Page 15 of Playing for Keeps

I hesitated. That was the question, right? There were a lot of half-finished drafts and random lines in my notebook, but nothing had turned into the one thing that was worth committing a year of my life to. “I want to try something different,” I said. “Maybe a new genre. I don’t know yet. But I do want Canada to be a part of it in some way. Maybe, Toronto. Something that catches the feel of this place.”

Denise nodded, calm and steady. “Good. That’s where we start. You don’t have to know everything yet; that’s what the work is for. My job is simple: I listen, I challenge, and I protect your voice. I’ll push you when you need it, but I won’t stop you from writing the book you want to write.”

Her certainty made my chest feel less tight. I could breathe again after Jonathan’s retirement. “Thank you. That means a lot.”

“Now,” she said, leaning back in her chair, “tell me about Toronto through your eyes. You’ve been here for over a month. What have you seen?”

So I told her about the students scribbling down every word in their notebooks; about Simon, who’d already become a friend; about the way Bloor Street glowed after dark; about floating maple leaves in Queen’s Park. And Denise listened like every detail mattered and maybe, in a way, it did.

By the time I left her office, the nerves had eased a bit, but the doubt hadn’t. I didn’t have the book yet. I barely even had an idea. Just permission to keep trying and getting it wrong.

Sometimes, that was a gift. Sometimes, it was terrifying.

The day outside was too bright, the cold too sharp. I didn’t want to go home to my half-empty house and the blank document waiting on my laptop, so I ducked into a bookshop I’d passed by a few times. There were rows and rows of books, each one humming with the promise of another world. I drifted through the aisles, running my fingers over the spines and pulling one out every now and then to look at the cover. I stopped to read the back of a novel I’d never heard of before.

That’s when I heard it: a low and heavy sigh from the next aisle.

I leaned over a little to look through the gap between the shelves. I could only see the back of a man. He had broad shoulders under a grey jacket and messy dark brown hair that looked like he had raked a hand through it too many times. He stood very still, scanning the shelves, then muttered, low and frustrated, just loud enough for me to hear.

“Shit.”

Then a pause.

“Maybe unicorns…? No idea.”

I froze because I was overhearing something that wasn’t meant for me. But it wasn’t just the words – it was the voice itself. It was rough and warm, like gravel softened under water. That sigh had weight in it, too. He obviously needed help.

I put the book back where it belonged and stepped around the corner, asking him with a hint of humour in my voice, “You’re sighing pretty loudly over here. Need any help?”

9

MAX

The bell above the door jingled as I walked in, the smell of paper and coffee hanging in the air. I walked straight to the front desk and asked the guy behind the counter where the children’s section was.

He pointed without thinking. “Aisle six. You’ve gone too far if you see the self-help books.” He laughed at his own joke.

There were fairies, astronauts, and animals with big eyes on every shelf. There was a woman nearby, flipping through a book. She looked up and smiled politely. I smiled back and happened to catch the title of the book she was holding: Unicorns, Undead, and Other Dating Disasters.

I snorted under my breath and kept going, filing it away as one of those things you couldn’t unsee.

“Shit,” I muttered, as I looked at the wall of covers in front of me. There are a million books here. How am I ever going to figure out which to pick? Does Lucy like dragons? Space? “Maybe unicorns…?” I said aloud. “No idea.”

I squatted down, elbows on my knees, and stared at a shelf that looked just like the others I’d already glared at. Practice had been brutal that morning, coach in no mood to spare us so close to a big game. My shoulders and legs were sore. And now here I was, looking for a last-minute gift for my niece, because she had high expectations of her favourite uncle.

I sighed. Loudly.

“You’re sighing pretty loudly over here,” a voice said, smooth and clear, with something that made the air shift. “Need any help?”

I froze, a little embarrassed that someone had heard me talking to myself. A woman’s voice. And was that an accent? Unless my ears were shot from practice. Normally, I would’ve turned right away, showing her the grin that always worked for me, maybe tossed in some easy banter. Any other day, sure. But after a brutal practice and this even more brutal shopping mission? I wasn’t sure I had it in me. I was drained.

Still, no point in being a jerk. I forced a smile onto my face and turned.

And just about forgot how to breathe.

Standing in front of me was a woman who didn’t look like she belonged in a regular bookstore – too sharp-eyed for that, like she noticed things most people missed. Her green eyes were intense in a way that made it hard to look anywhere else, and a single chestnut strand kept escaping the knot at her neck, stubborn and wild, like it had a mind of its own. She was holding a notebook under one arm. She wasn’t flashy at all. She was beautiful in a way that hit me right in the chest and knocked the wind out of me.

Holy shit. Those eyes.