Page 85 of Changing the Playbook
“Good.” His gaze remains fixed on the stairs. “Your mother enjoyed the restaurant.”
“That’s great.”
“Mmm.”
The silence stretches taut between us once again, the Cold War between us still being waged. I’m contemplating a detailed analysis of tomorrow’s weather when Mike reappears at the topof the stairs, backlit by the hallway light in a way that makes my stomach flip.
“She didn’t even stir.” He descends with the same easy grace. “I made sure her nightlight was on. Hope that’s OK.”
Something behind Dad’s eyes softens incrementally. “That’s fine. I appreciate you bringing her home.”
Mike comes to stand beside me, close enough that the heat of him presses against my awareness, but far enough to maintain plausible deniability. Dad’s gaze tracks between us with the focus of someone who’s spent decades reading player positions.
“How was the climbing gym?” The question is aimed at Mike, but it’s not really about climbing.
“Good, sir,” Mike says, and then he grins. “Hazel’s got no fear. Made it to the top before either of us.”
“Like her mother.” A ghost of a smile crosses Dad’s face. “I’m actually surprised she only beat you once.”
“Three times,” I add, desperate to steer us toward safer conversational territory. “She would’ve kept going if they hadn’t announced closing time.”
Dad nods, still dissecting Mike with his eyes. But it’s not his coach look. I know that one. This is something else. This is a father evaluating the young man who spent Saturday with his daughters, and the silence stretches until my skin prickles with the weight of it. Then, finally, Dad gives Mike a small nod.
Mike’s shoulders drop a fraction. He’d understood the test, accepted the risk. Dad could make his life hell—bad ice time, poisoned references to scouts, the works—but he’d shown up anyway. And my dad knows it as well, and has now ticked off on… whatever this is.
“Rose is in the kitchen,” Dad says, his tone lighter. “She’d like to hear about your day, Sophie.”
It’s a dismissal wrapped in politeness. I hesitate, caught between them. “Uh, I think?—”
“It’s fine, Sophie.” His voice gentles. “Go on.”
I aim what I hope is a reassuring smile at Mike—though it probably looks more like I’m experiencing mild indigestion—and escape toward the kitchen, where I find Mom scrolling on her iPad when I enter. She doesn’t notice me right away, so I take a second to take a mental stocktake of her.
She looks tired, but happy.
And her face transforms at the sight of me. “There’s my girl!” She stands and enfolds me in a warm hug. “How was the day with Hazel andMike?”
The emphasis on his name could power a small city. “Hazelhad a wonderful time,” I say pointedly, breaking the hug and sitting opposite her.
“Just Hazel?” Her eyes sparkle with maternal mischief.
“How was your appointment?”
She flaps a hand. “Oh, fine. But your father found that little Italian place I’ve been stalking on Instagram. Sophie, the pasta. I nearly asked to lick the plate.”
“Mom!”
“What? The waiter was very understanding.” She shrugs. “Said it happens all the time.”
Despite myself, I laugh. The image of my proper father watching Mom commune with her cacio e pepe is amusing in the extreme, but footsteps in the hallway cut my response short. Mike appears in the doorway looking vaguely shell-shocked but intact. Whatever dad said, Mike survived.
“Oh!” Mom’s delight could probably be seen from space. “Sophie didn’t mention I’d get tomeetyou.”
My face goes nuclear. “Mom, this is Mike. Mike, my mom, Rose.”
He steps forward with that easy charm that probably sells hockey tickets. “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Pearson.”
“Rose, please.” She studies us both with scientific precision. “So you’re the one who conquered the rock wall with my girls?”
