Page 53 of Changing the Playbook
But Mike just smiled, pressed his lips to my cheek, and walked away.
I’d like more of it… whatever that looks like.
My phone weighs down my pocket. Not that I’m keeping count (Itotallyam), but I’ve pulled it out to text him forty-seven times. That makes forty-seven times I’ve chickened out, because what exactly would I say?
The girl beside me—Tara? Tina?—slides her notebook closer, tapping her pen against something she’s underlined twice. Important enough to risk the professor’s wrath, apparently.
Glad she’s noticed I’m distracted and kind enough to help me out, I nod my thanks and copy down what looks like cellular respiration mechanisms, though the words blur into meaningless shapes.
Focus, Sophie. You’re supposed to be the responsible one.
But then my pocket vibrates. My hand flies to my phone—that familiar spike of adrenaline that comes with having a sick parent—and when Dad’s name appears on the screen, my chest tightens.
Need you to stop by the rink on your way home.
I stare at the message, willing it to sprout actual information. Six words. No context. No explanation. Classic Dad. Enough detail to summon me across campus, but not enough to prevent my spine from tensing.
I type back:
Why? What’s wrong?
His response arrives within seconds:
Just come by my office after class. Thanks kiddo.
The endearment doesn’t soften my irritation. One day, he’ll understand the concept of including relevant details in text messages. Something like “Hey Sophie, nothing’s wrong with Mom or Hazel, but I need to see you” would be nice.
Unless somethingiswrong.
Unless thisisabout Mom’s medication not working.
Or Hazel getting hurt at gymnastics. Or?—
Mike.
The thought arrives uninvited and immediately takes root. What if Dad found out? Not that there’s anything to find out about, because a few nights don’t constitute a relationship. So why does my pulse jump at the possibility?
I force my attention back to the professor, who’s gesturing at a PowerPoint slide with the enthusiasm of someone who definitely owns mitochondria-themed merchandise. The information slides past me, meaningless, and I lie to myself that I’ll catch up on the class notes later.
When he finally dismisses us, I shove my unused notebook into my bag and bolt before Tina-or-Tara can ask about the study group I’ve been dodging since the semester started. But I shunt that from my mind for now, focusing on power-walking to the rink.
By the time I push through the heavy doors, I’ve convinced myself that:
I’ve never paid attention to the team photos lining the hallway before, but today my feet slow without permission. Row after row of young men in Devils jerseys, decades of cocky grins and crossed arms. My eyes find last year’s photo immediately.
Mike stands front and center. But this isn’t the Mike I know. His smile looks painted on, and something hollow behind his eyes makes my chest ache. This is the Mike from before—the one who lived for hockey and nothing else, who couldn’t name a single other thing that made him happy.
The Mike who might understand why I catalogue Mom’s symptoms obsessively.
My sneakers squeak against the polished floor as I reach Dad’s office. The door hangs slightly open, revealing him hunched over his laptop, an ancient Michigan sticker peeling atthe corners. Game footage flickers on the screen, with players racing across ice in an endless loop.
I knock and push inside without waiting for permission. “You summoned me?”
“Fee!” His face brightens. “How are you, kiddo?”
My bag drops onto the chair with a thud that matches my mood. “Dad…”
“Right, that.” He waves vaguely at the air. “Hazel couldn’t find her iPad charger.”
