Page 51 of Unmanageable

Before I can even open my mouth to respond, she turns on her heel and starts talking to Herb, her tone shifting seamlessly into that high-gear, aggressive agent mode. She begins discussing insurance riders, rink liability waivers, and travel stipends as if last night had never happened at all.

As if I hadn’t seen her break down.

As if I hadn’t spent an hour sitting in a squeaky wooden chair in a terrible motel, listening to her cry her heart out in the shower.

It pisses me off. Not because she’s being professional—I respect her hustle—but because she’s treating me like a complete stranger.

The remainder of the practice passes in a dizzying blur of dull pain and biting cold. By the time we clear off the ice, my shoulder is a steady, roaring ache and my head is spinning from dehydration.

Herb claps me hard on the shoulder pads, tells me I’m “considerably less of a disaster than when I arrived,” and disappears into the warmth of the coaches’ locker room.

When I look up, Scottie is already standing by the arena’s glass exit doors, her leather jacket zipped up to her chin and her bag slung tightly over her shoulder.

“I’ll meet you out at the van,” she calls out, not looking back as she pushes the door open. “I need to make a few calls to Boston.”

“Scottie, wait up a second.”

She doesn’t wait. She’s already halfway down the concrete hallway before I can even bend down to unlace my skates.

I strip off my chest protector and pads in record time, throwing them into my hockey bag without bothering to take a shower. I pull on a dry gray hoodie and jeans, hoist the massive bag over my shoulder, and jog out into the crisp air of the gravel parking lot.

Scottie is leaning back against the passenger door of our van, motionless, staring blankly at a dense row of pine trees bordering the property.

“Hey,” I say, walking up to the side of the vehicle.

“We’re twenty minutes behind schedule,” she says instantly, her hand immediately reaching behind her for the door handle.

Without thinking, I reach out and catch her wrist.

I don’t grab it hard—it’s just a light, cautious touch to stop her from disappearing into the front seat and shutting me out again—but she still flinches, pulling her arm back as if she’d been burned.

I freeze instantly, my hand still hanging awkwardly in the empty air between us. The guilt that hits me in that exact moment is a sickening lurch right in the pit of my stomach.

I’m not a stupid guy. I’ve lived enough life and been in enough locker rooms to know that a visceral, defensive reaction like that doesn’t just come out of nowhere.

I don’t know the specific details of her past—and right now, looking at the panic in her eyes, I don’t think I have the right to know—but I recognize the unmistakable shape of the shadow she’s carrying around.

“I’m sorry,” I say, my voice dropping to a quiet whisper. I immediately step back, deliberately giving her a wide berth of three full feet. I shove both of my hands deep into my hoodie pockets. “I’m sorry, Scottie. I really didn’t mean to startle you.”

“It’s fine,” she says quickly, though her breathing is uneven. “I’m just… I’m jumpy today. Lack of sleep, that’s all.”

“Right. Jumpy.”

She climbs quickly into the passenger seat and slams the door shut between us.

I stand there on the gravel for a long second, looking at the faded paint of the orange van.

I could easily let it go.

I could get into the van, drive for hours in absolute silence, and let her walls stay exactly where they are.

It would be the safe, easy, professional thing to do.

But I’ve never been particularly good at following the rules.

I get into the driver’s seat, but I don’t slide the key into the ignition. I just sit there in the quiet cabin, staring straight ahead through the windshield.

“Cash?” she asks after a moment of silence, her voice distinctly wary.