Page 79 of Changing the Playbook
“Too smart. Sometimes I swear she’s secretly forty-five years old.”
Hazel rockets back to us. “Mike! Did you know that tree bark is like fingerprints? Every tree species has different bark patterns!”
“I did not know that.” I lean down to her level. “That’s pretty useful information if the trees ever commit a crime.”
She tilts her head, processing this, then nods solemnly. “Yes. That makes sense, actually.”
The kid shoots off again, and Sophie watches her go with that particular brand of exhausted affection. “Where does she get that energy?” Sophie asks.
“Same place all kids do,” I say. “They siphon it directly from adult exhaustion and red candy.”
Sophie’s snort sends unexpected warmth spreading through my chest. “Why hiking? Of all the ‘new things’ you could have picked for today?”
I navigate around a moss-covered boulder. “My dad used to drag me and Andy out on teacher workdays when we were kids,” I say. “Mom was always at the hospital, so it was Dad’s solution to everything—pile us in the car, find a trail, walk until someone complained loud enough to turn around.”
“That sounds nice.”
“It was.” I shrug. “Well, except for the time Andy fell into a creek trying to catch a frog and Dad had to carry her three miles back to the car, while soaking wet. She reeked like swamp water for days. I told everyone at school she was turning into a bog witch.”
“How is Andy doing?” Sophie’s smile reaches her eyes for the first time today, and I realize how rarely I see her truly relaxed.
“She’s good. She actually mentioned you yesterday, said she had fun at karaoke…” I let the invitation hover between us. “She and Declan are also disgustingly in love. She has this countdown calendar in her room—days until Paris Boy returns—with little hearts drawn on each square. It’s nauseating.”
“You two seem close.”
“We are now. I wasn’t always the world’s best brother. When she started dating Declan, I acted like she’d personally betrayed the family honor or something.”
“What changed?”
“Everything.” I focus on the trail ahead, not wanting to excavate too much of last year’s wreckage. “Injury, depression,therapy—the holy trinity of forced self-reflection. Turns out I wasn’t actually the center of the universe. Shocking revelation, I know. Andy deserved someone, and I was being an asshole about it.”
We walk without speaking for a moment, just the percussion of leaves and Hazel’s distant negotiations with what sounds like an extremely uninterested squirrel. But being here, with Sophie, just feels so natural and nice and like everything I want and can’t have (except from the friend zone).
“You’re a good brother,” Sophie says finally. “Not every guy would admit to being wrong, let alone actually change.”
“I’m trying to.” I watch Hazel balance along a fallen log, arms pinwheeling. “What about you and Hazel? You two seem pretty tight?”
Sophie’s expression softens into something achingly tender. “We are, but I probably hover too much. Since Mom’s diagnosis and the move, I’ve been... overprotective. I keep waiting for her to show signs of trauma or maladjustment, but she just keeps thriving.”
“And is she? Traumatized?”
“Not even slightly. New school, new friends, new activities—she adapts like water. Meanwhile, I’m still trying to figure out where the good coffee shops are.” She kicks a pinecone with unnecessary force. “I don’t think I can do it again. Move, I mean. After I finish my degree, I’m planting roots here in Pine Barren.”
The words land hard, knocking something loose in my chest. My throat tightens. I see it suddenly—two futures spreading out like diverging trails. In one, I’m lacing up skates in some anonymous hotel room in a pro hockey city, while Sophie builds her life here.
Focus on now, I tell myself.This moment. Her happiness. That’s what matters.
“SOPHIE!” Hazel’s shriek could wake the dead. “I FOUND THE COOLEST BUG EVER! COME SEE!”
Sophie goes rigid beside me, every muscle locking up. The color drains from her face. “Oh shit.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I hate bugs.” The words come out strangled. “Like, full-body, completely irrational, make-a-fool-of-myself hatred.”
“Seriously? The future nurse who’ll deal with compound fractures and infectious diseases is afraid of bugs?”
“Blood doesn’t have antennae,” she hisses. “Or wings. Or pincers. Or whatever nightmare appendages this particular hellspawn possesses.”
