Page 71 of Changing the Playbook
“Like what, your whole ‘try-new-things’ experiment?” His air quotes nearly take out his beer. “How’s that going, by the way? Learn to juggle yet?”
“Among other things.”
His grin turns predatory. “Other things like Coach’s daughter?”
The look I give him could freeze hell.
Maine, immune after years of friendship, just laughs. “Whatever, man. I’m just saying you seem…lighter lately. Less likely to murder freshmen for existing.”
“Was I really that bad?”
“You were a miserable bastard.” He says it cheerfully, like commenting on the weather. “Snapping at everyone, acting like the world owed you something. I get it—your ankle was fucked, dreams were on pause, whatever. But you were actively unpleasant to be around.”
“Sorry.” The apology sits heavy because every word’s true.
Maine waves it off with the casual grace of someone who’s never held grudges. “Ancient history. Point is, whatever you’re doing now—therapy, new hobbies, definitely something involving Coach’s daughter—keep doing it. You almost seem human.”
“Highest praise from you.”
“Only kind I give.”
On screen, the Bruins pot another one. We both track the defensive breakdown automatically, our brains cataloging the missed assignment without conscious thought. Shared hockey DNA, speaking a language that needs no words, and is as easy as breathing.
My phone sits heavy in my pocket. Sophie still hasn’t texted since Tuesday. Not that I’m counting. Not that I’ve typed and deleted twelve different messages ranging from casual (“hey”) to pathetic (“can’t stop thinking about you against that wall”).
“Housing situation still fucked?” The subject change feels about as smooth as sandpaper, but I need distance from thoughts of Sophie.
Maine’s groan could wake the dead. “Six interviews. Six different flavors of psychopath.”
“Your standards can’t be that high.” I laugh. “I’ve seen your apartment, and the strange mold growing in your bathroom.”
“There arelimits, Michael.” He sighs. “Guy number three collected toenail clippings. In a jar. For ‘art.’”
Beer nearly exits through my nose. “What kind of art requires?—”
“Serial killer art. The kind where I end up in multiple garbage bags because I needed rent money.”
“I could help?—”
“Don’t.” His hand cuts through the air, final. “I’m not taking your money.”
“Pride’s expensive.”
“Says the guy who wouldn’t accept a ride to physio for three months.”
“Exactly. Learn from my stupidity.”
Maine’s attention drifts to the TV, but his leg keeps that anxious rhythm, and now it’s his turn for a topic change. “You hear about Coach’s wife?”
My chest tightens. “What about her?”
“She’s sick. Really sick. MS or something. That’s why he left Michigan—some clinical trial in New York.”
I know. Sophie told me at the batting cages, words tumbling out like she couldn’t hold them back anymore. How her mom had good days and bad days. How the good days were getting rarer. But Maine doesn’t know any of that, so I just stay quiet.
“Twenty years at Michigan,” Maine continues. “Dynasty program. And he walks away for a clinical trial.”
“Family first.” The words come out rougher than intended.
