Page 131 of Changing the Playbook
“It was.” He smiles. “You’re twenty-three. You’ve got a whole life to live. We don’t want you to be a prisoner to this. And it’s not fair to ask Mike to be, either.”
“Too late.” The words emerge soggy with snot and tears. “I already locked him in a cage because I was scared.”
Dad rounds the counter and pulls me into the kind of hug that’s gotten me through playground humiliations to first heartbreaks, and something in me breaks completely.
“You don’t cage someone you love, Sophie,” he murmurs into my hair while I sob into his shirt. “You become the reason they want to fly home.”
He holds me while I ugly-cry, this man who rewrote his entire life’s plan without anyone asking. And, when I finally surface from his embrace, my face feels swollen and raw.
“Thanks, Dad.”
“Anytime.” He hands me paper towels. “Though maybe next time we could talkbeforeyou demand life-altering sacrifices?”
A wet laugh escapes. “Yeah, I’ll add it to my Google calendar. ‘Tuesday: Destroy boyfriend’s dreams. Wednesday: Panic. Thursday: Cry on Dad.’”
Hazel’s voice floats from the doorway, dripping with disdain. “Are you done being weird? Because Jupiter needs another coat.”
She drags me back to the table, but my mind churns through every interaction with Mike. How selfish I’ve been, and how accepting of his help and his love I’ve been, and only sometimes giving it back.
How I only half-watched his games on my laptop while studying, treating every power play explanation with the enthusiasm of someone enduring a timeshare pitch.
How I called his NHL dreams “nice”—the same word you’d use for a child’s macaroni art—and how his stories about incredible shots by Maine or saves by Rook got the same ‘mm-hmm’ treatment as telemarketer calls.
Two hours and one solar system later, I’m sitting in my car outside my apartment, engine running, paralyzed. Mike’s in there, probably reorganizing my spice rack alphabetically or scrubbing grout that’s already sterile.
Being perfect.
Being compliant.
Being everything except the man who made me laugh until my sides ached.
My phone buzzes:
Game starts in 30. Heading to the rink.
I stare at this tiny reminder of everything I’m destroying. Before fear can talk me out of it, I’m driving toward the arena, Dad’s words on repeat.You don’t cage someone you love. You become the reason they want to fly home.
The parking lot teems with fans in Pine Barren jerseys, their excitement a foreign language I never bothered to learn. But tonight feels different. Tonight, I’m here to witness what I’m asking Mike to abandon.
I buy a ticket, finding a seat high in the stands where I can see everything but stay invisible. Where I can finally pay attention to the thing that makes Mike’s eyes light up the way they used to when he looked at me.
The arena thrums with pregame energy—skates carving ice, sticks cracking against pucks—and the air vibrates with anticipation thick enough to taste, until a PA announcer cuts through everything else.
“Number 18, your captain, Mike Altman!”
The crowd detonates.
The sound hits me physically, rattling my ribs and stealing breath.
And there he is, skating out with liquid grace I’ve seen before but never trulywitnessed. The jersey he’s wearing isn’t decoration—it’s identity, responsibility, dreams, fears, and everything I’ve been content to delete like junk mail.
He raises his stick to acknowledge the roar, but even from here, the absence shows. He performs the motions, present but notpresent, someone forced to recite their own obituary.
I did that. I took this away.
This isn’t just a career or possible paycheck. This is his soul.
And I asked him to rip it out and hand it to me.
