Page 77 of Unmanageable

We stay like that for a long time, the jazz music swirling around us in the dark basement, the plate of free brie cooling on the table between us, untouched.

***

1:02 AM

Me: i think she’s my person

Callie: I know.

21

Scottie Reed

It’s been exactly a week since the jazz club.

Seven days since we lied about being engaged for a plate of free cheese, and seven days since Cash put his hand on the back of my neck and rewired my brain with one lingering, heat-soaked kiss.

I’m not panicking about it. Not exactly. I’m just… managing the fallout.

If I actually stop to acknowledge the agent-player boundary we just blew up, my head might explode. So instead, I’m just moving forward.

We finished the last three practices with Yuri the Metaphor Guru, and the craziest part is that it worked. The protective hitch in Cash’s right shoulder—the one that’s been threatening to derail his season—is gone.

Right now, we’re at an older, loud rink just outside Charlotte, getting in a quick skate before we hit the road for Atlanta. The second Cash pushes the front doors open, the woman behind the registration desk leaps out of her chair.

“Oh my god! Look who it is!” she yells. “Sal! Get out here right now! The big guy is back!”

A side door flies open and an older guy in a faded, grease-stained jacket steps out. “Cash! I told you he’d come by, Brenda!”

Cash drops his massive goalie bag onto the floor with a satisfying thud and laughs, wrapping them both into a hug. “Brenda! Sal! Look at this place—you haven’t changed a thing.”

“We don’t touch a thing,” Sal says, slapping Cash’s shoulder with a grin. “We got the north sheet cleared for you. Two hours, totally empty. It’s all yours, buddy.”

“You guys are saving my life,” Cash says, his voice genuinely warm. “Seriously.”

Brenda turns her sharp eyes to me, putting her hands on her hips. “An agent? You’re letting this little red-headed thing run your life now, Cash?”

I laugh and step forward, holding out my hand. “I’m the one who keeps the scouts from ambushing him, Brenda. I’m firmly on his team.”

Brenda stares at my hand for a second before letting out a loud laugh, shaking it until my elbow pops. “Alright! You got some fire in you. I like it.”

As Sal starts loading up a cardboard tray with sports drinks and homemade cookies for Cash, I lean against the counter, curious. “How do you guys all know each other? Is this where you used to train?”

“Train?” Sal cracks a chuckle, shaking his head. “Nah, Scottie. Cash’s dad, Matthew—he grew up right down the street from me. Played linesman in the old local league. When Cash was just a little sprout, Matthew would bring him in here at five in the morning, letting him tear up the ice before the sun was even up.”

“Oh,” I say, shifting my gaze to Cash. I didn’t realize we were on his home turf. “I didn’t know your dad was from around here.”

“Yeah,” Cash says, his smile dimming just a fraction.

Brenda smiles warmly, leaning over the counter. “He’s a good man, Matthew. The absolute best. How is he doing, Cash?”

Cash’s posture stiffens for a split second. He forces a quick, tight smile—the kind of practiced, polite expression he uses for post-game press conferences.

“Yeah,” Cash says. “Yeah, he’s all good. Still keeping busy around the house. You know how he is.”

“A saint, that man,” Brenda says fondly.

“Alright, get out of here, big guy,” Sal says, waving him toward the locker room. “Go get your pads on.”