Page 57 of Changing the Playbook
“I noticed.” I grin. “Those baseballs probably have trust issues now, and they’re considering a lawsuit for concussion.”
That earns me a genuine laugh, brief but bright, cutting through whatever storm clouds have been following her since I ran into her outside the rink. I gesture to the bat she’s still gripping.
“So do you want to talk about it, or keep going? I can find you more victims if you want?”
The laugh dies, replaced by something more guarded. But she doesn’t retreat, doesn’t make excuses to leave. Instead, she props the bat against the fence and mirrors my position, leaving a careful foot of space between us. Progress.
“You really want to know why I was upset?”
“Only if you want to tell me.” I shift slightly, making sure my body language stays open, non-threatening.
Silence stretches between us, broken only by the distant crack of balls from other cages, long enough that I wonder if she’s changed her mind. Then she draws in a breath that shakes slightly at the edges.
“My mom has MS. Multiple sclerosis.”
The words hang heavy in the air between us. I resist the urge to immediately respond, to fill the space with platitudes. I’d known she was sick, thanks to her poem and the vague references Coach had made to his wife’s health, but I didn’t know the specifics.
“That’s why we moved here from Michigan,” she continues, voice carefully controlled. “There’s this experimental treatment in New York she qualified for. Dad got the coaching job, I transferred my master’s program, Hazel switched schools.”
“Sophie…”
“It’s not terminal,” she says quickly. “Not like that. But it’s unpredictable. She can be fine for months, running marathons and working twelve-hour shifts, and then suddenly she’s…” She snaps her fingers, the sound sharp in the relative quiet. “Not.”
I watch her, suddenly conscious I’m deep inside her personal space, and I want to make sure I’m welcome there. “Sophie, you don’t need to tell me everything…”
“Today my dad told me I need to back off.” Her voice wavers, but she keeps on going, pushing past my offer to stop. “Like I’m being some kind of helicopter daughter. But he wasn’t there when she collapsed at Hazel’s soccer game and couldn’t get up.”
“Jesus.” The word escapes before I can stop it. “I’m so sorry you and your family are going through this, Sophie.”
“So yeah, maybe I text her too much. Maybe I call every morning to make sure she’s taken her meds. Maybe I panic when she doesn’t answer right away.” Her chin lifts, defensive and fierce. “But at least I’ll know. If something happens, I’ll know, and she won’t be on the floor at home for hours until someone finds her.”
“Makes perfect sense to me,” I say, meaning it. “I’d probably be worse.”
She turns to face me fully, surprise written across her features. “Really?”
“Are you kidding?” I smirk, tryingdesperatelyto help her. “I’d probably have her on GPS tracking by now. Maybe one of those Life Alert buttons.”
A watery laugh escapes her. “I actually suggested the Life Alert. She threatened to hang it from the rearview mirror in her car.”
“Sounds like your mom has a sense of humor about it.”
“She does. Which almost makes it worse sometimes, if that’s even possible.” Sophie’s voice drops. “She acts like it’s no big deal, like adapting to it is just another adventure. But I know she’s scared. I see it sometimes, when she thinks no one’s looking.”
We fall into silence again, standing apart but feeling close, and it’s different now. Heavier, but also somehow more comfortable. She’s trusted me with this, and I want to give her something back. The words form before I fully decide to say them.
“My parents would never do what yours did.”
She tilts her head, questioning.
“Uproot everything for one of us,” I clarify. “They’re good people, but their careers come first. Always have.” I shrug, trying to make it seem like old news, no big deal. “If Andy or I developed something serious, they’d find the best treatment money could buy. But physically relocating? Not a chance!”
“Mike…”
“Last year, when I was injured, depressed as hell and convinced my life was over, you know what my dad sent me? Hockey memes. Like, the really bad ones your uncle shares on Facebook. That was his version of emotional support.” I attempt a laugh, then shake my head. “Sorry.”
She tilts her head a little. “What for?”
“For putting some sort of false equivalence on this.” I shrug. “I mean, your family literally?—”
