Page 40 of Unmanageable

“Call you what? Scottie? It’s your name.”

“You said it in that voice.”

“What voice?” He glances at me, a wolfish smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“The ‘I know what you look like without your clothes’ voice. Stop it.”

“I’d love to know how you look like without your clothes on,” he shoots back, his tone shifting from playful to something much more dangerous.

“Rochester Americans,” I interrupt.

Cash lets out a triumphant laugh. “Ha! I knew you couldn’t resist. You’re a closet puck-head, Scottie. Admit it.”

“Yes, Cash, I do know some hockey teams. If you didn’t notice, I am a sports agent for an NHL goalie,” I say, reaching for the glove box to distract myself from the heat radiating off him.

I pull out a map—a real, paper map—because the GPS on my phone gave up the ghost somewhere near the last state highway. “And according to this, we’ve still got an agonizing five-hour drive ahead of us to Philadelphia because you were too busy doing air-drums instead of following the route.”

“Scenic routes are for people with toddlers and beige minivans,” Cash says, effortlessly guiding the bus into the left lane. “We’re in the Goalie-Mobile. We take the high road. The fast road to Philly.”

“The road that leads to a ditch,” I correct him. “How are we even still moving? This van sounds like it’s dying a slow, painful death.”

“She’s got heart, Sharky. Unlike some people who prioritize thirty-page PDFs over the soul of the open road.”

I sink back into my seat. “I like my PDF. It was organized. It didn’t involve an orange dashboard or the constant risk of mechanical failure.”

“You love this van. Don’t lie to me. I see you patting the dashboard when you think I’m not looking.”

“I am not patting it, I’m trying to keep it from vibrating into pieces,” I say. “It’s a safety hazard. It’s an eyesore. It’s… it’s orange.”

“It’s your favorite color.”

“It is not my favorite color.”

“Every time we go to a gala, you pick the orange flowers. You have an orange highlighter that you use only for ‘critical’ tasks. And you’re currently wearing orange-tinted sunglasses.”

I snatch the glasses off my face, affronted. “These are rose-gold!”

“They’re orange, Scottie. Own your truth.”

He reaches over, his hand lingering near my knee for a second before he grabs a bag of pretzels. The briefest touch sends a jolt through me that I frantically try to suppress by aggressively folding the map.

“You’re doing the thing again,” he says, popping a pretzel into his mouth.

“What thing?”

“The shark thing. You’re over-folding. You’re going to turn that map into a piece of origami if you don’t relax.” He nudges my shoulder with his. “Talk to me. No business. Just talk.”

“About what?”

“About why you’re so scared of a little chaos. We’re driving to Philly, and no one knows where we are. Doesn’t that feel… good?”

I look at him. His hair is a disaster from the wind, his shirt is wrinkled, and he looks more like himself than I’ve ever seen him. The mask he wears for the press is gone.

“It feels like I’m losing my grip on reality.”

“Good. Reality is overrated. It’s mostly just bills and people telling you you’re too old to play a game for a living.”

He hits a bump, and the van lurches. I’m thrown toward him, my shoulder hitting his arm.