Page 60 of Unmanageable

We were packing up the van to head toward Washington, and Cash had insisted on rolling up his wet goalie under-layers instead of folding them.

“If you roll them, they retain the moisture in the fibers, Cash,” I had told him, my voice clipped. “They’re going to smell like a swamp by the time we hit Washington.”

“They’re high-performance synthetic polymer, Scottie,” he’d shot back, tossing a shirt into his duffel. “Rolling keeps the elasticity from breaking down. It’s science.”

“I have a degree from Boston University, Finnian. I think I understand basic material degradation.”

“And I have ten years in professional locker rooms, Sharky. I think I understand how to handle my own underwear.”

That was it.

I had given him the look—the one that usually makes third-line defensemen sign the first contract offer put in front of them—and he had matched it with his signature goalie glare, the one he uses to intimidate shooters during a high-stakes shootout.

We both snapped our mouths shut at exactly 1:14 PM, and not a single syllable has been exchanged since.

Now, it’s 2:30 PM.

I jam a pair of my boots into the side pocket of my suitcase, using a completely unnecessary amount of physical force.

I am a corporate executive. I negotiate broadcast rights. I stare down general managers who look like they eat raw steak for breakfast. Yet, the second I am enclosed in the small interior of the van with Finnian O’Connell, my mental age drops directly back to seven.

I feel like a little kid on a playground, holding my breath until my face turns blue just to prove a point.

It’s entirely immature, unprofessional, and I still refuse to be the first one to blink.

I look over at Cash. He’s standing by the motel dresser, his massive frame taking up most of the light from the window.

He knows I’m looking at him. I know he knows.

Instead of saying “Are you ready to go?” like a civilized human being, he catches my eye, holds my gaze with absolute, unblinking intensity, and drops his keys onto the top of his duffel bag with an exaggerated, heavy clink.

He raises an eyebrow. Your move, Sharky.

I roll my eyes so hard I nearly strain an optic nerve. I turn my back to him, grab the strap of my laptop bag, and hoist it over my shoulder with a sharp, aggressive jerk. I make sure the silver buckle hits the zipper of my suitcase with a loud, distinct crack.

I’m ready, you giant infant.

Cash lets out a heavy, silent sigh through his nose. He reaches down, grabs his duffel bag by the straps, and pauses.

He looks at my suitcase. Then he looks at me. He points a massive, calloused index finger at my suitcase, then points to his own shoulder, lifting his eyebrows in a mute question: Do you want me to carry that, or are you going to keep pretending you’re a bodybuilder?

I glare at his finger. I step in front of the suitcase, grab the telescoping handle myself, and give him a sharp, horizontal slice of my hand through the air. No. I extend my arm toward the door, throwing my chest out and giving him an imperious nod. March.

Cash smirks and walks out of the room, his sneakers thudding against the cheap outdoor carpeting of the walkway.

***

Cash handles the van with a level of theatrical flair that belongs on a Broadway stage.

When a semi-truck cuts us off near the exit, he doesn’t swear. He doesn’t honk. Instead, he throws both his hands up off the steering wheel for a split second, palms open to the heavens, turning his head toward me with a wide-eyed, frantic expression that clearly says, Did you see this? Are we seeing this together, or am I alone in this lawless wasteland?

I don’t look at him directly. I keep my chin propped in my hand, staring out the passenger window, but I allow myself to give a single, brief, formal nod of agreement. Yes. The truck driver was out of line. Our alliance remains intact against external threats.

He accepts the nod, grips the steering wheel again, and continues driving.

The silence continues through the state line. It survives the midday sun beating down on the flat, vertical front of the van, and it survives the local radio station playing three consecutive car commercial jingles.

My jaw is actually starting to ache from how tightly I’m keeping my teeth gritted, but every time I think about opening my mouth to say something—anything—to break the tension, a stubborn, childish voice in the back of my head screams: If you talk now, the wet laundry wins.