Page 97 of Changing the Playbook
“He went on a family outing? With the sister you guard like government secrets?” Maya’s jaw drops. “Who even are you?”
“I know.” The words come out wondering, like I’m still processing it myself. “He’s been so patient. Never pushing, always letting me set the pace…”
“Yes…”
“And Saturday night, after we dropped Hazel off…”
I trail off, lost in the memory of his hands, his mouth, the way he whispered my name like a prayer. And the repeat performances, every day since, and most days more than once.
“Sophie Pearson, you’re blushing!” Maya fans herself. “This is beautiful. You deserve to have all that stress fucked right out of you.”
“He brought me Pop-Tarts at 2:00 a.m. during clinical rotation study hell,” I admit. “Four boxes of Wild Berry.”
“Marry him.”
“He also makes the worst coffee I’ve ever tasted but swears his brewing method is revolutionary.”
“Never mind, run.”
“And when we’re in bed, he traces these patterns on my skin, like he’s writing secret messages?—”
“OK, marry him again.” Maya clutches her chest. “God, look at you. Glowing like a freshly fucked lighthouse. I’ve never seen you like this.”
She’s right. Being with Mike feels like standing at the edge of something vast and unknowable, except instead of being paralyzed by the drop, I want to jump and fly with him.
“Two coffees for Sophie!” the barista calls. “On the house, because you’re getting laid!”
I grab both cups, face flaming. “You’re definitely getting murdered later, but you’re lucky I’m rushing now.”
Maya pulls me into an awkward coffee-juggling hug. “I’m so happy for you, Soph. You deserve all the Pop-Tarts and terrible coffee in the world.”
The walk to the athletic center gives me too much time to think. Crisp air nips at my cheeks, leaves crunching underfoot—everything sharper, brighter, like someone adjusted the contrast on the world. This bizarre lightness in my chest that I’m starting to recognize as contentment keeps expanding.
The past few days blur together in a haze of firsts—waking up tangled in Mike’s sheets, his terrible singing in the shower, the way he looks at me like I’m something precious. It has all been wonderful and easy and warm, even though we haven’t yet defined exactly whatitis.
And the sex…
Maya wasn’t wrong about the glowing.
But it’s the quiet moments that keep ambushing me. His terrible jokes that make me laugh despite myself. How he actually listens when I ramble about nursing stuff, even the gross parts. The way he’s learned I need complete silence for exactly ten minutes after waking up before I can form words.
I’ve spent years building walls, convincing myself I didn’t have time for relationships, that depending on someone meant setting myself up for abandonment. But Mike didn’t storm my defenses. He just… kept showing up with his crooked smile until I couldn’t imagine my days without him.
The athletic center feels different today. This is Mike’s world too, I realize. Another piece of him I’m learning. So, as I walk the halls on the way to Dad’s office, I take in the team photos, spotting Mike a few times and smiling. And when I reach my dad’s door, I knock lightly before entering.
He looks up from his computer, surprise flickering across his features. “Sophie? Everything OK? Did I forget something with Hazel?”
“Everyone’s fine, Dad.” I hold up the extra coffee like a peace offering. “Just thought you might need caffeine.”
His expression shifts to something I can’t quite read. “You brought me coffee? Just because?”
“Revolutionary concept, I know.” I settle into the visitor’s chair. “Figured we could talk. Like, a conversation that doesn’t involve coordinating schedules.”
He stares at me for a beat too long. “That’s… that would be nice.”
The silence stretches, both of us apparently having forgotten how normal people interact. When was the last time we talked about something that wasn’t logistics or crisis management? When was the last time we talkedat allsince our Cold War kicked off?
He clears his throat. “How are classes?”
