Page 25 of Changing the Playbook
The evening air bites with that specific October cold that promises winter’s coming whether you’re ready or not. And, when I reach Lorenzo’s, it glows warm through its windows, all checkered tablecloths and comfortable chaos. I spot Andy immediately, eyes locked on her phone in our usual corner booth.
And the sight makes me smile.
Because my ankle feels solid, the team’s coming together, our new coach seems an improvement, and the scouts will be watching me at the opener, and I should have a golden path to the NHL. And, just as importantly, I’ve found balance outside my hockey.
I should be on top of the world.
So why can’t I stop thinking about Sophie Pearson?
Complicated? Damn right.
eight
MIKE
Andy’s demolished halfan antipasto platter by the time I slide into our booth, and there’s a charcoal smudge on her left cheek that makes her look like she’s been fingerprinted by her art supplies. And the chaos of her—hair twisted into a gravity-defying bun, paint under her fingernails—is like a warm blanket.
“Five minutes late,” she says, not even glancing up from her phone. “That’s practically punctual by your standards.”
“Traffic was brutal.” The lie slides out smooth as the cracked vinyl beneath me, which protests my weight with a wheeze.
Her eyebrows shoot up, skepticism clear on her features. “You walked here from the arena that’s literally around the corner.”
“Scenic route.” I grin. “Had to stop and admire all the… architecture… or something.”
“That sketchy massage parlor?”
“That, and other architectural marvels of Pine Barren decay.” I steal an olive, and the brine bites sharp. “Very avant-garde.”
The waitress materializes before Andy can properly eviscerate me, a small mercy from the restaurant gods. We orderour usual: pepperoni and a beer for me, veggie and a cinnamon cider for her, and enough breadsticks to feed an invading army.
“So,” I start, pilfering another olive because petty theft from siblings doesn’t count. “How’s the semester shaping up?”
Andy launches into her schedule with the enthusiasm of someone who actually chose their major for love rather than obligation. She rattles off Advanced Figure Drawing, Contemporary Art Theory, and something about digital-traditional fusion that sounds boring and pretentious in equal measure.
Her phone buzzes mid-sentence, and I watch my cynical sister transform. Her face softens at the edges, the usual sharpness dialed down, and the change hits me hard.
“Declan,” she says, and his name in her mouth becomes an entirely different word than when I used to yell it across the ice.
“Didn’t say anything.”
“Your face has opinions,” she says, but her finger is already swiping across the screen.
Declan’s face fills the screen, all artistic dishevelment and sleep-drunk grin that sharpens the instant he sees her. “Hey, gorgeous.”
“Hey yourself.” Andy’s voice drops into a register I didn’t know existed in her vocal range. “How was the opening?”
“Incredible.” He gives her a gooey grin. “Sold three pieces to some collector from Munich who apparently has more money than God and worse taste in wine.”
While they talk, I become fascinated by the precise architecture required to balance maximum olives on minimum pizza space. But I can’t unhear the way Andy laughs or unsee how she traces invisible patterns on the table as if tracing the brushstrokes in whatever painting Declan’s describing.
“Show me the blue one again,” she says, the need in her voice similar to when Sophie had asked me to?—
No.
Declan angles his phone toward a canvas that shouldn’t work, all churning blues and grays that somehow capture drowning and floating simultaneously. Even through pixels and international data plans, it looks damn impressive even to a philistine like me.
“I was thinking about that morning at Pine Lake,” he says, vulnerability creeping into his voice. “When the fog was so thick we couldn’t see the shore.”
