Page 39 of Unmanageable

“It’ll be cozy,” Jenna calls out from the curb. “And look at all that room in the back. Plenty of space to experiment with… creative seating arrangements.”

I whirl around to face her, my jaw dropping. “Jenna!”

“What?” she says, pressing a hand to her chest with a look of wide-eyed, performative innocence. “Long road trips require flexibility. You’re going to be cramped in there for hours. It’s just logistics.”

“That is absolutely not what you meant, and you know it!”

She just flashes a grin that is far too sharp for someone claiming such purity. “I absolutely don’t know what you’re talking about. My mind is a temple.”

Cash is leaning against the driver’s side door, laughing so hard he has to brace himself against the frame to stay upright. “Oh, I know exactly what she’s talking about,” he wheezes, wiggling his eyebrows.

“Oh my God,” I mutter, closing my eyes and letting my head fall back. “I am surrounded by heathens.”

“Have fun, kids!” Nico calls out.

“Don’t destroy the bus,” Leo adds, holding up a warning finger before he descends into a fresh fit of giggles.

“Or do,” Jenna says with a breezy shrug. “Just make sure you wash the upholstery afterward. It’s basic etiquette.”

“JENNA!” I shriek, my face heating up until I’m certain I’m radiating actual warmth.

She just blows me a playful kiss, unfazed by my mortification. “Drive safe! And be safe…”

I bury my burning face in my hands, unable to look any of them in the eye, and practically scramble into the high-mounted passenger seat to escape the peanut gallery.

As I settle in, the frame of the van vibrates with the rhythmic chug of the rear engine, and the seat springs groan in a long, high-pitched protest.

I grip the armrest, only to realize my fingers are sinking into something thick, matted, and absolutely atrocious. I look down to find the entire dashboard covered in—God help me—a decades-old layer of orange shag carpet.

Cash looks at me, his sunglasses sliding down his nose just enough to show those piercing eyes, sparking with amusement. “Ready, Sharky?”

“Just drive before someone I know sees me,” I mutter, reaching for the seatbelt.

It’s stuck. I jerk it, my frustration mounting. It stays stubbornly locked.

Cash reaches over. His arm brushes mine and he gives the belt a sharp tug. It clicks into place.

He stays in my space for a second too long, the scent of him—cheap soap, expensive cologne, and something distinctly, stubbornly Cash—filling the small, rattling cabin.

“Relax, Scottie,” he says, his voice dropping lower. “It’s just a road trip.”

In the side mirror, I catch Nico, Leo, and Jenna waving between fits of laughter as the Goalie-Mobile rumbles triumphantly down the street.

***

“If you don’t stop that, I will actually jump out of this moving vehicle,” I say, my fingers twitching toward the door handle.

Cash doesn’t stop. He doesn’t even pause to breathe. He’s currently drumming a frantic beat against the thin, circular steering wheel while shouting at the top of his lungs.

“You’re just grumpy because you’re losing,” he shouts over the roar of the wind and the high-pitched hum of the engine.

The sliding passenger window is stuck halfway open, and my hair is a sentient red entity whipping across my face, stinging my cheeks.

“Losing? Losing what, Finnian? We aren’t playing a game! You’re just shouting names of minor league Canadian hockey teams!”

“It’s the Geography of Pain, Scottie! Keep up!” He bangs his palm against the wheel again. “Moose Jaw Warriors! Your turn. Go. Needs to start with an R.”

“I am not playing the Geography of Pain,” I snap, though my brain is, against my better judgment, already scanning every roster I’ve ever memorized. “And don’t call me that.”