Page 72 of Changing the Playbook
“Is it though? I mean, yeah, family’s important, but giving up everything you’ve built…”
That question hangs between us, heavy with implications neither of us wants to examine too closely. The Old Mike would’ve agreed with hockey first, everything else second. Hockey was religion, and anything that pulled you from the ice was heresy.
But now I think about Sophie reading that poem at open-mic, voice shaking but determined. About the way she looks when shetalks about her sister, diligent and loving and exhausted. About how she carries her family’s weight like armor, but the sort she can’t take off.
“I used to think nothing mattered more than making the show.” The admission feels like stepping off a cliff. “That everything else was just noise.”
“And now?”
“Now I think Coach made the right call.”
Maine’s laugh holds no humor. “Bullshit. You’d never walk away from the NHL. Not for anyone.”
“I’m not walking away.” I drain my beer. “I’m just… recognizing there’s more to life than ice time.”
“There’s nothing more than hockey.” He says it like scripture. “That’s why I don’t do relationships. Girls are fun, but they’re notthe dream. Even when I make it, I’ve got years before I need to think about settling down. Different girl in every city, living the life.”
Something in his certainty grates against me. That used to be my plan too—make the show, make millions, make memories. Mike Altman: Norris Trophy winner. Mike Altman: Stanley Cup Champion. Mike Altman: defined entirely by what happened between buzzers.
“What Coach did was love,” I hear myself say. “Real love. The kind where someone else’s fight becomes yours.”
“Sure, it’s romantic or whatever.” Maine pulls at his beer label, shredding it. “But we’re twenty-three, not forty-three. Our careers haven’t even started.”
True. Also increasingly irrelevant. When Sophie and I were dancing, career timelines stopped mattering. When she laughs—really laughs, not the polite sound she makes when she’s faking it—I’d trade every goal song for the privilege of causing it again.
“I think I’m jealous,” I admit. “Of what they have and that kind of support system.”
Maine’s eyebrows climb. “Your parents not supportive? They’re doctors. They’ve got to understand dedication.”
“They’re…invested in their own careers.” It’s the diplomatic version I’ve perfected. Better than explaining how Dad’s attempts at emotion come through incomprehensible meme texts, or how Mom still emails articles about medical school applications. “One game a year is all I get, and they wouldn’t move for me.”
“My parents don’t come either.” Maine shrugs, but tension bleeds through. “Too busy, and Chloe’s too sick to travel.”
“Does it bother you?”
“Nah. I don’t play for anyone but me.”
Liar, I think, but don’t say. We all play for someone, even if we won’t admit it. I used to play to prove I was more than the kid who broke. Now? If Sophie showed up tomorrow, I’d play every shift like poetry, just to see if she’d notice and to try and make her smile.
“Altman. Earth to fucking Altman.”
Maine’s hand waves inches from my face. I swat it away. “What?”
“You went full space-cadet. Thinking about a certain coach’s daughter again?”
“Wondering when’s the last time you washed that hoodie?”
“Wednesday. Or last Wednesday. Time’s a construct.”
Rook materializes at our table, radiating success. His phone waves like a trophy. “Date tomorrow. And her roommate’s number as backup.”
“Strategic redundancy, that’s smart,” Maine approves. “And that’s twenty bucks for Altman.”
I manufacture a smile while my stomach turns. The backup plan. The numbers game. The casual calculus of college hookup culture that used to be my native language. Now it feels foreign, like trying to remember lyrics to a song I’ve outgrown.
Rook slides into the booth. “Speaking of hot, Amber was asking about you earlier.”
“Not interested.”
