Page 87 of Changing the Playbook
“The one with the demonic gargoyle out front.”
“Ah, Gerald.” He nods sagely.
“Who?”
“Legend says if you bring him coffee during finals week, you’ll ace it.”
I laugh. “You named the gargoyle?”
“My teammates in Building C had a whole ceremony. There were speeches.”
The absurdity of it—hockey players hosting a gargoyle christening—makes me laugh despite the nervous energy crackling under my skin. And then, again, we lapse into comfortable quiet. It feels practiced, somehow. Like we’ve done this a hundred times before, could do it a hundred times more.
The thought lands hard, stealing my breath.
When we reach my building, he pulls into a visitor spot and cuts the engine. The sudden silence feels alive, expectant. I don’t move, but he shifts to face me, one arm draped over the wheel, and the space between us shrinks.
“You’re a really good sister.” The words come soft, unexpected. “And daughter.”
I wave dismissively, heat crawling up my neck. “I just do what anyone would?—”
“No.” His voice goes firm. “You don’t.”
He reaches out, fingers catching my chin with impossible gentleness, tilting my face until I have nowhere to look but directly at him. “The way you take care of them, how you worry, how you still have time to keep on top of your own stuff… you’re kind of amazing, Sophie.”
I don’t say anything, literallycan’tsay anything, even as his thumb brushes my jaw, and every nerve ending in my body stands at attention. His gaze drops to my mouth, holds there, lifts back to my eyes, and in that moment I know exactly what he’s thinking.
“I really want to kiss you.” The words tumble out before I can stop them.
His eyes darken to something that makes my stomach swoop. “Sophie…”
“At the batting cages, I should have… I wanted to do more… I was scared…”
“I know you were. I know youare.”
“I don’t know what this means.” My voice comes out breathless, honest. “I know you don’t want casual and you’re ready for something more than that, but I don’t know what I can promise you beyond right now, Mike. But I can promise you I’ll try and I know that I want to touch you. Is that enough?”
“Sophie.” My name on his lips sounds like a prayer. “Giving it a try and living in the moment sounds fucking perfect to me.”
I nod, not trusting speech, and he leans in. His hand slides from my jaw to cup the back of my neck, and the first brush of his lips is gentle, questioning. But when I press forward, erasing the distance between us, he makes a sound deep in his throat that lights me up from the inside.
The kiss deepens, his tongue tracing the seam of my lips in a request I grant. His hand tightens in my hair, angling my head, and I’m drowning in him—the taste of mint and coffee, the rough scratch of stubble against my skin, the solid warmth of his chest when I grab his shirt to pull him closer.
It’s familiar from months ago but completely new, because now I know the patience in his hands when he teaches, the way his face softens when Hazel laughs, how he fits into the empty spaces of my life without forcing anything to change shape. When we finally break apart, both breathing hard.
He rests his forehead against mine. “No regrets?”
I shake my head, still clutching his shirt. “None.”
“Good.” He smiles, and I feel it more than see it. “So what happens now?”
It should terrify me. Everything I’ve been through, everything I’m still carrying… the weight should be crushing. But looking at him, at the heat and hope in his eyes, I find I’m not scared. I don’t know where this ends, but I know I want to start down the path together.
I let my lips brush his again, feather-light. “Want to come upstairs for coffee?”
His eyebrows climb. “Coffee? At—” he checks the clock “—nine-forty p.m.?”
“Well, I have tea if you prefer.” I keep my tone deadly serious. “Chamomile.”
