Page 66 of Unmanageable

The video review with the shooting coach ran an hour late because Cash kept arguing about whether a specific winger from a rival team was leaning his hip before a backhand shot.

Right now, Cash is sitting on the edge of an armchair in my room, having wandered in through the connecting door twenty minutes ago. The room is quiet except for the steady, rhythmic sound of him catching a tennis ball. He’s tossing it straight up into the air, tracking it down with alternating hands to keep his eyes sharp.

I’m sitting at the small round table, my laptop open, staring at a spreadsheet that is beginning to swim before my eyes.

“Cash,” I say without looking up from the screen. “Stop.”

“Stop what?”

“The ball. It’s driving me crazy. I’m trying to do these receipts and every time it hits your hand my brain resets.”

“It’s visual tracking, Scottie. Grant said twenty minutes before bed keeps my eyes sharp and helps wind down my nervous system.”

“Grant is at a dive bar eating pickled eggs right now, Cash. Put the ball away.”

The ball stops.

I hear him shift his weight in the chair. I keep typing, my fingers flying over the keys, trying to finish the work before the exhaustion hits me.

Cash gets up from the armchair, his movements surprisingly quiet for a man his size. He walks over to the small table and sits down in the second wooden chair, right opposite me.

He doesn’t say anything. He just rests his elbows on the table, his chin in his hands, watching me type.

I ignore him for forty-five seconds. I finish a sentence, hit save, and finally close the laptop with a definitive click. I take a deep breath and look at him.

“What?”

“Show me.”

“Show you what?”

“The shoulder. Let me see it.”

I huff a laugh. “Cash, it’s a bruise. I’m fine.”

“Scottie, just let me look. If it’s swelling, we need to get the trainer at the rink to look at it tomorrow before we leave.”

I let out a slow sigh, reaching up to pull the collar of my pajama top an inch to the left, exposing the skin near my collarbone. Right there, against the pale skin, is a perfect, circular, purplish-blue bruise.

Cash winces, his breath hissing through his teeth. “Jesus, Sharky. I really got you, didn’t I?”

“It looks worse than it feels,” I say, letting the fabric slide back into place.

He doesn’t drop his eyes. He stands up from his chair, moving around the small table until he’s standing directly behind me. Before I can even ask why, his hands come down on my shoulders. I don’t flinch, but the sudden, solid weight of his palms makes me stiffen.

“What are you doing?” I ask, keeping my eyes fixed on my closed laptop.

“You’re tight as a board, Scottie. Just relax for a second.”

His thumbs find the base of my neck, pressing in with a slow, heavy pressure that instantly makes me want to drop my head. He completely avoids the tender, purple spot near my collarbone, focusing instead on the stubborn knots in my shoulders.

“You don’t have to do that, Cash,” I mutter, though my shoulders drop an inch against my will.

“I want to,” he murmurs, his voice low right above my head. “You’ve been staring at spreadsheets until your eyes are bloodshot. You need to take a breather.”

“I have a lot to do.”

“Your family always work this hard?” he asks. “Every time I talk to you, you’re on the clock. What do your parents say about you running yourself ragged out here?”