Page 36 of Changing the Playbook
“Careful,” I warn, fighting my own grin. “I might accidentally be good at it.”
Her smile turns into something softer. “I know you’re good, Mike.”
The words land between us, combustible, just waiting for a spark to ignite. For a second, neither of us moves, both remembering exactly what I’m good at, what we’re good at together. Then Sophie blinks, color flooding her cheeks as she realizes what she just said.
“I should go,” she says quickly, gathering her things.
“Sophie—”
“Thursday,” she confirms, already backing away. “I’ll be there.”
She sets the land-speed record, and is gone before I can respond, leaving me sitting alone with the ghost of her perfume and the memory of that almost-kiss. My phone buzzes—a text from Maine consisting entirely of eggplant emojis—but I ignore it.
Thursday can’t come fast enough.
eleven
SOPHIE
My legs screamwith each stride, lactic acid flooding my muscles as I struggle to match my mother’s relentless pace. Sweat streams down my spine, soaking through my sports bra, and my lungs seize with each desperate inhale, raw tissue protesting the cool morning air.
She’s fifty years old with a chronic neurological condition, and she’s absolutely destroying me on this trail.
But that’s not even the worst part. No, that award goes to the fact I’ve spent twenty minutes trying to corner her about her latest health scare, only to get twenty minutes of her deflecting with the practiced ease of someone who’s spent decades soothing terrified parents in the NICU.
“It wasn’t an attack or a relapse, Sophie.” Her breathing stays maddeningly steady while mine comes in desperate gasps. “Just a pseudoexacerbation.”
I have to stop, hands on my knees, gulping air. “Justa pseudoexacerbation that left you on the floor.”
“Because I was stressed from picking up Hannah’s shift.” She says it casually, as if discussing weather patterns while I’m drowning.
The dismissal makes my ribs constrict, pressure building behind my sternum. “You shouldn’t have taken that shift.”
Mom’s gray eyes—the exact shade and shape as mine—sharpen to steel. “Hannah’s son had pneumonia. She needed coverage. End of story.”
“And it had to be you?”
“Yes.” No hesitation. No apology. Just that stubborn set to her jaw that means this conversation is over. “It had to be me.”
I want to grab her shoulders and shake her until she understands this doesn’t just affect her. Dad finding her dizzy and disoriented on their bedroom floor. Hazel watching her forget the name of her best friend mid-sentence. Me getting texts full of “everything’s fine” when nothing, absolutely nothing, is fine.
“Enough.” She accelerates, as if physical distance can create emotional space. “Tell me about your semester so far.”
The dismissal stings, but that jaw says I’ll get nowhere. “Bio-Stats for Clinical Practice is already trying to murder me.”
“And?”
“Clinical Methods might be interesting.” I dodge a low branch. “The professor manages to stay awake while teaching, which puts him ahead of most.”
“What about things away from your classes?” That pointed look appears—the one that dissected my teenage lies about studying at Maya’s. “You know… fun?”
“I went to karaoke last night.”
Her entire body perks up, spine straightening, pace momentarily forgotten. “Karaoke?You?”
“Maya dragged me.” The words escape before I can stop them, and her eyes ignite with maternal hunger for details.
“Anyone interesting there?”
