Page 139 of Unmanageable

“Nashville,” I read. “‘You were asleep in the passenger seat when we crossed the state line. I almost woke you up. Then I realized there will be other state lines. Other roads. Other mornings with your shoes on the dashboard and your terrible snacks in the cup holder. I’ve spent a long time being afraid of tomorrow. But sitting beside you, for once, I want to know what comes next. I think that’s what you’ve done to me, Sharky. I think you’ve made tomorrow seem friendly.’”

I flip the next one. My thumb covers part of the text, but I know the words by heart anyway.

“Memphis,” I say. “‘You were making coffee this morning and humming under your breath. I don’t know why that moment got stuck in my chest. Maybe because nobody was watching. Maybe because it was just you being yourself. Maybe because I’ve started loving the versions of you that don’t know they’re being loved.’”

She exhales a shaky breath and picks up a card from her pile.

“Little Rock,” she reads. “‘I keep waiting to get tired of you. Instead, every day I find a new thing to miss when you leave the van. I don’t think I can go back to the office, Finny. I really don’t.’”

My throat feels tight.

We read the notes until I have the last card in my hand. It’s the one from the long-term parking lot at the Denver airport—the one I wrote against the steering wheel while she was inside the terminal. The cardboard is bent at the corner where my palm pressed into it.

“The last one.”

“Read it,” she says.

I turn it over.

“Denver,” I read. “‘I love you, Scottie-girl.’”

Scottie doesn’t move. Her eyes stay fixed on the front of the card, her breath coming in short, uneven puffs.

“I love you,” she says.

The words come out fast, small, and sharp. Like she didn’t mean to let them go, like they just leaked out through the seams.

Then she blinks, her head snapping up, her eyes wide as she looks at my face.

“Wait,” she says immediately, her hands coming up to press against my chest. “No. Wait.”

“No?”

“Well, yes,” she frowns, her brow furrowing in that way that usually precedes a lecture. “Yes, I love you, Finny—of course I do, don’t look at me like that—but I’m your agent. I’m Scottie Reed. I represent four starting defensemen and the highest-paid goalie in the Eastern Conference. We have a contract, Cash. We have a three-year representation agreement with a standard cancellation penalty. We have—”

“Scottie.”

“—we have an entire season starting in a few weeks! We can’t just… we can’t do this in the middle of a contract year! If the league finds out I’m sleeping with a client whose depth clause I personally negotiated—”

“Scottie, shut up,” I say, my voice rising just enough to cut through the panic. “You’re fired.”

She stares at me. Her mouth stays open, her hands still flat against my chest.

“What?”

“I’m firing you,” I repeat. “Effective immediately. As of three seconds ago, you no longer represent Finnian O’Connell.”

“Are you insane?” She takes a half-step back, her eyes flashing. “You can’t fire me! There’s a thirty-day notice period for termination without cause!”

“I have cause,” I say, stepping closer.

I’m a foot taller than she is, but when she’s this angry, it feels like I’m standing at the bottom of a slide.

“I can’t have an agent I’m in love with. It’s a conflict of interest,” I say, closing the distance between us again until her boots are touching mine. “Dean has been itching to take over my contract management anyway. He told me at the hospital. He’s got that quiet, terrifying lawyer energy that scares people in a different way than you do. Let him handle the Reign. Let him deal with the GMs and the trade clauses.”

“Dean doesn’t know your short-side recovery depth!” she says, her voice cracking. “Dean doesn’t know that you need the left pad shaved down a quarter-inch because of your hip flexor!”

“I don’t care about that, Scottie!”