Page 18 of Changing the Playbook
But Dad’s eager expression is kryptonite to my resolve. This job is his dream made manifest in the shape of a Division I program. The least I can do is smile at his players before retreating to my apartment for my fifteen minutes of tightly scheduled breakdown time.
“Sure,” I hear myself say. “But just a quick hello.”
His beam could power the arena. “They’ll love you!”
Doubtful, I think, but I follow him anyway.
The hallway stretches ahead, Dad chattering about his team—their stats, their potential, the senior leadership he’s looking forward to building. I nod and make appropriate sounds to feign some level of basic interest while calculating escape routes.
The locker room door swings open to reveal two dozen players in various states of undress—some in practice gear, others in street clothes, all radiating that particular cologne of athletic confidence and Axe body spray. As they spot us,conversations die mid-sentence, and twenty-four pairs of eyes lock on.
“Gentlemen,” Dad announces, oblivious to my fight-or-flight response. “I wanted you to meet my daughter Sophie. She’s getting her master’s in nursing.”
I attempt what I hope resembles a wave rather than a drowning gesture.
And then the world tilts.
As my eyes sweep across the room, they move past, then dart back to a guy standing next to his locker, pants on, shirt off. My body recognizes him before my brain catches up. Heat floods my face so fast I see spots. My pulse hammers against my ribs like it’s trying to escape. Every nerve ending I possess ignites.
Mike.
Mike.
“What do you like, Sophie?” Mike.
Kitchen counter Mike.
Three-orgasms-in-twelve-hours Mike.
He’s a hockey player.
He’s one of myfather’shockey players.
The room spins lazily, like I’m drunk on mortification. My brain supplies helpful flashbacks: me at the bar, explaining how I prefer guys who think about more than sports and frat parties. His odd expression that I’d attributed to confusion. The way he’d steered our conversation toward other topics.
“Sophie’s not much of a hockey fan,” Dad continues, apparently committed to making this worse, “so you probably won’t see her at many games.”
Polite chuckles ripple through the room. Mike’s face has gone carefully neutral, the practiced expression of someone trying desperately not to look like he’s seen me naked. But I see it—a muscle flinch in his jaw, the same tell he’d had when fighting not to come too fast.
I need to say something. Something normal. Something that doesn’t scream “I’ve had your teammate’s cock in me multiple times!”
“Nice to meet you all.” My voice pitches somewhere between soprano and dog whistle. “I’m sure you’re in, um, good hands with my dad.”
Hands.Why did I say hands? Now I’m thinking about Mike’s hands, which is the last thing I need when standing in front of two dozen hockey players and my father. Hands that had roamed all over me, and found places in me I didn’t know existed.
Thankfully, Dad launches into what sounds like a tactical briefing, while I hover near the door and figure out how to escape without being rude. While I try to look anywhere but at Mike while my peripheral vision stays locked on him like he’s the sun and I’m a damned flower with no choice in the matter.
Oh shit. He’s staring back.
Not obviously, but every time I risk a glance, his eyes are on me. Dark and intense and carrying the weight of every secret we created that night. It’s like the night at the bar, watching me, but this time there’s an added weight, because those eyes have seenplenty.
My skin prickles with sense memory: those eyes watching me come apart, the way they’d gone almost black when I’d told him exactly where to put his mouth, how they’d crinkled at the corners when he’d laughed at my terrible jokes over morning coffee.
But this is fine. Everything is fine.
I handle more shit than this every single day.
I just need to survive however long Dad’s speech lasts, then I can make some vague remark about wishing them luck for the season and flee home to process this disaster in private.My home, which isusuallya safe, hockey-player-free zone, with wine thatmightstill be good.
