Page 64 of Changing the Playbook
She’s positioned herself dead center in the hallway, all five-foot-eight and 32DD of Pine Barren’s head ice girl blocking my escape route. Her blonde hair cascades over her shoulders, the kind of expensive waterfall that probably cost three hundred dollars and required sacrifice to the salon gods.
“Big game tonight,” she purrs, twirling a strand of hair around her manicured finger.
“Every game’s big.” I attempt to sidestep her, a move I’ve perfected since sophomore year when she first tried to claim me.
Physics suggests this hallway should accommodate two people passing without incident. Amber apparently operates under different laws of motion, because she mirrors my movement with defensive precision, and it’s clear that I’ll only be getting past her when she’s done with me.
“I’ve noticed you haven’t been at any of the after-parties this season.” Her voice drops into phone-sex territory. “The one at Schmidt’s place last weekend was epic. You really missed out, Mike, and I was hoping to see you there, and see moreofyou there…”
Epic.
Right.
My idea of epic has shifted considerably since my ankle auditioned for a horror movie last year. Plus, most of the guys I used to party with graduated—Dec for his art dream, Linc for the NHL—meaning I’ve become the old man of the team without meaning to.
“Been busy. You know, trying new things.” I go for boring. “Did you know you can take a three-day course in?—”
She yawns, exactly as intended. Amber’s interests extend to hockey, hockey guys, fashion, and parties. Full stop. In every way, she’s Sophie’s opposite. Hell, even Old Mike wasn’tinterested in Amber, and he sure as hell took plenty of girls to bed.
“All work and no play makes Mike a dull boy.” She reaches out, her nails—sharp enough to qualify as weapons—straightening my collar. “But if you’re not keen on parties, maybe I could help you unwind after the game? How does a massage sound?”
She draws out ‘massage’ until her meaning is clear.
The thing is, Amber is objectively gorgeous. She’s got the kind of face that launches ships and ruins credit scores, legs that demand their own insurance policy, and curves that make yoga pants consider early retirement. But when I look at her, all I see is everything she’s not.
She’s not five-foot-four with freckles scattered across her nose. She doesn’t have gray eyes that shift from silver to storm clouds depending on her mood. She doesn’t bite her lip when she’s nervous or get that little furrow between her eyebrows when she’s worried.
She doesn’t make me want to learn what makes her laugh just so I can hear it again, or hold her when she’s crying. She doesn’t make me want to write terrible poetry or embarrass myself at karaoke or spend hours at batting cages just to see her smile.
She’s not Sophie.
“That’s really nice of you to offer,” I say, aiming for gentle but firm. “But I’m not looking for anything like that right now.”
“Like what? I’m just offering a massage, Mike.” Her tone suggests we both know exactly what’s on the table.
“I know.” I shrug, wishing she’d just back off. “But I’m kind of hung up on someone else.”
The words escape before I can stop them, and I instantly regret them. Shit. Amber’s eyes light up with the kind of interest usually reserved for Black Friday sales and celebrity divorces,because she’s suddenly got the strong whiff of hockey team gossip.
“Someone else?” Genuine surprise colors her voice, as if Mike Altman being unavailable violates natural law. “Do I know her?”
Christ, the last thing I need is Amber playing detective. She’s got the determination of a bloodhound and a spy network that rivals the NSA. If she starts digging, the entire campus will know I’m pining after Coach’s daughter within hours.
“Just someone special,” I say, going for mysterious but probably achieving constipated.
Amber studies my face with safe-cracking intensity. I can practically see her mental database cycling through every female on campus—other ice girls, sorority girls, athletes, professors, research assistants—and grading them for looks and how much they put out.
Finally, she steps back with a shrug. “Well, if things don’t work out with your mystery girl…”
“You’ll be the first to know,” I say, clearly lying, but not wanting to hurt her feelings or prolong the conversation any longer.
“Good luck tonight, Captain,” she says.
As I escape down the hall, warmth spreads through my chest. Maybe it’s pride, maybe it’s stupidity, but turning down Amber feels like passing a test I didn’t know I was taking. I’ve rejected her before, sure, but not everyonelikeher, not all offers like she just made.
That guy got his ankle destroyed and his ego demolished and somehow came out better. He learned to treat people well, use them less, and feel more whole as a result. He discovered new things are worth trying and some things—some people—are worth waiting for.
If I can’t have Sophie, I don’t want anyone.
