Page 42 of Changing the Playbook
The puck drops. My ankle holds. The game goes on.
But all I can think about is eight o’clock and seeing her.
I’m so fucked.
thirteen
MIKE
My nerves spikeas I push through the bar’s heavy door, where I see undergrads nursing watery happy-hour beers, townies who’ve worn grooves in the same barstools since the Reagan administration, and a surprising cluster of black-turtleneck types who look like they’d rather be at a wine bar discussing Proust.
Right near my apartment, I remind myself.Three-minute sprint to safety if this implodes. Four minutes if my ankle acts up.
Though after today’s game, I’m not sure I’ve got any sprint left in me. We won 4–1, but Coach worked me like I owed him money. I played thirty-eight minutes, and my legs feel every second of it. Still, the ankle held. More than held, actually. One goal, one assist, and only one twinge I’ll pretend doesn’t exist.
But now, the real highlight of the day.
And it isn’t the poetry reading.
I scan the entrance for our table, supposedly reserved under my name.
Then I spot her.
Sophie sits alone at a corner table, and everything else in the bar becomes background static. She hasn’t noticed me yet,giving me a dangerous moment to just... look. The burgundy sweater should be illegal—the way it clings and drapes in all the right places.
Just friends, the reasonable part of my brain announces, like a referee calling a penalty.Have a few drinks, share some laughs, then get the hell out intact.
But theunreasonablepart of my brain—the part that got me into this mess—is already calculating whether it would be possible to get Sophie off her “just friends” insistence, and how to manage the apocalyptic consequences that would come from doing so.
But before the two warring sides can declare a winner, Sophie glances up.
Her whole face transforms with a brilliant smile, and we perform an elaborate pantomime—her gesturing at the drinks already on the table, me nodding and pointing, both of us probably looking ridiculous to anyone watching. I weave through the crowd, trying not to look like I’m rushing to get to her even though every cell in my body is screaming at me to move faster.
“Sorry if I’m late,” I say, sliding into the seat across from her.
“I was fashionably early.” She pushes a pint glass to me. “Gave me time to secure the good table and practice my shocked face for when you bomb on stage.”
“You’re fashionable no matter what you do.”
The words tumble out before I can catch them, too honest for the casual tone we’re attempting. Color blooms across her cheeks—this perfect pink that makes me want to write terrible poetry about things I have no business thinking about. She opens her mouth, closes it, then covers by lifting her vodka soda.
I grab my beer like a lifeline and take a long pull, and only then do I realize what she’s done. “Wait,” I say. “How did you know my favorite?”
“You ordered three of them at karaoke.” She shrugs, but there’s something pleased in her expression.
“Should I be flattered or concerned about your observation skills?” I laugh, putting the glass down.
“Definitely concerned. I have spreadsheets.” She delivers it deadpan, and for a second I almost believe her. “And you have your own tab now.”
I lean back, studying her with a smirk. “Oh yeah? And what does the data say about me?”
“Off the charts. I had to create new metrics.” She shrugs. “Although I look forward to adding whatever literary masterpiece you have tonight to the mix…”
“I’ve got something special lined up.” I pat my jacket pocket where my phone holds my frantic scribbles. “And by ‘special’ I mean ‘probably violates laws…’”
Her posture changes, leaning forward slightly. “You actually wrote something original?”
“Don’t sound so shocked.” I aim for casual and miss by miles. “I thought if you were coming to watch, I couldn’t just recycle some other asshole’s poem…”
