in her pocket instead of clutched white-knuckled in her palm.
“She’s obsessed with trees lately,” Sophie says. “Last month it was rocks. Whatever captures her attention, she memorizes everything about it.”
“Smart kid.”
