Page 98 of Changing the Playbook
“Good. Exhausting, but good.” I sip my coffee. “How’s the team?”
And suddenly we’re just a dad and daughter again. His whole face transforms as he launches into game analysis, eyes bright with the passion that made him a great coach. I usually tune out hockey talk, but today I lean forward, genuinely interested.
“And Mike,” he says, pulling up video on his computer. “He’s got instincts you can’t teach. Watch this play from practice yesterday.”
Something flutters in my chest as I watch Mike on screen. He moves differently on ice—all controlled power and laser focus, reading plays before they develop—and this is another version of him, one I’m still learning.
“The injury could’ve ended him,” Dad continues. “Most guys never fully come back mentally. But Mike used it to grow. That’s rare. That’s someone special.”
Someone special.
Suddenly, those words terrify me a little—how special he’s become, how quickly. Because what the hell happens when special becomes essential? When I can’t imagine mornings without his terrible coffee or nights without his warmth next to me?
“He’s been good for morale too. Knows when to push and back off. He knows that real leadership is about understanding people.”
There’s weight to his words, layers underneath hockey analysis. My dad coached the boy who destroyed me in high school. He knows why athletes became landmines in my life, why I spent years crossing streets to avoid team jackets.
He opens his desk drawer and pulls out folded newsprint—our hometown paper’s Saturday crossword, delivered here even though we’re states away. The familiar smell of newspaper ink hits me, and suddenly I’m twelve again, before everything got complicated.
“Old habits,” he murmurs, spreading it between us.
My throat tightens, that peculiar ache when tears threaten. Saturday mornings before hockey consumed everything, before Mom got sick, before I learned to be afraid of depending on anyone. Just us and shared puzzles and comfortable silence. The ritual we lost somewhere between diagnosis and now.
“Seven across is ‘eternal,’” I say, voice rough. “It intersects with twelve down.”
We fall into ancient rhythm—him tapping his pencil against his teeth (still the same brand, Dixon Ticonderoga #2), me chewing my bottom lip. For twenty minutes, we’re not exhausted caregivers juggling impossible schedules. We’re just us, connected by newsprint and terrible puns.
“I’ve missed this,” he says as we fill the last square.
“Me too.”
He sets down his pencil, turning to face me fully. “Sophie, about you and Mike.”
My spine stiffens. “Dad?—”
He smiles. “I ran into him at the campus store yesterday. Buying Pop-Tarts.”
Oh God, not this conversation. “Maybe he just likes Pop-Tarts?”
“I enforce strict nutrition standards during season.”
“So?” I say, hopeful he might have failed to connect the dots.
“No player of mine risks my wrath for junk food unless…” he trails off.
“Unless they’re idiots?”
“Unless they’re in love.”
Love.
The word hangs between us, too big for this cramped office full of game tape and old trophies. My pulse stumbles, then races. Love. Not like, not infatuation, not just really great sex. Love. The thing I’ve spent three years avoiding because love means needing someone and needing someone means?—
“Dad, we just started?—”
“He checks his phone constantly during practice, which I should bench him for, but…” His hand covers mine on the desk, calloused and familiar. “I also see how happy you are, and I’m glad. You’ve been carrying the world for so long, sweetheart. It’s good to see you living your own life.”
Tears prick my eyes. “Thanks, Dad.”
