Page 86 of Changing the Playbook
“More like they conquered it while I tried not to embarrass myself. Hazel left us both in the dust.”
Mom’s laugh fills the kitchen. “That sounds right. Always charging ahead, that one.”
An awkward beat passes, then I fill the silence. “Mike was nice enough to drive us home. Hazel passed out in the backseat.”
“Speaking of which, I should probably head out.” He glances at his watch. “Early practice tomorrow.”
“Of course.” Mom beams at him. “It was lovely meeting you, Mike.”
“Likewise.” He turns to me. “Need a ride home?”
Relief floods through me. “That’d be great.”
I mouth goodbye to Mom, whose expression suggests she’s already composing the group text to her sisters about the hockey stud who’s stolen her eldest’s heart. Outside, the October air bites through my jacket, sharp and clarifying after the warmth of the house.
“So.” I pause at his car, hand on the door handle. “Scale of one to professional athlete funeral, how dead are you?”
His laugh rumbles through the quiet street. “Your dad just said to treat him like any other parent.”
“That’s weirdly normal of him.”
“He did give me a look though.” Mike narrows his eyes in a dead-on impression of Dad’s signature “I’m-evaluating-your-life-choices” expression.
Laughter bubbles out of me as I climb in the car. “I know that oneverywell, you won’t be shocked to know.”
He starts the engine, and as we pull away from my childhood home into the familiar streets of my neighborhood, the streetlights paint shifting patterns across his profile—the strongline of his jaw, the concentration furrow between his brows, the way his hands rest on the wheel with easy confidence.
It’s asight.
Every few blocks he glances over, and something in his expression makes my ribs feel too tight for my heart. I sink deeper into the leather seat, letting the day wash over me in waves. My muscles ache pleasantly from the climbing, a good exhaustion mixing with the nervous energy that had built and then eased.
And Mike was the reason I felt more comfortable as the day went on.
The way he’d talked to Hazel,reallytalked, not that condescending tone some adults put on. The patient encouragement in his voice as he guided her up the wall. How his whole face had transformed when she’d hugged him after conquering the hard route, pure joy that had nothing to do with impressing me.
And the weight of his gaze throughout the day.
Steady. Present. Like I was worth memorizing.
I press my palm against my sternum where warmth blooms and spreads, remembering his laugh at Hazel’s jokes, the gentle way he’d captured that spider with a napkin when she’d shrieked, how naturally he’d fit into our chaotic McDonald’s dinner.
Find someone who lifts you up.
Ally’s words drift through my mind, and for once, I let them settle.
“That’s some intense thinking face you’ve got going.” His voice pulls me back.
“Just processing. Today was really nice.”
“Your sister’s hilarious. Best Saturday I’ve had in months.”
“Really?” I can’t mask my surprise. “A day with an eight-year-old and her perpetually anxious older sister ranks that high?”
“First, you’re not a disaster. Cautious, maybe. A bit neurotic, sure.” He grins at my mock outrage. “And second, yeah. The Pearson sisters are excellent company.”
Something in my chest clenches at the easy way he says it. Like it’s just fact. Like spending time with my family chaos is something he actually wants. I turn to the window before he can read whatever’s written on my face, watching familiar buildings slide past in the dark.
“Archer Heights, right?” he asks eventually. “Building C?”
