Page 20 of Changing the Playbook
Coach clears his throat and gestures at me. “This is?—”
“Mike Altman.” I stand and extend my hand like we’re strangers.
Sophie forces a smile and, when our palms connect, her skin is exactly as soft as I remember, triggering a sense memory of those same fingers digging into my shoulders. For one reckless second our eyes meet, and a million questions and answers flare between us, and then it’s done.
“Nice to meet you,” she says, formal as a tax audit, yanking her hand back.
Nice to meet you?
Lady, I’ve had my mouth on you in ways that would make a porn star blush.
But, sure, let’s pretend we’re exchanging LinkedIn profiles.
“Sophie’s going to be around the rink sometimes,” Coach explains while I try not to think about how her hands had felt twisted in my hair. “My wife has some health stuff going on, so Sophie helps coordinate my younger daughter’s schedule.”
Well, there are the family obligations she’d briefly mentioned but declined to provide much detail about. Of course. I’d been too busy respecting her one-night boundary to ask questions, too focused on memorizing the way she moved beneath me to care about backstories.
Coach launches into his new-season philosophy—team culture, academic standards, and representing the university with class. I should be absorbing every word, but instead, I’m hyperaware of Sophie’s every micromovement as she hovers by the door, shoulders rigid with discomfort, keen to escape.
Every few seconds, I sneak glances at Coach, searching for any hint he’s picked up on the tension crackling between his daughter and his team captain. But from what I can tell, he’s all enthusiasm and dad-pride, dropping “my daughter” into sentences like he’s showing off a trophy.
And I can’t disagree that she’s a hell of a prize.
Sophie, meanwhile, deserves an Oscar for her performance. Each time Coach says something particularly paternal, sheproduces this tight, polite smile that reveals absolutely nothing. If I didn’t know better—if I hadn’t been in her apartment, in her bed, in her—I’d buy the act completely.
But Maine’s watching me with raised eyebrows and a question scrawled all over his face that I pretend not to understand. Because thelastthing I need is his particular brand of romantic wisdom, which generally involves shooting your shot with anything that moves and sorting out the carnage later.
“And remember, gentlemen,” Coach wraps up, capping his marker with finality, “we represent this university both on and off the ice. We’re a family, and family means both support and accountability. I expect excellence in your conduct, your academics, and your commitment to this team.”
His gaze sweeps the room, landing on me. I straighten my spine and nod gravely, channeling every ounce of captain aura I possess. But as the guys look to me, I look to Sophie, who’s already halfway out the door without a backward glance.
“That’s all for today.” Coach nods. “Captain, a word?”
The guys make exaggerated “ooooh” sounds like I’ve been hauled to the principal’s office after skipping class, and Rook makes a sound that resembles a police siren. I subtly flip them off as I approach Coach while they file out, Sophie vanishing before the first player reaches the door.
Coach grips my shoulder. “Altman, the team’s energy feels great, and I think that’s largely your influence.”
Pride swells despite the chaos ricocheting through my skull. “Thanks. I’ve been working on it. I was an asshole last year and, well, I’m trying to do better.”
“It shows.” He squeezes before letting go. “Listen, I’m thinking about some team-building activities before our first game...”
He talks. I nod. Something about trust falls or escape rooms or virgin sacrifice—honestly, I’ve got no fucking clue what I’magreeing to because my brain is still processing the nuclear bomb that just detonated in my carefully reconstructed life.
“Sounds great,” I manage when he pauses expectantly. “I’ll talk to the guys.”
He claps my back. “Good man.”
Throwing on a shirt, I escape from the locker room and into the corridor, my footsteps echoing off the concrete. The familiar arena sounds—distant Zamboni hum, muffled music from the weight room—usually center me, but right now they feel like they’re coming from underwater.
I shove through the exit doors and freeze.
Sophie stands at what must be her car, as the late September wind whips loose strands of hair across her face. For a second I just watch, knowing I should leave. Walk away and protect us both from whatever disaster lurks around this corner. That would be the smart play. Instead, I walk straight toward her.
“Hey,” I say.
Her shoulders snap taut before she turns. “Mike. Hi.”
We stand there, neither of us sure how to navigate this minefield. The breeze carries the scent of her shampoo—vanilla, I remember—and I shove my hands in my pockets to keep from doing something catastrophically stupid like reaching out to touch her.
