Page 101 of Changing the Playbook
“And I met someone,” I say, the words tumbling out before I can stop them.
“Ah.” His smile turns knowing. “That explains the phone checking.”
“Was it that obvious?”
“You’ve looked at it four times since I mentioned the mobility program.”
Heat floods my face. “She has an exam next week. I’m… supportive.”
“I’m sure that’s all it is.” But his eyes are kind. “Mike, I’ve worked with hundreds of athletes. The ones who last—who have careers and lives they’re proud of—they figure out there’s more to life than their sport, and that there’s nothing wrong with being happy.”
“But what if focusing on other things means I lose my shot?” The fear I’ve been swallowing for weeks spills out. “What if I’m sacrificing the NHL for?—”
“For happiness?” He stands. “Let me ask you something. If you could only have one—the NHL or this life you’re building—which would you choose?”
The question should be automatic. Hockey has been my religion since I could hold a stick. The NHL isn’t just a dream; it’s the only dream that ever mattered. But, like the night at the bar with Maine, suddenly itdoesn’tfeel like everything I want.
Instead, I think about Sophie stealing my coffee this morning, and being offended by how much sugar she put in. About her victory dance when she finally understood some complicated nursing concept. About waking up excited for reasons that have nothing to do with ice time or scout reports.
“I don’t know.” The admission tears something loose inside me. “Not now.”
“Good.” He pats my shoulder. “The fact that it’s not automatic anymore? That’s called growing up, Mike. Keep doing your exercises, keep playing your heart out, and keep making time for whatever’s putting that smile on your face. The rest will work itself out.”
I slide off the table and he walks me to the door, physical slash mental therapy done for the day. And, when I’m outside, my mind churns through the implications of that question.
The old Mike had one setting: hockey. Every decision filtered through how it affected my game, my stats, my shot at going pro.
This Mike: he’s calculating whether six hours of mobility training is worth missing time with Sophie.
And, as if on cue, my phone rings as I push through the exit doors. Sophie’s name lights up the screen. “I thought we were texting,” I answer, already smiling.
“We were, but then I realized I needed to hear your voice to properly convey my horror.” Her breath comes fast—panicked, not winded. “Maya just informed me that there’s a mandatory nursing school mixer next Friday. With dancing, Mike.”
“So?”
“So I don’t dance. I especially don’t dance in front of the faculty who grade me.” Her voice pitches higher. “It’s a disaster.”
The panic in her voice makes my chest tight. “I could go with you. If you want.”
“To my nursing school mixer?”
“Sure. I’ll be your dance protection. Anyone tries to make you dance, I’ll challenge them to a dance-off.”
“That’s the worst plan I’ve ever heard.” She pauses, and her voice softens. “You’d really come to a boring nursing school thing for me?”
“Sophie, I’d do a lot more embarrassing things than crash a nursing mixer for you.”
Her laugh fills the parking lot, bright and real. “OK. Friday. It’s a date. But if you actually try to teach me the two-step or whatever, I’m breaking up with you.”
“We’re dating?” I tease. “Nobody told me. I would have worn better underwear if I’d known…”
She hangs up, but I know she’s smiling. I can always tell.
And, suddenly, a nursing school mixer with her sounds great.
Dr. Morges called it balance.
But I call it everything.
