Page 1 of Changing the Playbook
act 1
one
SOPHIE
The bass linethrobs against my sternum, each beat synchronized with my rapid pulse. Maya practically shouts across our small high-top table, waving her mojito toward a non-college-age guy in a college bar who’s clearly trying too hard to look like he belongs here.
“What about him?” she says. “He’s been checking you out for the last ten minutes.”
“Maya!” I clutch my vodka soda like a life preserver, praying the dim bar lighting conceals the flush spreading across my chest. “Someone will hear you.”
“That’s the point!” She leans closer, her long black hair cascading over one shoulder. “Sophie, you deserve to get some. After the summer you’ve had?—”
“Don’t.” The word comes out sharper than I intend, and I soften it with a half-smile. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. You’re…” She circles her hand in my direction. “You’re wound tighter than my grandmother’s perm rollers. When’s the last time you had fun?”
I shrug in a way I hope passes for casual, which only makes her grin wider. Maya’s been on this crusade since we both transferred to Pine Barren from Michigan a month ago.According to her, my life is criminally boring, but she doesn’t understand I don’t havetimefor fun, and I know there’s no point saying that.
“I have fun,” I protest weakly.
“Studying for pharmacology exams doesn’t count.”
“I wasn’t going to say?—”
“And neither does reorganizing your clinical notes by color.”
I open my mouth to argue that color-coding is actually very satisfying when something pulls my attention across the bar. A guy sits alone at a corner table, beer in hand, looking completely at ease. He’s wearing a dark henley stretched across broad shoulders, his hair slightly mussed like he’s been dragging his fingers through it.
But what strikes me isn’t just how attractive he is—and he is—in that casual, effortless way that makes something low in my abdomen tighten. It’s how comfortable he looks, sitting there, by himself, on a Friday night. The bar is pulsing with groups drinking and shouting over the music, and there he is, just… existing.
Content.
How nice that must feel.
The thought of walking into a bar alone makes my palms prickle. What would I do with my hands? Where would I look? How would I not feel like everyone was cataloging my solitude? What else could I be doing with that time? Who would I be letting down by indulging in something like that?
But this guy is owning it.
He takes a slow pull from his beer, and then—oh God—his eyes lock with mine.
Logic screams at me to look away, but something in his expression holds me there, and then his mouth curves into a smile. Not a practiced smirk designed to get him laid or a cockygrin that says he knows how good he looks, but something warm and genuine that crinkles the corners of his eyes.
My lips curve upward before I can stop them, and?—
“Oh myGod!” Maya’s voice slices through whatever spell I’m under. “You’re checking someone out! This is historic! Where’s my phone to document this?”
I whip around fast enough to strain something, my face burning enough to power a small city. What am I doing? I don’t know this guy. He probably quotes Nietzsche at parties and thinks it makes him deep. Or worse, he could be one of those guys who negs women and calls it flirting. Or,yuck, an athlete.
“I wasn’t checking anyone out,” I mutter, but my mouth keeps fighting a smile.
Maya’s already stretching her neck like a prairie dog on patrol. “Corner table, looks like he could bench press me without breaking a sweat?” She lets out a low whistle. “Damn, Sophie. When you finally decide to window shop, you go straight for the Tiffany’s display.”
“Can you please stop?” I hiss, but the smile keeps undermining my indignation.
This is exactly why I stick to my system. When the itch needs scratching, I find someone at a party or a bar, let them make all the moves, follow their lead, and disappear before it becomes A Thing. That means there’s no complications, no expectations, no baggage, anddefinitelyno relying on someone. Because that just leads to pain.
“He’s still looking,” Maya stage-whispers with all the subtlety of a car alarm.
