Page 65 of Unmanageable

“Last one!” Grant yells. “High danger play from the dot!”

He lets fly a small, dense black squash ball that hits the uneven concrete floor and takes a wild, unpredictable hop upward.

At the exact same instant, Cash tries to push laterally off the foam pad to track it. His foot slips on the edge. He loses his balance, his arms flailing wildly as he tries to keep from crashing into the weight rack behind him.

One of the training balls escapes his grip, flying off at a sharp, diagonal angle.

Before I can even register the movement, the heavy rubber ball hits me squarely in the right shoulder.

Thwack.

“Ow!” I yelp. My papers slip from my grip, clattering to the floor, and scatter across the rubber mats like dry leaves.

The room goes quiet, save for the low, vibrating hum of the ice plant upstairs.

Cash practically launches himself across the floor, his sneakers sliding across the rubber mats as he clears the distance between us in two massive strides.

“Scottie! Oh my god, Scottie, I’m sorry—are you okay? Did it hit your face?”

He stops six inches from me, his hands hovering in the air. He doesn’t touch me. He keeps that careful, deliberate distance we’ve been maintaining, his eyes scanning my face, my neck, my shoulder with a frantic, unmasked intensity.

I keep my hand pressed against my collarbone, rubbing the spot through my sweatshirt. It hurts—a sharp, stinging throb—but as I look up at his terrified expression, the sheer absurdity of the situation hits me.

Here is a starting NHL goalie, a guy who routinely takes ninety-mile-an-hour slapshot impacts to the chest without flinching, looking like he’s about to cry because a training ball nicked his agent.

A small laugh bubbles up in my throat before I can check it.

“I’m fine,” I choke out. “It just… it caught me off guard.”

Cash blinks, his panic instantly giving way to total confusion. “You’re laughing? Scottie, that was a solid rubber ball. It’s going to leave a massive mark.”

“I’m laughing because you look like you just ran over a puppy,” I say, my hand still over the sting. “The ‘Shark’ is fine, Cash. I promise.”

He lets out a long breath, his shoulders dropping about three inches as he leans back against the weight rack next to me, his chest still heaving. He looks down at the floor where my papers are scattered around his training shoes.

“Look at this. A total disaster. Your spreadsheets are ruined.”

“Those are your performance metrics, O’Connell. If they’re ruined, your contract is void and I’m turning you into a figure skater.”

He lets out a loud, booming laugh that echoes off the low ceiling. He bends down, his massive frame hunched over as he starts gathering the loose pages from the rubber mats, his large fingers clumsy against the thin paper.

“Figure skating?” he says without looking up. “I’d look great in sequins, Scottie. The legs are there. The musicality is there. Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

“You have zero musicality, Cash.”

Grant walks over, leaning on a broom, watching us with a smirk. “Alright, circus is over. O’Connell, go hit the shower. You’ve got video with the shooting coach at five, and I don’t want you smelling like a locker room when you’re trying to look at tape.”

“Yes, boss,” Cash says, standing up and handing me the crumpled stack of papers. He looks at my shoulder one more time, his expression softening into something quiet, something that makes my stomach do that familiar, childish flip. “Seriously. Put some ice on that. If you’re bruised tomorrow, I’m never going to hear the end of it.”

“I’ll manage,” I say, holding the papers against my chest. “Just don’t miss your session. I’m not paying the cancellation fee.”

He gives me a quick, two-finger salute and disappears down the dark hallway toward the showers, his footsteps fading into the distance.

***

The hotel in Washington is better than the Inn in Philly, which is to say the carpet doesn’t smell like pine cleaner and the walls are a normal shade of beige instead of institutional yellow.

We have separate, connecting rooms this time, a minor victory for my sanity.