Page 37 of Changing the Playbook
My mind immediately supplies Mike moonwalking across that sticky stage, his gloriously terrible singing, the way he’dleaned close before Andy’s arrival shattered the moment. A smile threatens to appear on my face even thinking about it.
“Just Maya’s friends.” I force the smile away and keep my voice carefully neutral. “Some hockey players showed up.”
“Hockey players? At karaoke?” Her eyebrows climb. “And you stayed in the same room?”
“My friends were there.” I shrug. “Apparently they have hobbies beyond concussing each other.”
“Sophie.” But she’s fighting a smile. “Was one of them that nice captain your dad mentioned? Mike something?”
I nearly face-plant into the dirt. “How do you know about… never mind. Yes, he was there.”
“And?”
“And nothing. We talked. He murdered some perfectly innocent songs. Story over.”
Except the story includes my drunk ass agreeing to his poetry reading on Thursday. I’ve mentally changed outfits seventeen times, typed and deleted three different bailing-out texts, and generally regressed to my embarrassing high school self. The one who used to practice conversations in the mirror.
“You know,” Mom slows to a walk as we reach the park’s center, “it’s been a long time since you and Jimmy...”
“I’m aware.” The name still leaves an acrid aftertaste, disappointment mixed with relief.
“Maybe it’s time to?—”
“Focus on myself. Which is exactly what I’m doing.”
She studies me with that NICU nurse assessment that catches every microexpression. “Focusing on yourself doesn’t mean avoiding all human connection.”
“I’m not avoiding anything.” The lie sits heavy and obvious between us. I’m avoiding plenty—Mike’s eyes crinkling when he laughs, that flutter low in my belly when he grins, the memory ofour almost-kiss replaying obsessively in my brain, each viewing revealing new details I’d missed.
“Sophie, if MS has taught me anything, it’s that time is precious.” She pulls off her headband, wringing out the sweat. “You have to grab life with both hands.”
“Like taking shifts that make you collapse?”
Her expression hardens to granite. “Like not letting fear dictate how I live my life.”
The words land with surgical precision. Thursday night looms: Mike reading poetry, me pretending it’s not a date while every cell in my body knows better, hoping desperately he’ll keep things platonic because anything else might crack me open in ways I can’t control, leaving me raw and exposed, dependent on someone who could walk away when things get hard.
“Look.” She points across the grass. “Ice cream truck. Split a cone?”
“It’s nine in the morning.”
“Perfect time for spontaneous joy.” She’s already jogging toward the truck.
I follow, watching her order two scoops of mint chocolate chip—my favorite since I was five and she’d sneak me tastes when Dad wasn’t looking. I think about risks and fear and the way Mike’s whole face transforms when he laughs. About setbacks and control being nothing more than tissue paper against life’s storms.
And, at some point between her cone being delivered and mine, I conclude maybe she’s right. Maybe I’ve been gripping life so tightly I’ve forgotten how to actually live it. Or maybe I’m just desperate for excuses to justify showing up Thursday in the outfit I’ve definitely already chosen but won’t admit to choosing.
Mom hands me the cone, and I take a tentative lick. “You’re going to have a stomach ache during your shift.”
“Worth it.” She grins, looking more like eight-year-old Hazel than a woman who scared us all senseless four days ago. “Always worth it.”
I want to argue the logic. Want to point out that some things aren’t worth the risk, the pain, or the loss. But watching her attack that ice cream with the same intensity she attacks life—fearless and fully committed—I know I’ve already lost this battle. Just like I’ve probably already lost the war against Thursday night.
The ice cream melts faster than we can eat it, dripping down our hands in sweet, sticky streams. Mom laughs, catching drips with her tongue like a kid, and for this moment I can pretend we’re just normal people on a normal morning run. Pretend my chest doesn’t seize with dread every time my phone rings.
“So.” She wipes her hands on running shorts that cost more than my textbooks. “This hockey captain.”
I inhale ice cream and nearly choke. “I never said anything about?—”
