Page 39 of Changing the Playbook
Mom stops mid-stride, delight spreading across her face. “Thehockey captainis intopoetry?”
“He likes to try new things, and he invited me.” I’m babbling now, my mouth working faster than my brain. “And I said yes, but I was drunk, and what the hell am I going to tell Dad when he finds out I’m—” I stop myself before saying ‘dating.’ “Going out with one of his players?”
“Your father doesn’t need to know immediately.” She grins wickedly. “And if the poetry’s terrible, you’ll have a hilarious story for Maya.”
“But what if it’s not terrible?” I whisper, both of us knowing I’m not exactly talking about the poetry. “What if it’s wonderful?”
“Then you’ll have a different kind of story.”
That’s the fear that keeps me awake—not disappointment, which I’ve catalogued and analyzed and built fortresses against, but the possibility that Mike might actually be different. That Thursday could crack something open I’ve sealed shut. That I might want things I’ve trained myself not to want.
“Come on.” Mom links our arms the way we used to when I was little. “Breakfast. Real breakfast, not just ice cream.”
“I have to get Hazel ready?—”
“We have time.” Her smile softens. “There’s always time for pancakes with my daughter. Time to pretend we’re normal people who don’t overthink everything.”
“You don’t overthink anything,” I point out.
“No, but I didn’t want you to feel alone in your neuroticism.” She bumps my hip gently. “It’s OK to want things, Sophie. Even scary things that might hurt.”
twelve
MIKE
The insideof my thigh pads has gone from damp to soaking, the foam compressed into a second skin that squelches with each shift on the bench. I’ve been rotating my ankle in slow circles for the past thirty seconds, testing the joint with delicate precision.
Meanwhile, from the ice, the scrape of steel on frozen water fills the arena—that distinctive sound that used to mean everything to me, but now it means just a tiny bit less, and is the background music to the symphony of doubt playing in my head.
Rotate. Test. Breathe. Don’t let them see.
“Nice shift, Cap!” Kellerman crashes onto the bench beside me, and the impact sends a sharp twinge down to my ankle.
The kid’s face glows with second-period sweat and first-year enthusiasm. I force something that might pass for acknowledgment, keeping my focus on Schmidt wrestling for position in the corner. But even as I watch, my peripheral vision catches movement in section 104.
Four suits. Two from Colorado. One from Dallas. The fourth is a mystery. Combined, they all have that same predatory stillness—watching, waiting, documenting—that makes me feel like a piece of meat being assessed by hungry carnivores.
Because I know they’re not here for Schmidt.
The ankle throbs its own rhythm now—boom-boom-pause, boom-boom-pause—an irregular heartbeat beneath the skin. Irritating, but different from last year’s knife-sharp betrayal that sent me crashing to the ice in front of fifteen thousand people.
It happened in the second period. I cut and felt a twinge and prayed like hell it wasn’t the ankle totally failing me. So far, so good, but it was a timely reminder about how fragile this all is—my ankle, my hockey career—and how important it is that I’ve stopped making hockey my whole identity.
As for the ankle?
Well, this pain is subtler, like a persistent whisper that some injuries never fully mend, no matter how many months you spend in that antiseptic-scented PT room, how many workouts you put in, and how many times you tell yourself you’re going to be fine.
The stretches once I reached the bench helped. They always help. And the question isn’t whether I can play through it. The question is whether I can play through it while four NHL scouts document every hesitation, every favored step, and every fraction of a second I’m slower than I used to be.
“Forty seconds!” Coach Pearson’s voice cuts through both the crowd noise and my spiral. “Altman, your line is up next!”
Maine drops beside me, jersey dark with sweat. “You’re making that face again, Cap.”
“What face?”
“The one where you’re solving world hunger in your head.” His blue eyes narrow, reading me with practiced ease. “What’s wrong?”
“Just working out how to shut down their center.” The lie tastes metallic, like blood from biting your cheek too hard.
