Page 106 of Unmanageable

I look past Vance’s shoulder during a brief reset toward the player’s bench.

Scottie is standing behind the plexiglass.

She has changed out of the soaked fleece, now wearing a crisp, dry gray pullover from her duffel bag. Her wet red hair has been neatly woven into a tight, secure braid that rests over her shoulder.

Our eyes meet through the scratched plastic of the glass. She looks straight at me, tilts her head slightly, and sticks her tongue out at me through the plexiglass.

The gesture goes straight to my stomach, hotter than the sun outside.

I want to get through this rotation. I want to get through the next four hundred miles of highway. I want to get back into whatever cheap motel room is waiting for us, throw the phone across the room again, and show her exactly how unmanageable we both can be.

“O’Connell!” Vance snaps. “Stop looking at your agent and get your hands up. Five more minutes. High glove rotation. Move!”

29

Cash

1:38 AM

Carter: Who keeps changing the group photo?

Me: me

Marcus: Why is it just Callahan’s forehead?

Me: because it’s inspirational

***

We spent eight days in Memphis with Coach Derrick, and the man used every single second of every single drill to remind us that we had poured a full liter of Gatorade onto his clean lobby mats.

Every time I missed a low blocker shot, he’d yell that my hands were too slick from truck-stop electrolytes. Every time Scottie tried to discuss contract structure, he’d look at her dry pullover and ask if she needed a towel before she stained his clipboard.

It was a grueling, agonizing week of physical punishment and relentless, old-school hockey chirping, but by the time we packed the duffel bags back into the Goalie-Mobile, my shoulder felt like solid iron.

The real problem hit us forty miles after we crossed the Arkansas border and made our way into Little Rock: an automated text notification from the agency’s booking service informing us that our reservation at the only decent lodge within a three-hundred-mile radius had been summarily canceled due to a plumbing failure.

“I can’t get a signal out here,” Scottie mutters from the passenger seat, tapping her phone screen with an aggressive rhythm. “The roaming data is dead.”

“Look there,” I say, nodding toward a low, flat-roofed building made of faded red brick at the end of the main drag. A small, weathered wooden sign out front reads: MUNICIPAL LIBRARY - EST. 1954. “They’ll have Wi-Fi. Even the ghost towns have a router.”

I pull the van into the empty gravel lot, the tires crunching in the quiet afternoon air.

When we step inside, it’s silent, save for the low, rhythmic hum of an old refrigerator behind the front desk.

We walk up to the counter, our shoes thudding softly against the thin carpet.

Behind the desk sits a woman who looks like she could easily clear the crease during a five-on-three power play. She’s easily six feet tall, with shoulders that stretch the fabric of her denim button-down shirt to its absolute limit, and arms that look like they’ve spent the last thirty years bench-pressing logs. Her gray hair is pulled back into a knot so tight it looks like it’s holding her skull together.

“We need the Wi-Fi password,” I whisper, leaning in. “Just need to log on for five minutes to fix a hotel reservation.”

The librarian lowers her reading glasses, her eyes locking onto mine with the cold, unblinking intensity of a referee checking a controversial goal.

“Shhh,” she says.

She points a thick, scarred index finger toward a small plastic sign on the desk that reads: SILENCE IS A VIRTUOUS CONTEXT.

“This is a sanctuary of study, young man. Not a sports bar. The password is on the card behind you. Speak at that volume again, and I will personally escort you back to your automobile.”